Queen Hereafter Page 2

  “Give me the book,” she said, grabbing the leather-bound manuscript to tuck it under her arm. The Gospel had been a gift in her childhood from the English queen, and she would not lose it to a Norman.

  “Diebe und Schweine!” Kata muttered in German, the language they often spoke among themselves. She grabbed cloaks from wall pegs and handed them to the princesses, who shrugged into them. “Thieves and pigs! Will they take what little we have? If we had stayed in Hungary we would be safe.”

  This had been their nurse’s constant refrain ever since they had left Castle Reka years earlier. “There was rebellion in Hungary, too,” Cristina snapped.

  Margaret shoved bare feet into leather shoes and smoothed her long, tousled golden braids, and though she wanted to appear calm, her hands shook. In grim silence, the two knights grasped the girls’ arms to lead them through the door.

  “Norman pigs indeed,” Cristina said in German. “What does King William want with us now? He shut us in here three years ago, and no word since. But this must be by his orders.”

  “I hoped we would take vows here and live in peace,” Margaret said.

  “You can take vows, not me,” Cristina said. “You are suited to praying and studying. I want my freedom, but not like this!”

  Outside in the thin moonlight, Margaret saw men, horses, and a cart. A few nuns and novices huddled with the abbess, their faces pale as they watched. Looking at the familiar walls of the abbey, Margaret began to panic. The shelter of Romsey had seemed so unassailable.

  “Monsieur chevalier, where are we going?” Cristina demanded as they walked to the cart.

  “Away from here, and quickly,” the leader answered.

  “Why?” Margaret asked. “It is only fair that we know.”

  He did not reply as he and another knight lifted the women into the cart. It was lined with straw, humble fittings for royal women. The bundle of their things was tossed in after them.

  “Even when William’s men brought us here, we were not treated like this!” Cristina said.

  “Hush,” Margaret warned, wary of her sister’s abrasive temper. She forced a calm expression, determined to show regal dignity despite her fear. As she looked around, blond braids sliding over her shoulders, heart pounding, she reminded herself to pray for protection and forgiveness, too—but she was agitated and on the verge of losing her own temper.

  More than a dozen riders were ready to depart, tough warriors all, mail armor and weapons gleaming in the moonlight. The cart carrying the girls lurched forward, and the escort rumbled through the gates and out into the chill November night. For one panicked moment, Margaret thought about leaping from the cart and running back to the sanctuary of the chapel, dragging her sister and maid with her. Instead, she watched the abbey fade into the distance and darkness.

  Romsey Abbey had been King William’s choice for a prison for the two Saxon princesses after his Norman armies had taken southern England. Their younger brother, Edgar, had been hastily crowned king at thirteen years old by dead King Harold’s witanagemot just after the invasion, but William had then taken the boy to Normandy as a Saxon hostage. Lady Agatha, their mother, had been sent to Wilton Abbey, though she had thought to take much of their family treasure, brought from Hungary years before, with her to keep it from Norman hands.

  Margaret had spent eleven years in King Edward’s pious and glittering court, and she had seen many Normans there. King Edward had encouraged foreigners, particularly the Norman French, in his court, flattered by their interest—now, after his death, they were all paying the price of his gullibility. The royal Saxons had been captured and confined, and the Saxon people were beaten down but for those who advanced themselves by backing the invaders.

  Shut away at Romsey for the past three years, Margaret had discovered unexpected peace amid turmoil. Turning to the solace of prayers, theological studies, and the enjoyments of reading and embroidery, she savored the routine at Romsey. Outside, her sole purpose would have been as a political bride, a living alliance expected to produce heirs. But now no man of rank would want her or Cristina. They were landless, worthless princesses but for their bloodline, thanks to William of Normandy.

  Cristina leaned toward her in the lurching cart. “Why do they take us away now, tonight? If they had wanted rape and sport,” she said bluntly, “they would have done it.”

  “I do not know. William cannot easily marry off the sisters of a deposed boy king. But if we had taken vows, he would have no authority over us. We would belong to the Church and would be safe.”

  “Safety, peace, saintliness—I vow that is all you want, Margaret!”

  “I would consider myself fortunate to find that.”

  Huffing impatiently, Cristina turned toward the knight riding closest to the cart. “You! What is this about? Do you know who we are?” She spoke in French.

  “We do,” the man said, coming closer. He answered in English. “Of course we know.”

  “Then tell us where we are going, and why,” Margaret demanded in English. Despite years in England, as a child she had spoken Hungarian and German and her slight accent revealed her foreign origins: she sounded like a Byzantine.

  “We head for the nearest coast to meet a ship.” When he pushed back his mail coif to reveal long gray hair and a mustache worn in the Saxon manner, rather than the clean jaw and shorn, thick-topped hair preferred by most Normans, Margaret frankly gaped at him.

  “You are not Norman,” she said. “What about the others?”

  “Saxons all,” he agreed. “We guised as Normans, else the abbess would have sent word to the sheriff straight away.” He leaned down. Margaret could smell horse and the tang of metal, and she sensed urgency in his manner and speech. “I am Wilfrid of Bourne. What we do this night is rebellion and treason, and you two are part of it now. Your brother sent us.”

  “Edgar! What of him?” Margaret had not heard from her brother since he had been taken to Normandy. The latest rumors said he had pledged to William, thus ending hopes of rebellion under the young Saxon king.

  “Edgar sent word to us in Lincoln for help. Others have gone to Wilton to fetch your lady mother. We are to meet them and then sail along the coast to meet your brother as well. He plans to take you out of England. With the Saxon rebellion gathering in the north, you two are not safe here any longer.”

  “But we heard that Edgar is William’s sworn man now,” Margaret said, puzzled. “How do we know you are here by his order rather than by some Norman trick?” Not all Saxons were loyal to the cause rallied around her brother, she knew.

  “Edgar bids you return this to him yourself.” He unfastened his cloak pin and handed it to her. She saw that the brooch was a silver one that Edgar owned and had taken to Normandy; she had pinned it to his cloak herself in farewell. She sensed that the Saxon knight was sincere, and besides, she had no choice but to trust him. Margaret nodded.

  “Good,” he said. “We must go swiftly, princess.”

  “What word do you have of Edgar’s friends?” Cristina asked. “What of Morcar of Northumbria and his brother Edwin? And Thorgaut the Dane and others?”

  “Morcar and Edwin are both with Edgar. Thorgaut was imprisoned for two years in William’s castle at Lincoln as a king’s hostage for the good behavior of his kinsmen. He escaped. Tor is my cousin,” he explained, “as is Hereward the outlaw, who has proven so elusive. The Normans are determined to catch him.”

  “We heard about the outlaw at Romsey, too,” Margaret said. “And Tor? Will he join us?”

  “He sailed for Denmark, they say, but after that I do not know his fate. Hereward is an outright rebel now, with the twelve sheriffs of Lincoln on his tail. But we will sail north along the coast, and away from all this,” he added.

  So many friends had fled or disappeared in the last three years, Margaret thought. She and her family had met Tor the Dane at King Edward’s court years earlier; he had been a fine, intelligent young housecarl interested in becoming a scholar
someday, she recalled. “What of your kin, Sir Wilfrid? I pray they are safe.”

  “My wife and sons were killed when Lincoln was burned,” he answered briskly. “Driver, move on. Hurry!”

  Margaret sighed with regret as the cart rumbled on. In the darkness, a captive of this envoy, she had to trust that Wilfrid and his men were indeed loyal and that soon she and her sister would reunite with Edgar and their mother. If her brother truly was in England actively working toward rebellion, then he had gone against William. Having spent most of his life in England, Edgar was more Saxon than Hungarian in his upbringing, and though he was not a seasoned warrior ready to lead a revolt, he could become a leader for the Saxons one day with the help of others.

  Cristina shifted toward the cart’s rim. “Sir Wilfrid,” she called, waving. “Will we sail to Denmark and go from there to Hungary? That would be safe and wise, I vow. We have heard awful reports that William has burned and ravaged York, that the Danes offered help, came in their ships and then left. We must not sail north!”

  Wilfrid slowed his horse to match the pace of the cart. “True, the north is no place for princesses, with William’s troops burning much of the region and the Northumbrians rising in rebellion. And now the Scots have rushed in to avail themselves of booty and slaves.”

  “Good Christ and sweet Mary,” Margaret whispered, crossing herself.

  “Aye, do pray,” Wilfrid muttered. “But your brother will not abandon you here in England. King Malcolm Canmore has offered his support, and your brother is weighing that.”

  “Scots!” Cristina said contemptuously. “And who would save us from those savages?”

  “Edgar means to bargain with Malcolm,” Wilfrid said. “Rest while we ride, ladies. We will reach the coast by dawn.” He urged his horse ahead.

  Scotland. Margaret sank back as the cart bumped along. While Cristina murmured with Kata, Margaret crossed herself and whispered a prayer for the safety of their journey, and their lives. But her thoughts were elsewhere. Now she began to deduce Edgar’s plan, and it gave her chills.

  The Saxons would need help to defend against the Normans, and the strongest and most immediate aid existed in Scotland. Despite the pummelings that Malcolm of Scotland, known for his brutish ways, had given Northumbria over the years, he would not want Normans near his own borders. He would expect a stiff price for his help, Margaret was certain, though the royal Saxons, beleaguered and impoverished by war, had little to bargain in return for assistance from Scotland’s roughshod king. Yet Edgar would not beg and Malcolm would not provide for free.

  With sinking certainty, Margaret knew why Edgar and his Saxon comrades wanted the princesses brought north to join them, even in dangerous circumstances. The Scottish king, it was widely said, was a widower in need of a wife. And Edgar had sisters of exemplary blood. A northern king of inferior heritage would find that prospect even more desirable than a land dowry, or lack of one, since heirs of that union could claim rights through the mother’s bloodline, too.

  She recalled seeing Malcolm once, years earlier, when he had come south to Winchester Palace to request England’s assistance against the Scots king, Macbeth. At the time, Malcolm was struggling to regain his slain father’s throne, and Margaret remembered a huge, wild-haired man with a rumbling voice, who wore furs and oddly patterned garments. Canmore had seemed like a rough beast in the elegant English court, where eloquence, piety, and courtliness were valued. But Edward had thought Macbeth too canny, and therefore a threat; so he had given Malcolm troops, funds, and ships against Macbeth. Margaret remembered the keen excitement in the court at the news that Malcolm had first killed Macbeth and then that man’s stepson and successor, a young man with the curious name Lulach, so that Malcolm had fully won Scotland.

  Malcolm had proved canny indeed, soon requesting from Edward a Saxon bride: Margaret herself, the king’s ward. Lady Agatha had refused, arguing that her daughter was only twelve, too refined for Scotland, and meant for a better royal match someday. Malcolm was nearly thirty, a brute of unimpressive lineage compared to the Saxons’, and he could find himself another wife. So Malcolm had married Lulach’s Norse widow, and King Edward had been pleased; Scotland’s peace with the Vikings would benefit England, too.

  Now the Saxons needed Malcolm’s help and the Norse queen was dead—and Margaret realized that her brother might try to bargain her away to Malcolm, especially since he had applied for her hand before.

  She could not imagine living in a barbaric land, wife to a raiding warrior who could not be trusted to keep any bargain. The Scottish king regularly attacked northern England, and she had heard that his country was a backward place, peopled with superstitious heathens who spoke a strange language no good Saxon would deign to learn.

  At Romsey, she had found peace and respite from danger, protected from warmongers and sly self-servers. There, she would have taken vows to expiate sins she otherwise dared not confess. Instead, she rode in a cart rattling northward toward a fate she dreaded.

  Chapter Two

  Upheaved by the breath of the gale … and tossed in the countless dangers of the deep, [Edgar the Aetheling and his sisters] were forced to bring up in Scotland.

  —JOHN OF FORDUN, Chronicles of Scotland,

  FIFTEENTH CENTURY

  North Sea

  November 1069

  Cradled in a leather hammock, Margaret grabbed a support rope as another lurching wave brought the ship high, then low again. Beside her, Cristina clung to their mother, both women moaning, while Margaret endured in silence. In a second hammock, Kata sat terrified and wide-eyed beside Hildy, their mother’s sturdy Saxon maid. Even the terrors of the North Sea could not frighten Hildy, Margaret thought with admiration.

  “Cristofori faciem die quacunque tueris,” Lady Agatha muttered, taking out a silver medal from the purse at her belt, “illa nempe die morte mala non morieris.” She displayed the silver face of Saint Christopher to the other women. “Whosoever regards the face of Christopher shall not die that day an evil death. Remember that in your prayers today.”

  Margaret understood that her mother was doing her best in the absence of the Benedictine priest, Otto, who rode aboard a second ship carrying additional men, horses, armor, and cargo. The other longboat pitched in the heavy seas, upright as yet. For two days, fierce winds and rain had lashed the ship, tearing the great sail, but somehow they had stayed their course, thanks not only to skilled sailors but to the intercession of saints such as Christopher, Nicholas, the Irishman Brendan, and the Princess Ursula, who had sailed stormy seas with eleven thousand virgin friends to safety—and eventual martyrdom. The sainted ones would watch over those who traveled on water, keeping them safe—or at least Margaret fervently hoped so as she sent up another prayer to that end.

  As for her mother, Margaret had nearly forgotten over the past three years how fretful Lady Agatha could be. Descended on one side from Magyars who had swarmed the Carpathian basin and on the other from Russian royalty, her mother had the strong-boned beauty of her combined heritage, yet by nature Lady Agatha was fearful and bitter more than tough. Just now her frantic prayers added such tension that Margaret furtively wished her mother would offer some real comfort to her family. Cristina, cut of similar cloth, was keen to point out their difficulties rather than be strong against them—and though Margaret doubted her own mettle, she would not bemoan her fate. Somehow she would persevere, emulating the example of saints and martyrs who had endured far worse.

  A gust of wind slapped open the leather curtain that provided shelter for the women aboard the longship. Rain and seawater drenched Margaret’s blue gown, red cloak, and red leather shoes, and she wrung out the hems of the ruined silk. After Romsey, she had been thankful to exchange her plain garments for fine ones, though she knew that her love of bright colors and beautiful fabrics was a sinful vanity, a serious flaw in her character. Now she vowed to improve her lesser qualities if only she and the others could survive this awful voyage safely.
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br />   Another heavy tilt of the ship prompted Lady Agatha to pray loudly as she rotated her ebony beads and recited in Latin. Cristina told their mother to hush, bluntly, and was slapped for it.

  “I have prayed a year’s worth of penances today,” Cristina said. “Now I pray we reach Scotland soon so we can get another ship to Denmark and go home to Hungary.”

  “No one should be on the North Sea this time of year, with the winter storms upon us,” Hildy said. “We should have stayed in England.”

  “But Edgar said William’s troops would hunt us there,” Lady Agatha said.

  “He and his Saxon lords have betrayed William with their rebellion, and we are all declared outlaws. We have lost everything,” Cristina added bitterly. “Margaret and I are princesses without land and few goods, and little marriage value. What will become of us?”

  “We have our royal heritage,” Margaret said. “The rest can be regained.”

  “At least the Scottish king offered assistance,” Lady Agatha said. “Perhaps he will give us some of his goods, in addition to what we were able to bring with us.”

  “He is a pauper, Mama, so they say. All Scots are savages,” Cristina replied. “And Edgar does what the Saxon lords want, so he will strike any bargain with Malcolm. What of us?”

  “Edgar will be a fine king,” Lady Agatha said blithely, as if she had not even heard. “He reminds me of your father.”

  Margaret sighed. Her mother was so idealistic where her son was concerned. But the sudden reminder of her father brought her such a heart-tug of guilt and remorse that she could not speak. If only Papa had lived—if only she had not given him the sweetmeats that night …