Page 59 of The Refuge

“My lady,” he said, bowing before her. She offered her hand and he took it, wanting to pull her into his arms, but instead he placed a polite kiss on her slender knuckles.

“I am so glad to see you returned to us,” she said, briefly looking over his body as if expecting to find a bandage, but the one he wore, like the king’s, was hidden beneath his hosen. “When no missive came from the king, I was concerned something had happened to you.”

“You worried for me?” he asked, hoping against hope she favored him despite the intention of the king’s captain to make her his wife.

The crowd was loud around them but he leaned in to hear her say, “Aye, I did. We worried for all of you, and prayed much, most particularly for the king. Margaret had a feeling he was in grave danger.”

“And so he was,” admitted Steinar, disappointed to hear he was merely one of the many she had prayed for.

“Tell me, tell me!” cried Giric, pulling on Steinar’s tunic sleeve.

“All in good time, lad.”

“There is wine and food awaiting you in the hall,” said Catrìona as she turned and headed through the open door with the queen’s other ladies.

Like Giric’s dog pursuing his favorite bone, Steinar followed.

* * *

Alone in their chamber, except for the physic bent over the king’s leg changing the bandage, Margaret closely regarded her husband. His face, now washed clean of dirt, was lined with fatigue. His long hair was still coated with fine dust from his travels. He slumped in his chair, but the glint in his eyes told her his spirits were high.

“The raid went well, My Lord?”

He scowled at the ministrations of the physic before looking up at her. “Well enough. Still, we lost some men to Norman swords. And Duff lies wounded.”

The loss of his men would weigh heavy upon his shoulders, as would the wounded Duff. The mormaer was not only his loyal right arm, but his trusted friend. “Will he recover?”

Malcolm shot the physic a glance before replying. “Aye, God willing and if you pray for him, mo cridhe.”

“I shall, My King,” she said earnestly. “I have already.”

As if wanting to encourage them, the physic added, “Duff’s wound is clean and the stars are favorable.”

She accepted his words with a smile. “I will keep Duff in my prayers.”

The physic finished and gathered up his supplies. “With your leave, My Lord, I would go to the mormaer.”

“Aye, see to Duff, then come give me a report on his wound. I would know the truth of it ere I go to him.”

The man nodded, bowed and departed.

With the sound of the closing door, Margaret asked, “You count the raid successful?”

“We made our point,” Malcolm said in a satisfied tone. “William knows we like not his dreadful timber castles that creep ever closer to Scotland. The one we attacked rises above the River Aln, a blight upon the land.”

She poured her husband a goblet of his favorite wine and approached, remembering how the chamber had once looked before she had hung the tapestries. The weapons of war still hung on one wall but the rest bore her softer touch, a melding of their two lives as they had melded their hearts.

Handing him the drink with one hand, with the other she touched his shoulder, wanting to feel the strength of him, wanting to know he was whole. “My ladies and I prayed for you each day.” She would not tell him of the dread that had overcome her the day she had summoned Audra and Catrìona to the cave to pray.

Malcolm took a long draw on his wine and set the goblet aside. Taking her hand from his shoulder, he pulled her onto his lap. “It was your prayers, mo cridhe, that gave me strength as I rode into battle against the Normans.”

She brought his rough warrior hand to her lips and kissed his palm. It would do no good to scold him for attacking William’s knights and she never had. She loved him for the man he was. The man God had given her.

He smiled then, his dark eyes twinkling with a familiar desire. “I missed our nights together, Margaret.” Placing his hand on her rounded belly, he asked, “How fares the babe?”

“He moves much these days, keeping me awake. Just two months more and, God willing, I will hold him in my arms.”

His dark brows rose. “You are certain ’tis a son?”