Queen Hereafter Page 5

  “We have much finer here in Scotland,” Ranald commented. His adequate English was accented with the softening tones of the Gaelic tongue. “Every mormaer’s hall has its seanchaidh or bard, for music or stories or both. There is a girl in the north, a harper of uncommon beauty and remarkable talent. Her hands move like a breeze upon the harp strings. It is said that to hear her is to step into heaven.”

  “A female bard?” Margaret asked with interest. “We had female musicians in the English court, too, though they did not play harp. They sang and played drums and some of them danced. It was very entertaining.”

  “I hear it said that the girl-bard of Moray is remarkable.” A tall man now approached the table, his voice a deep rumble, his English sounding Northumbrian more than Scottish. He threw his cloak over the back of the high carved chair at the table and seated himself there.

  King Malcolm, Margaret realized with a start, arrived at his own feast at last. She saw the Scots at the table react, sitting straighter, looking sideways at one another. Edgar blushed bright, waiting for an introduction that did not immediately come.

  “There is no bard like her in all Scotland, so I understand,” the king continued. “But she does not leave the north.”

  As the Saxon guests stood to greet the king, Malcolm dismissed their gesture with a wave. He held out a drinking horn and a servant ran forward to fill it with wine. Malcolm raised the horn high and then took a long swallow.

  The formal duty of serving wine to the king and the sharing of a cup by guests, Margaret noted then, rightfully belonged to the highest ranking lady in the room. Either she or her mother should have been invited to do so—but proper manners were not much in evidence in Scotland.

  “Let us drink to the Saxons, running from the Normans! The enemies of my friends are my enemies, too,” the king added magnanimously, lifting his drinking horn again to gulp from it.

  Edgar cleared his throat and courteously expressed the gratitude of his party, then began to introduce his kinswomen and comrades.

  “Excellent,” Malcolm said, nodding as if barely paying attention. “Hector!” he called to the musician. “Give us something to entertain our guests!”

  Hector strummed the harp and began to speak in a singsong voice. Immediately Margaret recognized the poem he recited in the rich, rolling Anglo-Saxon tongue—a tale of a wandering soul lost and lonely at sea. Now and then the poet threw his arms up and stomped his feet for emphasis as he shouted and thrashed, and banged a drum loudly, as if beating time for the oarsmen. Yet he grew still as he came to the most poignant part of the verses, lines so familiar to the Saxons in particular that they paused to listen as if spellbound:

  Where is the horse, where is the man,

  Where is the treasure-giver?

  Where are the joys of the hall?

  Alas, the bright cup, the mailed warrior!

  Alas, the chieftain’s splendor! Oh how time has passed!

  Rapt silence filled the hall as the poet recited an elegy of sorts for the passing of a bright age of warriors. Their world, too, was changing, Margaret thought as she listened. Proud and ancient ways were lost; new ways were uncertain. Sensing the mournful tone of the poem, she observed King Malcolm’s stormy expression as he spoke with another man, although the poet was still performing the verses. As Hector finished with much flinging about of hands, Margaret heard her brother conversing with the Scots seated nearby.

  “Moray’s lady bard could likely best that fellow,” one of the Scottish lords remarked. He was a burly warrior with a white beard and hair, a worn leather hauberk, and a tunic frayed with age. “Sir, I am Angus, mormaer of Mar,” he told Edgar. “We have not met.”

  “Sir,” Edgar replied. “A mormaer is an earl, I believe?”

  “It means ‘great steward’ in the Gaelic tongue. Something akin to a jarl or an earl.”

  “What of this lady harper you mentioned?” Cristina asked. “Does she live near here?”

  “She lives in the far north under the protection of her fierce kinswoman,” Angus said.

  “How fine it would be to hear her play someday,” Margaret said. She had not been impressed by the histrionics of the court poet, who now took up his harp to begin a strident melody.

  “I am curious to hear her music myself,” Malcolm said, mouth full as he ate. He licked greasy fingers as he addressed Ranald mac Niall. “How long since we sent a note to Moray?”

  “Three months,” Ranald replied. “You asked for an accounting of king’s portion on some properties there. The lady in the north has not replied.”

  “That harridan had best send me what is owed,” Malcolm said. “And if I order the harper chit here in the spring, her grandmama had best send her, too.”

  “The winter weather will soon worsen and prevent travel between here and there, sire,” Ranald said. “Once the snow fills the passes between the mountains, no parties can easily move into or out of Moray. Even if you were to send for the girl, sire, we would not see her before good weather returns.”

  “I would be surprised if we see her at all,” Angus of Mar muttered. When Malcolm grunted agreement, Margaret noticed how pragmatic he seemed. It was a good quality in a king, she decided, even this rough-edged and provincial one.

  “Who is the lady in the north?” she whispered to Robert De Lauder, beside her.

  “King Macbeth’s widow, the former Queen Gruadh. Now she is regent for her grandson in Moray, a vast province in higher Scotland. She has never given the king her full loyalty, with good reason, and the Moray people are totally loyal to her.”

  “They are all my subjects,” Malcolm groused.

  “That region is so huge and remote that imposing the rule of the crown is futile,” De Lauder explained to the Saxons. “It requires too many men and far too much effort for any king to keep close watch over northern Scotland.”

  “True enough,” Malcolm said, his mouth full as he ate. “Lady Gruadh does as she pleases, or thinks she can. Ladies, welcome to Scotland—where the women are as rebellious as the Highlanders.”

  Throughout the rest of the meal, Margaret heard parts of the men’s conversation as they spoke of Normans, of raids and war, of hunting, even of books. Malcolm was adamant about protecting the Scottish borders from the Normans, and though he mentioned the Saxon resistance in the north, Margaret was not sure if he fully supported the effort or was merely interested in his own claims to Northumbrian land. He ticked off a list of his properties on long, thick fingers and complained that territories should be returned to him—but he did not show much concern for the plight of the Saxon people in the north.

  He was a bear of a man, Margaret noted, who had changed little since she had seen him in her uncle’s English court. Years had passed since then, and Malcolm was now a tough, mature warrior. Even his plain, unadorned clothing belonged to a warrior more than a king: a red cloak, a brown tunic over trousered legs tied to the knee with thongs. His hair was in need of trimming, his loud voice carried easily, his manners were coarse, his opinions blunt and outspoken.

  Yet he spoke English like a Saxon and could switch to rapid Gaelic, then murmur in adequate French to De Lauder. Margaret listened as those two spoke of monks at Durham writing entries in annals based on reports that came via travelers and visitors.

  “And where is the book I ordered made for me?” he asked De Lauder. “C’est finis?”

  “It is not yet completed, sire,” De Lauder said in French. “It will take time. You will recall that I rode to meet some monks in the south who could create a very fine book, and I gave your commission to them. They agree that this book should not be produced in the usual scriptoriums where annals are made. By the very nature of its subject it requires discretion.”

  “True,” Malcolm said, spearing some meat with his knife and chewing vigorously.

  “You will be pleased with the result, I am sure, when it is done.”

  “A book, sir?” Margaret asked De Lauder when the king turned to speak to
Edgar. She felt encouraged by the warrior king’s interest in such matters. “I am very fond of books. May I ask if the king has ordered a new copy of the Gospels, or a psalter, or perhaps a copy of a treatise by one of the holy fathers?”

  “None of those,” De Lauder said.

  “A medical or herbal text, then? We had many beautiful books at our disposal in the library of my uncle, King Edward. Does the king collect many books?”

  De Lauder gave her an odd look. “The king does not care overmuch for books. He is simply ordering a specific volume, a list of sorts, to be prepared for him by a monk in Lowland Scotland.”

  “The book would not interest you much, Lady Margaret,” Malcolm said abruptly; she realized he had been listening. “No doubt you like pretty little books with precious covers and paintings. This one is a chronology of kings and their deeds. Nothing you would read.”

  “But I quite like histories,” Margaret replied.

  “Not this one. We have other books here if you want to read those. Ask Sir Robert to lend you the key to the cupboard where they are kept.” The king shifted his attention to Edgar and the others, joining their discussion. He listened intently to what they said and replied with calm authority, which the men welcomed. Margaret was reminded, suddenly, of a priest rather than a warrior-king. Oddly, it did not fit with what else she had seen of the Scottish monarch.

  More food was served, but she was not very hungry. In other royal courts she had known, suppers consisted of multiple courses and elaborate dishes, but a Scottish feast was a simple array of fresh but plain foods—boiled mutton, vegetable stew, yellow cheeses. The wines were good, the ale frothy. No bread was offered, which Margaret found strange, although she was served crusty oatcakes, hot and good, such as she had enjoyed at Annot’s home. She also nibbled at some vegetables and sipped a red wine, tart but excellent, from a polished wooden cup.

  “Do you like the wine, Lady Margaret?” De Lauder asked, beside her. “It is one of the king’s favorites, which he regularly imports from France.” He lifted his own cup in a half toast as he addressed Margaret and the other Saxons. “This one comes from Bordeaux, where my mother was born. There, the grapes are firm and sweet. A better wine than this cannot be had.”

  “Indeed.” Lady Agatha pursed her lips as she spoke in French. “Does the king prefer all things French, wine and Normans and so on?”

  “Not in all matters, lady,” he answered tersely. “But he appreciates good wines, and orders a variety of imports from France and the Low Countries as well.”

  “All very good, but he does not seem to appreciate the state of his household or the properness of his manners,” the lady then said in German to her kinfolk.

  “Der König hat keine Königin,” De Lauder said in easy German, so that Margaret lifted her brows, certain that he could, indeed, understand what they said. “Though the king has no queen, Dame Agnes manages the royal household here at Dunfermline, and does a fine job.”

  Though grateful for the shelter and sanctuary offered her family, Margaret was anxious to leave the noisy hall as soon as the chance came. Throughout the meal, Malcolm had nearly ignored the royal Saxon women, which would have been a plain insult in England. But she suspected that her kinswomen were too tired to take offense.

  Privately she felt relieved to escape the king’s attention. Soon she left the room with her kinswomen and went to her prayers and then to bed, exhausted.

  THE KING REMAINED at Dunfermline, dining with his Saxon guests and meeting with Edgar and various Scottish and Saxon lords. Beyond formal encounters, Margaret rarely spoke to Malcolm and the king did not seem to notice her much. She did not mind, for his intense, blustery manner unnerved her. No mention was made of marriage, but she sensed the possibility in the air, echoed in oblique remarks and quick glances among the Saxons in particular. But she did not ask, for fear that they would interpret that as a sign of her interest.

  Malcolm often went hunting or rode out with his men on patrol, and spent hours with his council or sat in moot court with locals, hearing grievances and giving judgments either in the great hall, in the bailey, or somewhere in the countryside. White-robed brothers and bishops of the Celtic persuasion hastened in and out of the fortress for audiences with the king, but when Margaret remarked one day on the king’s piety, De Lauder replied that the Celtic clergy were there to barter rights to rental portions and fees due to the crown or the parishes, and to hint at promotions; the Scottish king appointed bishops himself, he told her.

  Tension and turbulence rode the air like dark clouds before a storm. Malcolm Canmore and his men left for days at a time to patrol their borderlands, though rumor said they raided northern England to claim land, booty, and slaves in the wake of William’s destruction. Unsure of the truth, Margaret knew only that Edgar and the other Saxons who sometimes rode with Malcolm rarely spoke of what occurred on those journeys.

  Following a heated argument with the king loud enough to be heard behind closed doors, Cospatric and Walde departed Dunfermline, taking men and horses to England, saying they would inspect their ravaged Northumbrian properties and help their stranded people after further Norman attacks. Uncomfortably aware of a rift between Malcolm and his cousins, Margaret wondered if the Saxon guests would be asked to leave, but they were not.

  Malcolm puzzled her. Sometimes he and his men would sit in the hall in grim, dark moods, guzzling ale or gambling; then Margaret sensed that war deeds and secrets lay heavy upon their shoulders and souls. Other times, when she met Malcolm in the bailey or the tower, he seemed no brute, just a big, clumsy man who lumbered past her, blushing like a boy.

  Good day, lady, he would say; or Greetings, lady—the weather is cold today. The scents of smoke fire, metal, and horse clung to him, along with hints of sweat and unwashed clothing. His gruff manner and masculine scents seemed compelling and oddly safe, somehow, reminding her of her father, who had been a warrior general under the king of Hungary and would have been a strong monarch for England had fate treated him more kindly.

  Sometimes Margaret would stare after Malcolm and feel a longing, a sort of loneliness, stir within. He fascinated her in some ways—blunt and powerful, her clear opposite—then she would dismiss her idle thoughts and move on.

  Her kinswomen judged him a dull-witted savage lacking refinement and princely bearing. He had been well educated, but his casual attention to intellectual matters did not show the training of a true prince, Margaret thought, compared to princes of the Hungarian and English courts. As for spiritual matters, Malcolm’s fortress had no decent chapel, and neither did the king go often to the church on the hill.

  Yet he was widely praised as shrewd, powerful, brave, and even reckless, and the Saxon lords admired his persistence and purpose. Though he did not behave like a prince of state, though he was provincial and unsophisticated, he was a clever, ambitious ruler. Margaret found him intriguing, though she would not have admitted it.

  But her mother and sister, and Kata, too, complained often about Scotland and spoke of leaving. They pressured Margaret, as the eldest, to talk to Edgar, who could influence Malcolm to let them go. Crossing the bailey with her brother one day, Margaret suggested that Edgar arrange a ship to take her kinswomen away from Scotland.

  “It is their fervent wish,” she said. “They would prefer to sail to Denmark and then return to Hungary.”

  “And you?”

  “I would be content to travel by land back to Romsey Abbey. At any rate, your kinswomen would be safer in religious houses, away from war and raiding. Mama cannot bear it here.”

  “I am fostering a rebellion with King Malcolm’s support, and so my family will accept his hospitality for as long as he will offer it. And at whatever price,” Edgar said.

  “Choose rebellion and Scottish protection if you will, but let us leave, and soon.”

  “We will stay,” he answered firmly. “Our only safe haven is here.”

  EARLY, AFTER PRAYERS in her chamber, Margaret ventur
ed out into the clear, crisp air with Finola. The girl, perhaps thirteen, could barely manage English, but she made herself clear enough and was an eager guide. She led Margaret outside into the wide, enclosed yard to visit the kitchen buildings, where one servant turned cakes on a griddle and another stirred steaming porridge in an iron cauldron and tended to sizzling bacon slabs. The cook gave each girl some porridge in pottery bowls, and Margaret tasted it, not used to much food in the mornings. At Romsey, they had shared dark bread and watery beer after dawn prayers, and at the English court, thin slices of fine white bread and some fruit might be taken. Now she ate the hot, salty porridge with a near sense of guilt, for Lady Agatha always said that showing a good appetite was coarse.

  Finola led her to the outer gates, and Margaret was astonished when the guards let the girls leave the bailey, turning away without offering an escort. She held her skirts up, for the hems of her green silk gown and linen chemise, and her yellow silk shoes were mucky from the yard. But she was glad of unexpected freedom after more than a fortnight in the Scottish stronghold, and hastened after Finola, who pointed toward the little glen below the castle mound.

  “You are wanting to pray today, lady?” Finola asked.

  “In the little church across the glen? Oh, aye!” Margaret had noticed the chapel on the hillside opposite the royal tower. She followed Finola through a wooded glen with quiet paths and waterfalls, and as they walked along the track, she heard barking. Turning, she saw two long-legged dogs, as big as ponies, running after them, tails wagging.

  “Dogs of the king,” Finola said in halting English, patting the animals, then walking onward.

  The plain little church, fieldstone with a timber roof, had an oaken door carved with intertwining vines. She stepped into the cool interior and sighed at the palpable peace, as if the prayers of generations saturated the very air.

  The altar was a large block of stone beneath a white cloth, and a wooden cross decorated with spirals hung on the wall behind it. Kneeling to pray, Margaret bowed her head, and Finola did the same. The dogs settled for a nap beside them, apparently used to being allowed inside.