Read Online Rebel Warrior (Medieval Warriors #3) by Regan Walker - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Regan Walker
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poor above themselves like Margaret did. No wonder the king loved her.
The queen walked to the dais and took her place at the high table. Not long after, the tower door burst open and Malcolm strode into the hall, his men trailing behind him, sending up a great din, laughing and speaking in loud voices of the hunt they were planning. From their eyes fixed on the bowls of gruel, Malcolm and his men appeared eager to break their fast and take to the woods. They must have been accustomed to seeing the poor in their midst, for they did not remark on it.
The king and Catrìona’s uncle joined the queen at the head table. The king’s men found places at the trestle tables, most of them sitting at the table across from where Catrìona and the queen’s ladies were eating with the poor.
Among the men were the golden-haired warrior and his companion, the bard.
Catrìona picked up her spoon and scooped a helping of gruel into her mouth, the honey and raisins as tasty as she had imagined.
“There’s the Welshman,” said Fia, looking up from her own bowl and turning to glimpse the bard.
Catrìona broke off a piece of bread and glanced at the handsome blond with broad shoulders sitting beside the bard. “And his friend.”
As if he sensed her eyes upon him, the fair-haired warrior turned and smiled at her.
Instantly, she looked down at her gruel, embarrassed at having been caught at his game of staring. What must he think? It was Domnall she should be looking at but she had not seen him come into the hall with the king.
A moment later, with a one-word command, the king summoned the warrior who had smiled at her. “Steinar!”
The warrior immediately responded, rising from his place to stride to the king, his hair catching the sun’s light flowing through the open shutters. He walked with a slight limp.
“Who is that one?” she asked Audra.
The queen’s lady followed Catrìona’s gaze. “The king’s scribe.”
A scribe? She would never have believed it. His body was that of a warrior, not a man of the cloth. Though he carried no sword, she could not imagine him as the king’s clerk. It meant he was educated, a man of letters, as few warriors were. Even the king was unlettered. Mayhap this blond scribe, who looked like a Saxon, had fled to Scotland, or been dragged there by the king as a slave. Could this man be a slave?
At the sound of the tower door opening, she turned. Domnall strolled inside with Maerleswein. Gesturing his companion to proceed without him, Domnall came toward her.
Her heart began to race in her chest. She was glad to see him. He looked very handsome. He might intend to hunt with the king, but first he was coming to speak with her and she was pleased he would do so.
His features, sharp as always, softened as he approached.
She stood to greet him. “Domnall.”
He gazed at her with obvious pleasure. In his pale blue eyes, she saw the desire that she had seen there before. Inwardly, she warmed to the idea they would soon be man and wife.
“Catrìona, I regret I have not been able to see you until now. How do you fare? How was your journey from Dunkeld?”
She drew him aside so they would be out of earshot of the others. “I am well, sir. The journey was uneventful, the weather fair. And you?” She had missed him and longed for him to say he had eagerly awaited her arrival and looked forward to their betrothal now that her mourning period was over.
But he said none of those things. Instead, he spoke of the king. “Malcolm has been a most gracious host. I have lingered long in his hall and hope to trade with him.”
Unwilling to let him see her disappointment, she let her gaze drift to the floor. Gathering her resolve, she raised her head, a mask of calm in place. “The queen, too, is most kind.”
“Will you walk with me later?” he asked. “Mayhap before the evening meal?”
Hope sprang within her. “Aye, I will come early to the hall.”
“Good. The sun will not have left
The queen walked to the dais and took her place at the high table. Not long after, the tower door burst open and Malcolm strode into the hall, his men trailing behind him, sending up a great din, laughing and speaking in loud voices of the hunt they were planning. From their eyes fixed on the bowls of gruel, Malcolm and his men appeared eager to break their fast and take to the woods. They must have been accustomed to seeing the poor in their midst, for they did not remark on it.
The king and Catrìona’s uncle joined the queen at the head table. The king’s men found places at the trestle tables, most of them sitting at the table across from where Catrìona and the queen’s ladies were eating with the poor.
Among the men were the golden-haired warrior and his companion, the bard.
Catrìona picked up her spoon and scooped a helping of gruel into her mouth, the honey and raisins as tasty as she had imagined.
“There’s the Welshman,” said Fia, looking up from her own bowl and turning to glimpse the bard.
Catrìona broke off a piece of bread and glanced at the handsome blond with broad shoulders sitting beside the bard. “And his friend.”
As if he sensed her eyes upon him, the fair-haired warrior turned and smiled at her.
Instantly, she looked down at her gruel, embarrassed at having been caught at his game of staring. What must he think? It was Domnall she should be looking at but she had not seen him come into the hall with the king.
A moment later, with a one-word command, the king summoned the warrior who had smiled at her. “Steinar!”
The warrior immediately responded, rising from his place to stride to the king, his hair catching the sun’s light flowing through the open shutters. He walked with a slight limp.
“Who is that one?” she asked Audra.
The queen’s lady followed Catrìona’s gaze. “The king’s scribe.”
A scribe? She would never have believed it. His body was that of a warrior, not a man of the cloth. Though he carried no sword, she could not imagine him as the king’s clerk. It meant he was educated, a man of letters, as few warriors were. Even the king was unlettered. Mayhap this blond scribe, who looked like a Saxon, had fled to Scotland, or been dragged there by the king as a slave. Could this man be a slave?
At the sound of the tower door opening, she turned. Domnall strolled inside with Maerleswein. Gesturing his companion to proceed without him, Domnall came toward her.
Her heart began to race in her chest. She was glad to see him. He looked very handsome. He might intend to hunt with the king, but first he was coming to speak with her and she was pleased he would do so.
His features, sharp as always, softened as he approached.
She stood to greet him. “Domnall.”
He gazed at her with obvious pleasure. In his pale blue eyes, she saw the desire that she had seen there before. Inwardly, she warmed to the idea they would soon be man and wife.
“Catrìona, I regret I have not been able to see you until now. How do you fare? How was your journey from Dunkeld?”
She drew him aside so they would be out of earshot of the others. “I am well, sir. The journey was uneventful, the weather fair. And you?” She had missed him and longed for him to say he had eagerly awaited her arrival and looked forward to their betrothal now that her mourning period was over.
But he said none of those things. Instead, he spoke of the king. “Malcolm has been a most gracious host. I have lingered long in his hall and hope to trade with him.”
Unwilling to let him see her disappointment, she let her gaze drift to the floor. Gathering her resolve, she raised her head, a mask of calm in place. “The queen, too, is most kind.”
“Will you walk with me later?” he asked. “Mayhap before the evening meal?”
Hope sprang within her. “Aye, I will come early to the hall.”
“Good. The sun will not have left
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