Free Rebel Warrior (Medieval Warriors #3) by Regan Walker Page B

It was best not to allow an army to be idle overlong. Soldiers with nothing to do were likely to drink and gamble and work up quarrels amongst themselves, rather than train to battle the enemy.
    Finishing the last missive, Steinar set his quill aside and stretched his neck from side to side, relieving the cramped muscles. With pleasant reflection, he remembered Talisand’s priest, Father Bernard, who had been his tutor. Was his graying brown hair now completely gray? He had been too kind to inflict punishment on Steinar when he had forsaken his lessons. The only thing that had brought him back to his studies had been his father’s glare the one time he had been caught sneaking out and his older sister’s threat that she would best him if he did not practice as the priest urged. So, instead of riding Artair, the black fell pony he had raised from a colt, he had dipped his quill in the ink and begun again.
    When he and Rhodri had come to Scotland and he’d recognized the opportunity to serve the unlettered Malcolm, he had silently thanked Father Bernard for his teaching.
    Pushing from the bench, he tentatively put weight on his leg. It protested, stiff at first. Slowly he crossed the empty hall and stepped through the door, looking into the cloud-filled sky portending rain.
    As he walked, his leg loosened up. He followed the stream away from the tower, the pain lessening as he went. By the time he reached the open field, he was striding apace.
    Suddenly, a hawk’s cry pierced the air. He looked up to see a small gray speck cutting across the sky like a shooting star. His wings tucked in close, the bird dove toward a flock of mallards on the wing. One duck exploded in a burst of feathers as the falcon slammed his talons into the bird’s wing.
    A cheer went up and the two birds plummeted to the ground. Clutching the mallard was a small falcon. The granite-colored head and wing feathers and eggshell throat told Steinar it was a peregrine, a male half the size of his kill.
    Well done.
    A whistle pierced the air. Steiner inclined his head, searching for the source. Standing to one side of the field with her gauntleted hand outstretched to receive the falcon was the auburn-haired beauty he’d seen in the hall just that morning breaking her fast. The same one he had watched the night before. At this time of day, the queen’s ladies were usually at their needlework, yet this one had escaped that duty.
    How had she managed that?
    The falcon flew to her gauntlet and she fed it meat from a pouch on her belt. The young man with hair the same red as hers was standing next to her. He strode off and retrieved the duck. The woman bent her arm to display the falcon to a small boy beside her.
    Thinking this was too good an opportunity to let pass, Steinar crossed the field to the small group standing around the falcon.
    He recognized the boy. ’Twas Giric, one of the orphans the queen fed. Likely, the cheer Steinar had heard came from him.
    As Steinar drew near, the lad looked up and said, “ ’Tis the king’s scribe.”
    Steinar bowed before the woman. “My lady, Steinar of Talisand, at your service.”
    The falcon flapped his wings and his shrewd black eyes scrutinized Steinar.
    “This is Kessog,” the woman said, giving him the bird’s name but not her own. “My tiercel.”
    Not the young man’s falcon, but hers . Somehow he was not surprised. He had already marked her as unlike the rest of the queen’s ladies.
    The falcon flapped his wings again.
    “Ye’ve upset ’im,” said the boy with a stern frown darkening his young face.
    The woman stroked the falcon’s chest with the back of her fingers and the bird calmed. Steinar found the gesture oddly sensual and imagined those same fingers stroking his chest.
    “ ’Tis no matter,” said the auburn-haired young man to Giric. “He is still becoming accustomed to this place. In a few days, the falcon will settle.” Facing Steinar, he said, “I am Niall of the Vale of