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  “It is our due as well,” Cristina replied with a sniff.

  The Scottish horses were smaller than Margaret had seen before, stocky and sturdy, and she adjusted her skirts and cloak in the saddle, waiting while Lady Agatha and the maidservants were settled in the cart. Gently tugging the reins as her horse sidled, Margaret calmed him with soothing words and pats to his neck. She caught the Norman knight’s look of surprise.

  “You handle the horse quite well,” he said.

  “Ce n’est rien,” she answered. “It is nothing. We were raised in Hungary and placed in Magyar saddles when we were still very young. And we rode in England, too,” she added.

  As the men readied to depart, Margaret saw that some local people still waited on the beach. Mother Annot was with them, waving, and Margaret lifted a hand in return, realizing that there had been no time to properly thank their hosts. Just then, De Lauder rode toward Margaret and Cristina and offered fur-lined cloaks for the journey, as the November air was damp and chilly. Moments later, the escort began to move out.

  Looking over her shoulder, Margaret hesitated, drawing back on her horse’s reins. She felt a tug of remorse, not having thanked their hosts, who had saved their lives and had been exceedingly kind to them. On impulse, she guided her mount around to ride down the beach, despite shouts of surprise from her sister and others.

  Reaching Mother Annot and the cluster of women and men with her, Margaret leaned from the saddle. “Thank you for your hospitality,” she said breathlessly. “We do appreciate it.”

  Mother Annot smiled, nodded, and Margaret realized the woman did not really understand her. But she wanted to show her gratitude somehow. None of the other Saxons had bothered, being in a hurry to leave these people for better circumstances—that troubled her, too.

  Shrugging out of the fur cloak that De Lauder had loaned her, she unpinned her own red cloak beneath it, swept it free, and handed it to Mother Annot. The old woman caught it, looking astonished, then shook her head in protest.

  Margaret gestured her insistence that the woman keep it, but Annot handed it to a younger woman who stood holding a small child, shivering in the wind’s chill. Noticing that Annot and a few of the other women were barefoot despite standing on the wet, cold, stony beach, Margaret reached down and pulled off her red leather shoes, which Annot had cleaned and dried for her overnight. She handed them to the Scotswoman and tucked her stockinged feet under her skirts.

  “Thank you, woman.” Annot tried English, then switched to Gaelic, shaking her head as if to refuse. One of the fishermen, her husband, came close.

  “My wife says she cannot take these things from you, lady. You are too generous.”

  “I want her to have them. Please tell her they will look very fine on her. I have other cloaks and shoes and can do without these,” Margaret added. “Please, say I am happy to do this.”

  As he translated, Annot grinned with delight and shoved her feet into the shoes, which were too small, but she danced a little while the others laughed. Then she looked up at Margaret. “Tapadh leibh. Thank you!”

  “Tapah-lev to you,” Margaret said, smiling. She then rode back toward the others.

  Her mother and sister, her brother, and the men stared at her, but De Lauder rode closer, smiling. “Saint Martin himself gave his red cloak to a beggar, they say, and you did better than that. You made the Scotswoman very happy, eh? You are a fine lady,” he murmured. “King Malcolm will want to hear about this.”

  Margaret felt her cheeks grow hot. She did not want attention—she had only wanted to express her thanks, embarrassed that no one in the Saxon party had done so. She had several cloaks and pairs of shoes packed in chests, and Kata would fetch another pair. Most had not been worn since she had gone to Romsey Abbey three years past.

  What no one knew was that she was not as generous as they believed. After soaking in seawater and drying by the fire, the red shoes were very tight and their color was ruined. She would not have worn them again. And she told herself that instead of taking pride in her deed, she ought to pray a penance for selfishness.

  THEY RODE AWAY from the sweeping gray sea toward mist-covered hills and forestland, and soon Margaret could see round-shouldered mountains far away, layers of blue and green shapes fading into the distance. The escort followed an earthen track as they passed isolated cottages set on steep hillsides where sheep grazed; one cluster of homes, Ranald mac Niall explained, was a clachan, the native word for village. Here and there she saw tall stone crosses on the peaks of a few hills, handsomely carved monuments combining a cross with a circle, large enough to be easily seen across hill and gleann, as she learned the valleys were termed.

  Finally the escort entered the shadowed coolness of a woodland, the track thick with pine needles crushed to invigorating fragrance by horse hooves and cart wheels. A wide stream flowed beside the path with small waterfalls rushing over boulders.

  “It is so beautiful here. Peaceful,” Margaret breathed, smiling at Cristina, riding beside her.

  Tower walls appeared through the trees: a wooden citadel behind a palisade perched on a hillside. The timber structure was of modest size, and Margaret looked for the king’s grand palace in what seemed a wonderland of forest, stream, rocks, and waterfalls.

  “That must be the gatehouse,” Cristina said. “The palace will be close by.”

  Robert De Lauder, riding in the lead, paused to wait, and as Margaret and Cristina approached, he swept his arm wide. “Mes princesses, welcome to Dunfermline Palace.”

  “That is the king’s palace?” Cristina gaped.

  “His main residence must be farther on,” Margaret said hopefully.

  “This is his favorite royal residence,” De Lauder said. “Dunfermline Tower.”

  Visible beyond the palisade, the tower itself was square and plain, a few levels of pitch-treated timber and a slate roof graced by a tilted, rusted weathercock. Narrow chimney spouts emitted thin plumes of smoke.

  As they followed the slope toward the fortress, the tower came more clearly into sight and the gates opened. Margaret saw tattered curtains flapping in a few high, narrow windows. A rooster perched on a windowsill, and a cat prowled along a lower ledge. Wooden steps led to a second-story entrance. The yard was muddy and cluttered with smaller thatched-roof structures.

  They entered the gates, passing servants who moved about carrying baskets or hurrying from one location to another, pausing to stare at them. Three guards came forward wearing leather hauberks, looking strong and alert to trouble. Dogs and goats wandered about, chickens pecked in random circles, and a shaggy black cow crossed in front of the entering party before a guard shooed it away. Margaret saw a small boy gaping up at the riders until a woman snatched him into her arms and stepped aside.

  “The king’s tower is a busy place.” Margaret forced cheerfulness. “I am sure it has a fine and comfortable interior.”

  “Aye, where they keep their livestock,” Cristina muttered. “We will return to England, once Edgar drives William out. We cannot stay here long. We must press Edgar to see to it.”

  But Margaret knew they might stay indefinitely, as Edgar had said. If England was ever to be reclaimed, Edgar and the rest of the Saxon leaders needed solid support in the form of troops, coinage—and a canny, powerful ally in the king of Scotland.

  Yet her first glimpse of the seat of Scottish royalty was hardly reassuring.

  Chapter Three

  Good they are at man-slaying,

  Melodious in the ale-house,

  Masterly at making songs,

  Skilled at playing chess.

  —IRISH, TWELFTH CENTURY

  (TRANSLATED BY KUNO MEYER)

  I am Dame Agnes, the chatelaine here at the king’s palace,” a plump woman told them as she greeted the newly arrived Saxons. The tower’s interior was as rustic as the exterior, Margaret saw, with timbered rafters and whitewashed plaster walls, and the guests were served ale and soup at trestle tables, where tallow c
andles glowed in iron holders. Although the evening skies were still pale, the musty interior, smelling of dogs and dampness, was gloomy.

  Dame Agnes was plain, too, with thick features and a good smile, and she wore a simple linen headdress along with a brown tunic, bleached linen shift, and sturdy leather boots. “I keep the king’s household here with the help of my husband, who is the castle steward. I am the king’s cousin,” she added proudly. “You will have rooms here and a couple of maidservants, with a groom and a page for the men. I am sure you are used to better in England.”

  “We are fugitives lately come from convents, and my brother and his men were hostages of the Normans,” Margaret said as the chatelaine guided them up wooden steps to small rooms on an upper floor. “And so we are grateful for your good hospitality here.”

  Margaret was to share a small room with Cristina and Kata, along with a little red-haired maid whose Gaelic name no one could pronounce. “Fionnghuala,” the girl repeated more than once, patiently introducing herself. “Fi-NOO-ala is my name.”

  “Finola,” Margaret ventured. “So you speak English?”

  “Sassenach, aye,” the girl replied—meaning Saxon, Margaret realized, or English—and then indicated the narrow beds crammed into the room. “Sleeping now?”

  “Prayers first,” Margaret said firmly, pressing her palms together. Finola dropped to her knees beside her, and Margaret led them in a Latin prayer. Finola did not recite hers in Latin but in the airy, incomprehensible language of the northern Scots. Yet the girl prayed earnestly.

  “Say the prayers in Latin, if you please.” Margaret repeated a few lines in proper fashion.

  Finola only whispered in her strange tongue. Margaret sighed. Prayerful devotions marked the hours night and day, and whatever the Church demanded was what heaven itself wanted, Margaret had been taught, finding such wisdom reliable and comforting.

  “Prayers must be said in Latin,” Cristina pointed out. “She risks her very soul by praying in her heathen tongue.”

  Margaret leaned toward Finola. “Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum,” she whispered in an encouraging tone. “Go on. Now you say it.”

  Finola shook her head shyly. Astonished, Margaret realized the girl did not know Latin.

  “What is the state of devotion here in this place,” Cristina said later, as they readied for bed, “even worse, the state of Scottish souls, if they pray in a barbaric tongue that God and the saints will not recognize?”

  Margaret hesitated. Finola seemed a sweet girl with an innocent nature despite her somewhat savage upbringing. “We will say extra prayers on their behalf,” she suggested.

  “They should be taught proper Latin, if they have the brainpans for it,” Cristina said.

  STEADY RAIN KEPT THEM indoors for days, and still the king did not arrive. Margaret and her kinswomen settled into a routine when baskets of needlework were unearthed from one of the wooden crates that had come off the longboat, and Lady Agatha found linen panels that needed finishing. Following morning prayers and a meal, the women gathered in the small bedchamber given Lady Agatha to work, talk, and wait out the days, uncertain what would come next.

  Glad to have her embroidery things, for she loved stitchery work and had a deft and delicate hand for it, Margaret was content enough. The silken threads in an array of colors, the feel of the fabric textures, the shush of threads drawn through linen were small joys that soothed her spirit, and she enjoyed watching each piece grow toward its completion. Her work was competent and meticulous, but her sister, Cristina, was a master, the artistry of her needlework surpassing even that of their mother, whose handiwork was always impressive.

  That morning, Lady Agatha was couching minute gold filament threads in tight looping stitches to create a border for a priest’s vestment; she had finished the fabric in whitework, the application of white silk thread on pale linen to produce elegant and detailed designs. While Margaret was capable in all forms of needlework, she tended to worry over the perfection of her stitches even while wishing for the facile touch of her kinswomen. But she was grateful for the skill that had taught her patience, her fingers nimble, her thoughts focused, her spirit quieted by the demands and the rewards of the work.

  Now she set down her fabric, hearing a commotion of horses’ hooves and the shouts of men down in the bailey. She stood and ran to the window, peering out just as Cristina joined her. The other women, curious, too, came to look.

  “Who are they?” Cristina asked, as they watched dozens of horsemen stream into the yard through the open gates. For a moment Margaret felt a stab of fear, remembering the Norman invaders riding into the yard at Winchester, followed by the arrival of King William—and then the splitting up of the royal family to convents and captivity. Gazing down, she saw with relief that these men were heartily welcomed here.

  “The Scottish king!” Cristina said as the women crowded at the window. “See the large man on the black horse, with the bannerman beside him, holding a pole with a blue boar stitched on silk? The blue boar is Malcolm’s insigne. I remember seeing it at Winchester Palace, years ago, when he came there.”

  Margaret looked down. The king was taller and broader than most of the other men, his glossy black horse powerfully muscled. The rider lifted away his helmet to reveal a thatch of dark hair and a full beard, and as he tore off leather gauntlets and tossed them to a groom, Margaret heard him snap a command. The groom ran off as De Lauder approached, bowing.

  “Malcolm? Good,” Lady Agatha said. “Now we shall learn his intentions for all of us.”

  Margaret went to her seat in silence and took up her needlework, but stabbed her finger, her hands trembled so. Blood beaded on the linen, and though she rubbed it away, the stain remained.

  MARGARET GINGERLY DREW her skirts up and lifted her feet away from the floor, where she sat on the bench at supper. The rushes on the floor were fresh enough, but the layer beneath was old, decayed and fusty. Her eyes stung from the rancid smoke of flickering wall torches in need of changing. The meal was already being served, handed about on platters, but the king had not yet arrived for supper. In the confusion, some of the servants snatched dishes from the tables to bring them back to the kitchen until the king was properly in attendance.

  Chaos, Margaret thought, had no place in a king’s hall. Watching Dame Agnes, she knew that Lady Agatha and Kata would have made short work of the whole mess. So would she, come to that; while she had never run a household of her own, she was well versed in all domestic matters. As the eldest princess in a royal family, she had been originally intended, and trained, for a significant marriage. The Normans had changed those plans and the peace of Romsey Abbey had changed her mind, but she had more than enough skill and knowledge—and a good measure of practicality—to supervise even the largest household. Seeing what could and should be done with the king’s ill-managed palace of Dunfermline, she felt a twinge of frustration. Still, she smiled and sat quietly.

  She and the other Saxons occupied benches at a long, broad table with a linen cloth sitting askew, having been tugged by one of the taller dogs. Housecarls and household retainers shared tables along with servants, an arrangement she had never seen before. Some of them were already eating; few took notice that the royal Saxons were there and the king was not.

  At Winchester, grand feasts and even everyday suppers had been orderly, formal occasions when elaborate meals were served in several courses, and dishes, cups, and utensils were of the finest materials—brass, pewter, silver and gold, even crystal and glass. At Dunfermline, the dishes were wood or pottery, drinking horns and simple cups were more prevalent than goblets, and implements were ordinary wood and metal. Margaret noticed her mother’s disapproval and her sister’s disdain, and saw Edgar’s puzzled expression, too, as he rubbed at a stain on the tablecloth.

  Robert De Lauder walked toward them. “King Malcolm will be here soon. He is in his chamber as yet meeting with his councilors, since he has been away in the south.”
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  “He has royal guests. Such rudeness,” Lady Agatha remarked in German to her kinswomen. Margaret saw De Lauder frown.

  Dame Agnes’s wooden-soled shoes made a clomping sound as she crossed the room toward them. She paused to bark out an order to one of the servants before bowing her head toward the Saxons. “Sire,” she addressed Edgar in a broad, rolling accent. “Whatever you need, tell me and you shall have it.” He thanked her and she left, never returning to the table, busy as she was.

  Servants ran back and forth from the kitchens, spilling food from tilted platters, sloshing wine and ale from jugs, tripping on the dogs, large and small, that seemed constantly underfoot. A musician sat on a stool beside the central fire basket, which blazed and smoked in the middle of the long room. The old man played a harp and sang, though the din in the room did not quiet.

  Dame Agnes could be heard shouting in the corridor, and moments later, servants rushed into the hall, carrying platters and bowls as if the hounds of hell were at their heels. As Margaret and the others were served fresh dishes of sliced beef and onions—the food was plain but good—the musician began a new tune, a bright rhythm that Margaret found enjoyable.

  “He is a good jongleur,” she said to Sir Robert, beside her. He nodded.

  Ranald, the surly blond warrior in the king’s elite guard, leaned forward. “He is adequate for a Saxon poet,” he said with some emphasis.

  “It is surprising to find a Saxon poet in the Scottish court,” Edgar said. “Surely he must be very good, to have a patron in the king of Scotland.”

  “King Malcolm was raised in England from boyhood,” De Lauder answered. “He enjoys Saxon poetry as much, perhaps more than Scottish.”