Queen Hereafter Page 18

  Margaret laughed; the storm in her body had more than tested her, and had not seemed so easy. She reached for the child, then cradled him close. Eva was there, speaking quietly in Gaelic with Annot, Mirren, and Finola, whose eyes had been wide and frightened through the labor. After a moment, Eva came forward to admire the child.

  “Mother Annot says you may have many babes,” Eva said. “She says it was indeed easy for you, and each labor may be quicker than the last. Remember that for your next one.”

  “Next one!” Margaret said. Eva turned as the midwife spoke again.

  “Aye, she says you and the king make strong, beautiful children together. There will be more,” Eva said. While the other women in the room laughed, Margaret held her little son close, carefully, the fragile, warm bundle suddenly dearer to her than anything on earth or in heaven.

  “Malcolm,” she said then. “Is he here?”

  “Returning soon,” Eva said. “Two housecarls rode out to fetch him from the hunt. He has been gone two days, but promised he would cut it short for this occasion.”

  Margaret leaned back against a slope of pillows and gazed at her son in candlelight. The hour was late, not yet dawn on the day of the Epiphany, and here he was like a miracle, her firstborn, quickly born and healthy. He quavered a thin cry, stretched, and opened his little mouth like a bird, and she fell completely in love in that instant. She kissed his brow and let him nuzzle her breast.

  Lady Agatha came toward her, shaking her head. “Let the wet nurse take him if he is hungry,” she said. “You must not suckle. You will become overly fond of the babe.”

  “There is nothing wrong in that,” Margaret said.

  “Babes die,” her mother said bluntly. “They sicken and die. A good mother cannot become too fond of the little creatures God puts into her hands. Let the nurse see to his welfare.”

  “Mama,” Margaret said then. “Did you … lose a babe of your own? You have never said.”

  Lady Agatha sighed. “Two others. One was a boy, pretty as Edgar, the other a girl, dark as Cristina. But it is past and forgotten. I did not give them my heart. Nor should you give this one your heart until he is much older and you know he can survive.”

  “But I love him already,” Margaret said, pressing him close to her.

  “Babes are fragile creatures. This one seems vigorous, but wait to be sure. If he thrives, your obligation is to teach him courtesy, prayers, and other lessons. His father will train him to be a warrior, and his tutors will tend to his princely education. But while he is small, let his nurses care for him—let them bear the sorrow if he does not survive.”

  Shocked, Margaret stared at her mother and cuddled her son. Finally, quickly, she understood why Lady Agatha had been so distant with her children. Yet Margaret could never imagine withholding love from her own child, even to spare herself grief if he did not thrive.

  “He is a healthy babe,” she said. “And his birth on the holy feast day of the Epiphany, which is the true birthdate of Christ in our own Hungary, gives him even more protection.” The holy day had been a favorite in her childhood, celebrated with gifts of gold and pungent frankincense, and by the chalking of the names of the magi over the doors of homes for protection.

  “Christus mansionem benedicat,” Margaret said, uttering a traditional Epiphany blessing. “May Christ bless this house. He will be fine, Mama,” she told her mother. Lady Agatha sighed.

  Margaret kissed the baby’s warm little head. For the first time since she had come to Scotland, she felt at home, truly blessed.

  MALCOLM ARRIVED THAT EVENING, bringing Duncan and Donald with him into the room. Margaret sat with her child in her arms, letting his tiny fingers curl around her thumb. She stroked his soft cheek and smiled up at Malcolm.

  “He is blond like his mother,” Malcolm said. “He is healthy, and his lungs seem to be strong, after all that wailing we heard as we came in here. Good.”

  “What is his name?” Duncan asked in English. Margaret smiled at him in quick approval, for she had asked the boys to speak English as often as they could.

  “He has none yet. What shall we call him?” Malcolm asked the boys. “You are Duncan for my father—and you are Donald for my brother. My grandfather was called Crinan. Should we name your brother for him?”

  “Oh, not that,” Margaret said quickly, determined to avoid such a foreign name for her child. “I have been thinking about names for weeks now. I would like to call him Edward for my father.”

  “A Saxon name?” Malcolm frowned. “But he is a prince of Scotland.”

  “He has royal Saxon blood, too,” she reminded him. “The name also belonged to my uncle and my great-grandfather. Such a strong name would be recognized by the Saxons, the French, and many others. What would best serve a Scottish prince in future—a good Saxon name, or a Gaelic one, however old and proud, that foreign leaders simply cannot pronounce or remember?”

  Malcolm seemed thoughtful, then nodded. “I suppose there is wisdom in that.”

  “And it would mean a good deal to me,” she whispered, looking down at her little son.

  “Aye then. For you,” Malcolm said. “He will be christened Edward mac Malcolm.”

  Margaret smiled and propped the babe higher in her arms. “He looks a bit like you,” she said.

  “No shame in that.” Malcolm reached out to touch the child’s rounded head. “But he is fair beautiful like his Saxon kin, and that is good. Edward,” he said. “He is the first Scottish prince to carry such a name.”

  “No shame in that,” she said softly.

  WHEN SHE HEARD from Finola that Edgar had returned without notice one afternoon, Margaret left her reading and hurried down the turning steps with several of her ladies, including Eva and Juliana. A maidservant had told them that Edgar and his companions—he had brought strangers and priests, the girl said—had gone to the great hall for refreshment. Margaret found them seated at a long trestle table as she entered the hall.

  A servant was ladling soup into bowls, and the men had cups of new ale, so strong that most jugs had to be liberally diluted with water as they sat quietly talking. She did not recognize all of them, but Edgar often brought men to Dunfermline on business with the king. Wilfrid was there, too, and when he saw the queen and her ladies enter, he murmured to Edgar. They stood.

  The hem of her gown swept over fresh rushes as she hurried across the room. One of the king’s gray hounds loped to its feet and came to her, and Eva stooped to pat the dog’s head, holding back, for Edgar and his men were not well known to her. Lady Juliana hurried, too, no doubt hoping to hear some news of her father, Cospatric. Moments later, Cristina entered the room as well, looking for her brother.

  Immediately Margaret noticed two newcomers with the men. Both were Benedictine monks, judging by their black hooded robes, hempen belts, and tonsured heads, and likely Saxon. One seemed familiar, a long and lanky man with flaxen hair, though she could not recall who he was. The other was a stranger, stocky and dark. Both stopped their conversation and stood.

  Grateful to see Edgar safe, for any journey south was inherently dangerous now, Margaret embraced him. “You have been gone but two months,” she said, “yet you seem taller!”

  “And you are lighter of your burden,” he noted with a smile. “Congratulations. I am eager to see my nephew—but Dame Agnes told me right off he was sleeping and I must wait.” He grinned, his jaw bearded with gold, the angles of his face harder, losing the softer contours of youth. He was grimy with travel, garments rumpled, but he looked handsome, growing into a mature man, Margaret thought proudly.

  “Margaret—Cristina, there is news,” he said, kissing his other sister, too. “I rode into Northumbria to meet with some Saxon landholders there, and back again. Took us weeks, and what adventures! Later for that. I met an old friend along the way.” His eyes sparkled.

  “Sir, did you see my father?” Juliana asked, stepping forward.

  He shook his head. “We heard news of h
im. He and Walde have been meeting with William in York, and seem tight. But I hope they know that they cannot trust him—he will ask more of them than they can ever guess, and they will regret giving their obeisance, even to retain their English properties. Nay, I did not meet with them—but I found another old friend.” He turned, beckoned. “Brother,” he said. “You remember my sisters.”

  “Of course!” The taller of the two monks came forward. Margaret narrowed her eyes, curious, trying to remember him. Up close he looked gaunt, his ice blue eyes shadowed beneath, his cheeks pale. He was a golden man in a way, with pale lashes and brows, and his tonsure was ringed by thick, smooth golden hair. Even his thin, whiskered cheeks sparkled with a fine, pale beard. His features were long, as the man was long and lanky. In one hand he gripped a gnarled stick, and he leaned on it, limping, as he came toward them. Otherwise he had a strong build and appeared rather younger, close up, than he had first seemed.

  “Queen Margaret,” he said quietly. “Princess Cristina. How good to see you again.”

  Beside her, Cristina gasped and laid a hand to her ample bosom. Then Margaret startled. He was thin and much changed but she knew him. “Tor!” she said. “Thorgaut the Dane!”

  He smiled. “I am glad to see God has kept you both well.”

  “Tor!” Cristina rushed toward him. “You were a king’s guard when last we saw you!” She smiled, extended her hands, took his though he had not offered them readily. “And now you are … a monk!”

  “It is good to see you, princess.” He laughed a little—Margaret remembered then that Cristina had always been able to draw a laugh out of somber Tor, even when he was a king’s guard—and then he turned to Margaret. “And you, Lady. We heard news of your arrival here, and your marriage. And now a little son. My sincere congratulations.” He bowed his head.

  “Thank you. How good that you are here.” She was so moved to see an old friend safe, but she could not display her feelings as Cristina could. Not only was she queen, but her own reserved nature held her back. Let Cristina effuse in welcome, she thought, watching Tor flush as Cristina clasped his hands. He might prefer that to a queen’s necessary coolness.

  She smiled, waiting while he spoke to her sister. Years ago, Tor had been one of King Edward’s housecarls, assigned to guard the Aethelings and to train young Edgar in arms. He had become a friend to all of them, guarding them on every outing, spending time in their quarters, sharing suppers and chess games with them. Several years older, he had been a good friend to both Edgar and Margaret. She would never have admitted it aloud, but as a young girl she had been infatuated with the handsome young guard. Now her cheeks grew hot as she remembered how dreamily she would stare after him, grasping for reasons to speak to him. Margaret felt relieved, now, that he had never learned her feelings.

  “The last news we had of you was that you had escaped Lincoln for Denmark,” she said then.

  “We were told you fled your prison in Lincoln’s castle,” Cristina said. “I feared for your life once I heard that. I could hardly sleep at night for worrying. Oh, it is so good to see you!”

  Margaret wondered at her sister’s display but said nothing. She only continued to smile, folding her hands, though her heart beat like a bird’s wings within her chest. Despite the tonsure and the gauntness that aged him, despite the pall of somberness around him, Tor was handsome still, a strong and vital man with a deep and rich voice that could thrum through her.

  But she could not think of him in that way, for she was a queen, a wife, a mother, now. And he had declared himself a man of God and of peace. He was to be admired and revered.

  “I left Lincoln and sailed for Denmark, and returned to England again. The rest is done, and in the past.” Tor did not seem inclined to add details, but Edgar turned and clapped the monk’s shoulder in an easy manner.

  “Left Lincoln!” Edgar said. “Tor escaped a Norman dungeon with his guards on his heels all the way to the coast. It is quite the tale, if he will tell the whole of it.”

  Tor’s cheeks stained pink. “I did what anyone would have done given the chance when they let me out briefly. I walked away when the guards were not looking.”

  “He hit them over the head while they played dice,” the other monk said, coming forward. “He scaled a stone wall and stole a horse to ride to the coast, with the guards after him. My lady queen,” he said, bowing his head. “Princess, and ladies,” he went on, acknowledging the others. “I am Brother Aldwyn, if you please, of Durham priory.”

  “Welcome, Brother,” Margaret said. “Please sit. Do not let us keep you from your meal. You must be tired after your journey.” Before she sat with them, Margaret waved away the servant and poured fresh ale for her brother and the other men in more formal welcome.

  “Tell us how you came to be a Benedictine,” Cristina said.

  “Had I not been captured in Lincoln, I might have remained a knight and so would have come north with your family,” he said. “But life took me along an unexpected path. When I was a boy, years before I entered King Edward’s service, my family had intended me for the Church, and so I was educated in a monastery. Some boys want more adventure, so I left and came to court. But once I came to Durham after Denmark, I rediscovered my monastic calling.” He shrugged. “The Lord sent me there.”

  “So you felt spiritually guided?” Margaret was fascinated. Secretly she longed for the sort of holy calling that came to mystics and monastics more than queens.

  “I came to Durham by accident, Lady. As I returned from Denmark, our ship was wrecked along the coast. I was the only survivor. The monks of Durham took me in, and I recovered in their care.”

  “We are so glad you are safe!” Margaret said. “We were shipwrecked as well, and so came to Scotland.”

  “The North Sea can be treacherous,” he replied. “Yet we are guided by such turns of fate. I have found a purposeful existence now, for which I give thanks each day.”

  Margaret caught her breath, for Tor had echoed her own thoughts and feelings. She, too, wanted greater peace, and despite all in her life now, she still felt as if there was some larger purpose for her. She wondered if it would present itself as it had for Tor. Still, she reminded herself, she had a son now, and motherhood was purpose enough for the time being.

  “I have found a calling,” he continued. “Otherwise there is little left for me in England. My family and friends are gone or scattered. I would have joined the rebellion with my kinsmen, but I cannot fight now.” He gestured toward his leg. “I was injured in the shipwreck. But perhaps all this was part of a larger plan. I tell myself that I was brought to Durham for a greater reason.”

  Margaret sat forward. “What reason is that?”

  “I do not know. One day I hope it will become clear.”

  She nodded. “We all have a greater purpose in life, Brother, but few know what that is.”

  “Very true, Lady.” He watched her, somber. “But I believe you have found your way.”

  “I try to do my best in all things,” she murmured.

  “What news of your cousin Hereward, Brother Tor?” Cristina asked, interrupting them.

  “He still drives the Normans mad, from what I hear. I pray for his safety every day.”

  “Now that you have found us, Tor,” Cristina said, “you must remain with us. We could certainly use another Benedictine confessor in our household.”

  “Thank you, but that is not possible.” He shook his head. “Brother Aldwyn and I must return soon. The abbot at Durham sent us north to do some work at Melrose near the border. The ruined abbey there once housed Saint Cuthbert himself, who later came to Durham as abbot, and became our dedicatory saint. It was in Melrose that we met Prince Edgar and his party.”

  “Interesting! What work are you doing in Melrose?” Margaret asked.

  “We are supervising the restoration of the old Benedictine houses at Melrose and Jarrow. Although they are in Scotland, they still belong to the diocese of York. Long ago they
were flourishing priories, but fell into ruin when conflict ran high between the Saxons and the Scots.”

  “Lately several more brothers have settled at Melrose,” Aldwyn said. “Now we number fourteen. We will maintain a farm there, and Brother Tor has set up a scriptorium as well. He has a gift for copying manuscripts and for original writing, too. He is composing a biography of Saint Cuthbert, among other projects.”

  “A scribe, as well as an author and historian! That is excellent. I am very fond of books, too.” Pleased to find yet another trait in common with Brother Tor, Margaret resisted an urge to touch his arm where he sat beside her. “I would like to talk more of books and learning with you, if you could only stay longer.”

  “We must return, Lady. The abbot of Durham awaits our report on what we have accomplished these past months. But we came north with Prince Edgar for a brief visit, hoping for an audience with King Malcolm on certain matters that may interest him. We could stay a day or two, if we are welcome.”

  “Certainly,” Margaret said eagerly. “And you are welcome here any time.” She remembered an easy friendship with Tor years back, yet now he seemed cool and remote, perhaps due to his status as a monk. Or did her status as queen cause the distance between them? Surely it could not be her marriage. Tor had never thought of her in that way, for she had been a young girl when she had secretly doted on him—and now he was a monk.

  “Brother Tor, we will make sure you meet with the king before you go,” Edgar said then.

  “My husband rode out for a judgment court, but he will be back by evening,” Margaret explained.

  “I see,” Tor said. Then, while the others chuckled over something Brother Aldwyn was saying, he leaned slightly toward Margaret. “May I say, Lady Margaret, that it is good to see you again. Queenship and motherhood suit you, and you have done well. God was wise indeed to send you to Scotland.”

  Margaret felt her cheeks heat again, but she knew that Tor was right. She was in Scotland for reasons beyond her grasp, and she must accept that. “I would like to think that someday I might find peace and purpose here, where I have been set, just as you did.”