Queen Hereafter Page 3

  Feeling sick, she jumped up as the ship tilted again and cold seawater sloshed over her feet. She felt like Jonah inside the whale, which must have been a putrid place indeed. She had to get away. “I need some air,” she said. “I will go ask how we are faring.”

  The ship lurched and she grabbed the curtain while her mother and sister groaned in unison and Kata clung to Hildy. But Margaret was determined to get outside. She, too, felt ill, but she tended to a finicky stomach on the best of days and had fasted to lessen her illness aboard ship. Now, dizzy but well enough, she peered through a gap in the curtain and saw men shouting, rushing about or sitting huddled against the wind and rain, while the captain called to the oarsmen to pull harder, landward.

  Land? Beyond the tilting rim of the ship, the gray sea slid beneath heavy clouds, but Margaret could see the faint rim of a shoreline and hills. Had her prayers indeed been granted? She had fingered the strand of prayer beads looped over her belt, counting endless Pater Nosters and Ave Marias upon the small semiprecious stones knotted in tens on silken thread.

  Truth be told, her prayers had been fervent despite the weather, for she loathed sea voyaging in any conditions, after the long, exhausting sea journeys in her childhood. Though she had learned to mask her fears with calm, she could not wait to attain land.

  Through a haze of rain and sea spray, Margaret walked along the deck toward her brother, who sat with some of the Saxon lords who had fled England with them. The men looked damp and cold, clutching leather cloaks as protection from the elements. Edgar, blond hair straggling, looked young and earnest beside the mature warriors as he listened avidly to their conversation.

  She walked carefully on the slippery planking, past oarsmen who pulled hard as the boat cut a swath through surging water. Overhead, the prow was topped by a wooden curl rather than the dragon’s head carried by warships, for the ship was a wide, low merchant knorr. Beyond, steel-gray waves peaked white as she saw the second ship heaving on the seas behind the first.

  Edgar stood as she approached and the men made room for her to sit. She greeted each in turn: Morcar, grumbling, red-bearded, bitter to have been ousted from Northumbria; his capable brother, Edwin, earl of Mercia; Cospatric, the Saxon cousin of Malcolm Canmore; and Walde, a Northumbrian nobleman whose beauty and courtly eloquence were well known and his Saxon loyalty strong; he had William’s favor, and had been offered William’s niece Judith in marriage, as a bid to anchor Northumbrian fealties.

  This tough, clever Saxon lot had betrayed tyrannical William, infuriating him. With their Saxon army all but decimated, their Danish support almost gone, they now looked for Malcolm Canmore’s aid in their rebellion. They supported Edgar’s claim to the throne of England, yet Margaret did not entirely trust their influence over her brother, who was too young to lead the rebellion these lords favored. She felt wary on his behalf.

  But she smiled as she sat beside Edgar, who drew his leather covering over her head and shoulders. She huddled close, her braids pooling like damp golden ropes in her lap.

  “Are we nearing land?” she asked.

  “Aye. The oarsmen are heading for it,” Edgar replied. “The storm spun us about and the hull may be damaged, but we have hope now.”

  “Thank the saints.” She breathed out in relief.

  “We are still in danger of sinking,” Morcar said bluntly. “And we do not know if that land is Scotland or England. Go back to your mother, lady, and pray for our souls.” Morcar was a sour fellow; she had disliked him even in her uncle’s royal court. “We would be better off with the sea monsters than with the Normans.”

  “If it is Scotland, luck is with us,” Edwin said quietly. “We will be safe.”

  “If we are in Malcolm’s territory, aye,” Cospatric said. “Farther north, the Highland men who dislike their own king also dislike Saxons.”

  “Aye, and Malcolm will give us sanctuary … for the right fee.” Morcar looked at Margaret.

  “What price would that be, sir?” She looked at him directly, certain she knew what he meant.

  “Lady, go back to your mother and your prayers,” Morcar groused.

  “Give my sister credit for intelligence, sir,” Edgar said. “She is the best scholar in my family, and I vow she could outreason any clergyman on matters of theology and logic. If we are to negotiate—”

  “Some women are cleverer than is good for them,” Morcar snapped.

  Margaret shivered in a chill gust, but Morcar’s rudeness made her defiant. She would not leave just yet. “What bargain will you make with Malcolm of Scotland? He expects to meet with Edgar and some rebel lords—but I suspect he will be surprised to see the entire royal Saxon family and their household, all in need of asylum.”

  “We will negotiate for the safety and benefit of all,” Edgar said.

  “The Scottish king is unpredictable, they say,” she replied. “A savage warlord. We cannot guess what he wants.” If they meant to marry her off, she wanted to hear it said out loud, now. They avoided her gaze, even her brother—did that indicate something significant?

  “Your sister knows too much and not enough,” Morcar said. “We will do what is necessary. Go bid the women be ready for whatever comes—the bottom of the sea, or the teeth of Scots.”

  UNDER THUNDEROUS SKIES, the Saxons were taken off the foundering ship within the hour by fishermen who appeared as if sent from heaven, having braved the rocking seas in sleek boats to convey the strangers to land. Their saviors were local Scots, Margaret learned, who spoke the native tongue, a lilting language that Cospatric alone understood.

  “These are Fife men, loyal to Malcolm,” he explained, seated in one of the boats with Margaret and several others. “They say their village is not far from one of Malcolm’s royal palaces. They will send word to the king’s men and we will shelter with the fishing families tonight. Soon we will be welcomed by King Malcolm.”

  Shivering in her wet things, Margaret was so grateful to be heading toward blessed land that she almost did not care where it was. Tears stung her eyes as men lifted her from the boat and carried her ashore. Sinking to her knees on the pebbled beach beside her kinswomen and others giving thanks, she closed her eyes in silent prayer.

  Never again, she decided, did she want to travel by sea, never again did she care to feel the powerful surge of bottomless water beneath her. In that moment, she made a vow—a holy, impulsive, impassioned vow, promising heaven that she would stay away from water. Instead, she promised the saints in fervent silence, she would help anyone willing to voyage by ship, but she would gladly deprive herself of sea travel. That would free her from experiencing such fear and danger again.

  As the Scottish fishermen guided the stranded survivors through the rain toward their own homes, Margaret anticipated the heat of a cozy hearth, the feel of dry clothing, and the safety of humble hospitality. She would not think ahead, she told herself, to meeting the Scottish king.

  Turning, she saw Edgar offer to one of the fishermen, a tough and elderly man, a purse of coins. The man shook his head in refusal.

  “You are welcome to what we have. It does not matter to us where you come from or who you are. Best we do not know, eh?”

  A FIRE BLAZED HOT gold within a ring of stones, the rest of the room in shadow as Margaret and the other women gathered around the low central hearth, grasping blankets around their shoulders. Grateful to be warm and dry, Margaret was glad for the simple shift that she now wore while her wet garments dried by the fire. Her sister and mother had grimaced at the plain clothing they had been lent by the fisherman’s wife who had welcomed them to her family’s cottage; and they did not seem pleased with their quarters, a dank and humble seaside cottage belonging to the woman introduced as Mother Annot and her husband, the elderly fisherman who had guided the stranded voyagers away from the storm-tossed beach.

  “I will itch to death in this,” Cristina said to her mother under her breath.

  “We are warm and dry and did not drown,” Marga
ret said. “And the woman has made us hot soup. We must be sure to thank her.”

  “I would if she spoke a civilized tongue,” Cristina muttered.

  “The generosity of these poor fisher-folk should be praised,” Margaret said.

  “True.” Lady Agatha adjusted her blanket with two fingers as if loath to touch it. “Do you suppose there are fleas in this?”

  Mother Annot, their tall and gaunt hostess, came forward with a large bowl and ladle, offering more soup. Margaret’s stomach felt ill at ease, but she did not want to refuse the kindness and raised her cup, though the soup smelled both salty and fishy.

  Her mother leaned toward her. “No need to eat that. We do not even know what is in it.”

  “It is fish broth,” Cristina said, peering into her cup. “Ugh,” she said, scratching under the woolen blanket. “I do not much like Scotland.”

  Seeing the trusting smile on the Scottish woman’s face, Margaret felt embarrassed on behalf of her kinswomen. She sipped her soup and smiled. “Thank you, it’s very good.”

  Mother Annot smiled and filled Margaret’s cup yet again.

  MORNING LIGHT SEEPED through the chinks in the stone wall as Margaret finished her early prayers. Accustomed at the abbey to rising several times a night to kneel in prayer, she could keep that habit anywhere now, although the others still slept, tucked in blankets on the floor. She slipped past without disturbing them.

  Mother Annot cooked flat cakes that smelled buttery and good, sizzling on an iron plate suspended over hot flames. Finding her red shoes and cloak drying by the hearth, Margaret put them on, savoring their warmth. Then she stepped outside, going past the house with its attached animal byre to the enclosed latrine beyond; she ducked into that and later emerged to stand in the misty dawn. A few clustered houses with thatched roofs and stone walls created a small, muddy village that lacked a center, for she saw no obvious church or chapel structure. Each home seemed to be as plain as the one belonging to Annot and her family.

  Margaret had seen the homes of the poor in England and in Hungary, too, but she had never been inside one of them, living always in the finest royal quarters. These Scottish folk had little, yet they shared without expecting a reward. She breathed deeply of the moist, salty air and once more felt humbled by the kindness shown to the Saxon fugitives.

  She went back into the house, where she and the others were eating hot oatcakes when Edgar and Wilfrid came to the door, having spent the night in another domicile. “The ships are being unloaded now,” Wilfrid told them as they escorted the women to the beach.

  “And this morning Cospatric rode to the king’s royal residence, not far from here. King Malcolm will send an escort for us soon, no doubt,” Edgar said.

  Farther down the beach, Margaret saw two longboats leaning like whales in the shallows while men waded back and forth with crates and gear. English-bred horses now grazed on fresh grass along the dunes, and wooden boxes were piled on the dry sections of the pebbled beach.

  “We must see if our things are safe,” Cristina said. “That is all the fortune any of us has now,” she added.

  “At least we have something,” Margaret said, though Cristina ignored her and ran ahead.

  Searching with her sister through the boxes as they were opened, Margaret looked in particular for an ebony reliquary that contained a priceless crucifix in gold and gems. The treasured piece housed a precious relic, a sliver of the true cross saved by Saint Helena, on whose feast day Margaret had been born. The Black Rood, as some in England had called the cross, had been coveted by Edward of England, but Lady Agatha had guarded it carefully, hinting to Margaret that it might be part of her dowry someday. Other crates contained gold and silver plates, vessels, cups, and candlesticks; several small chests held thousands of coins, English and foreign, the edges clipped with use yet still valuable for trading or melting down. Their well-being might rest on their ability to pay the Scots king, and so Edgar seemed anxious to locate the coins, while Margaret and the others looked for household goods.

  Cristina gave a little cry as she discovered the ebony box packed in damp straw, and then she and Margaret looked eagerly through another box. Soon Edgar returned, having walked off to speak with Wilfrid after finding a few chests of coins. “Thank the saints, we have some means,” he said.

  Margaret smiled, noticing how tall her brother had grown and how somber he seemed. She felt a surge of love and gratefulness to know that they were all safe. And Edgar, who had so much responsibility on his broadening shoulders, might yet have a chance to reclaim England, so long as the Saxon lords supported him and the Scottish king kept his promises.

  “The ships need repair,” Edgar now said. “The fishermen will make the arrangements. We needs must be guests in Scotland for a little while.”

  “You had planned that for you and your men already,” Margaret said. “But may we hope that Malcolm will harbor so many Saxon fugitives? With all of us here, the Normans have even more reason to attack Scotland. I do wonder if Malcolm will send us away,” she added.

  “He hates the Normans and does not care what they want,” he replied. “Though he was partly raised in Northumbria, he is king in Scotland, and means to defend its perimeters against invaders. He will have sympathy for our plight,” he added, “for he was banished as a child from Scotland when Macbeth killed his father, a king called Duncan.”

  Sympathy was not a quality she expected from Malcolm of Scotland. “We shall see. If he does offer us respite for a bit, that would be most welcome.”

  “I hope for more than respite,” Edgar replied. “Truly, I believe God’s will brought us here with that storm. We have been swept nearly to the king’s doorstep. He and I had agreed to meet farther south at a neutral meeting place. To be brought here to his home seems … fated.”

  Her heart raced. “How so?” Please, she thought, do not speak of marriage.

  “For the sake of the rebellion, of course,” he said. “His welcome bodes well for the Saxon uprising. With his full support, we can reclaim everything we have lost and more.”

  “He will want repayment for that support, and we have no land, no titles.” But they had royal blood and marriageable princesses, she thought, looking sideways at her brother.

  “We can win England back,” he said only. “Where else can we go? No other place will accept us now. Wherever the royal Saxon fugitives flee, the Normans go in pursuit. But the king of Scotland does not fear them. Indeed, by sheltering us, he sends William a message that he will not be intimidated.”

  “So we must stay here indefinitely?”

  “We have no choice. Look there,” he went on, gesturing toward the grassy dunes that edged the beach. “Cospatric is back—and Malcolm’s men are with him.”

  Increasingly apprehensive, Margaret stood motionless in the whipping wind off the sea as the riders crested the hill. A few men dismounted to walk toward them, and Cospatric strode forward to speak to Edgar while Wilfrid joined Margaret. Some of the Scotsmen were on horses, others on foot, and some wore good mail armor while others had leather. She noticed that many wore patterned cloaks and tunics of the distinctive wool that the fisher-folk had worn, woven of crisscrossing hues. Most wore iron helmets and carried weaponry.

  “Why do they bring weapons to meet shipwreck survivors and women?” she asked Wilfrid.

  “Saxons and Scots will never trust each other,” he said. “My lady, your brother beckons you to come forward.” She did, slowly, Wilfrid walking beside her.

  “These are Malcolm’s elite housecarls,” Cospatric was explaining to Edgar. “The king is not currently at his palace in Dunfermline, as he expected to meet us farther south. We are welcome to wait there for his return.”

  The leader of the Scottish envoy came forward. “This is Sir Robert De Lauder, head of King Malcolm’s elite guard,” Cospatric said in introduction.

  De Lauder bowed his head, showing fine manners, and Margaret smiled politely. He was shorter than she, and wore a
long chain mail hauberk with a dropped hood, revealing his dark hair trimmed close, his face clean shaven in foreign fashion. She narrowed her eyes, suspecting that he was not Scottish; the other men were simply dressed and armored, with rough beards and long hair.

  “Welcome to Scotland, sire, my lady,” he said in English, but with a marked French accent. “You and your party are welcome here.”

  “You are Norman?” Margaret asked.

  “I am from Normandy, true. I pledged to King Malcolm’s service many years ago, well before King William came to England.” He turned as a second man joined them. This one was tall and broad, blond and ruddy, in shabby leather over a patterned tunic. His expression was grim and he planted his legs wide, grasping the great sword at his belt. “This is Ranald mac Niall, one of the king’s guard,” De Lauder explained. “King Malcolm sends word that he is grateful for your safe arrival and he wishes you to stay in his palace of Dunfermline, a few leagues from here. You will enjoy many comforts there until he can return.”

  “The welcome is appreciated,” Edgar said.

  “Sir, we have horses for you and a cart fitted for the ladies,” De Lauder said.

  “We brought horses from England,” Edgar said. “Perhaps your king will accept some of that fine stock. We look forward to meeting him.”

  Word quickly spread that the Saxon party would leave immediately for the king’s tower, and Margaret and her kinswomen were escorted to a cushioned wagon. When Cristina, who muttered that she disliked carts, mentioned that she and Margaret would prefer to ride, horses were brought forward for them. De Lauder himself assisted the girls into the wooden saddles, offering his cupped palms as a boost for their feet.

  “This is a courteous escort,” Cristina said, “and it will be good to stay in the king’s palace instead of these old huts. I am glad to leave this dirty village, I vow.”

  Margaret blushed, hoping Cristina would not be overheard. But she, too, yearned for the comforts of a fine palace. She particularly looked forward to a hot, fragrant bath and the feel of clean linen and silk against her skin. “These people have been kind, though a royal welcome is due our brother,” she remarked.