Queen Hereafter Page 7

  “We will spread the word to be ready should the Normans set foot in any part of Scotland. Rue, there is something more to consider. Drostan mentioned a rumor that Malcolm has ordered a history to be written in which Macbeth’s rule is described in Malcolm’s terms rather than the whole truth of the matter. Drostan does not know which scriptorium has been commissioned to create the book. It was not his own workshop at Loch Leven.”

  “If Malcolm dictates the contents, neither Macbeth nor Lulach would fare well.”

  “Nor any of us. But if Eva could learn the whereabouts of that book by going to court, we could find it, even destroy it so that it could never be read or copied, or taken as truth in future.”

  “If I could but hold that book in my hands, I would correct the entries quick enough myself.” Crumpling the king’s letter, Gruadh tossed it into the fire basket, where it caught flame, burned bright, vanished.

  MARGARET WAS NOT USED to much merriment at Christmastide, which was a string of lighthearted days at Dunfermline. The air was filled with the fragrance of pine swags over doorways for protection from spirits, while music, good food and drink, and cheerful camaraderie swelled in the king’s hall.

  She laughed once, watching the fun at supper, and was pinched for it by her mother. “It is not seemly,” Lady Agatha scolded her. “This is a time of reflection and charity, not a time to act foolish!”

  In Hungary, Yuletide had been marked by fasting, prayer, incense, and the sheen of Byzantine gold; King Edward’s Christmas court had been somber despite his queen’s generosity with small gifts. In Scotland, Lady Agatha admonished Margaret and her siblings to keep apart from any pagan folly. They said extra prayers and fasted, while Margaret watched the celebrations with fascination, smiling to herself, bouncing to the music, then sobering if she caught her mother’s shrewd gaze.

  Winter brought bone-chilling damp, sleet, and snow, and Margaret sat in bright nooks with the women as they all tucked in to sewing and stitchery. Suppers were served early due to the failing light, and after stories—Hector enthralled them with good deliveries of old tales, such as the long poem of the Geats and Beowulf—and after music and table games, the court retired to bed.

  Peat blocks in fire baskets gave off a sweet, comforting scent, mingled with pine and fruit woods, and Margaret indulged in more food in cold weather, the fare enticing and satisfying. But her mother urged both daughters to mark the season of devotion and gratitude with fasting. Yet though Lady Agatha kept her royal Saxon offspring apart and aloof, Margaret felt at home in Dunfermline, where she enjoyed freedoms she had never known, such as wandering the glens with a maid and a guard, or strolling the weekly market in the town. She felt safe there, too, knowing that the Normans were not likely to pursue them northward so long as Malcolm was their protector.

  That winter, she sensed Edgar falling away from the hold of his kinswomen. Surrounded by warriors and leaders in Scotland who regarded him as a rightful but banished king, he rode with Malcolm and hunted, trained at arms, tossed bones and dice, raced horses, and debated war strategies with his Scottish and Saxon comrades. He grew taller, roughening into a man, and the changes Margaret saw tugged at her heart; at times she felt more like his mother than his sister.

  Once, when she glimpsed the bright sheen of his golden hair in the dim great hall, she thought of the crown Edgar would likely never wear. That pulled at her heartstrings, too.

  WHEN SNOWDROPS PUSHED through cold earth, followed by purple crocus, the King of Scots rode out with an army at his back and trouble clearly to hand. As Margaret went to pray at dawn in the makeshift chapel the Saxons had set up in the king’s tower, she looked through a narrow window along the turning stair and saw the men departing the yard. Silver-pink light sparked over their mesh armor as they rode out. Later she heard that they had met thousands more men waiting along the roads and fields from there to Lothian. Malcolm had sent word to all households within a day’s ride for any who owed him knight’s service for rent to take up arms or send men on his behalf. Many northern Scots, Margaret heard it said at the supper table, ignored the king’s summons. Malcolm Canmore had not conquered the whole of his own kingdom, they said, but seemed bent on riding south to attack and conquer outside Scotland.

  “But that cannot be so,” Margaret told Wilfrid. “King Malcolm supports the Saxon cause now. Why would he ride into England with an army, except to help the people there?”

  “We can only hope it is so, lady.” Wilfrid did not sound convinced.

  Within the week, Edgar and his own companions rode out, too, giving little explanation beyond saying they would join the Scottish king in England. Robert De Lauder and Ranald remained at Dunfermline to oversee the king’s guard and his estates. Soon enough, news came that Malcolm and his army were moving through northern England toward York, passing through areas decimated by the Normans under William’s command.

  “With all this Scottish help,” Cristina said bitterly one day, “Edgar feels pressured to make a stand as a rebel king. That will come to naught—meanwhile, we are stuck in Scotland, prisoners more than guests. Who knows what will become of any of us.”

  Margaret did not answer; she did not know either. Spending more time on her knees in prayer, she began to wonder if all the daily prayers she and the other ladies spun heavenward on behalf of the Saxons would have any effect at all. Judging by the news, prayers made little difference.

  She learned, along with the others, that Malcolm had led his men as far as York not to save Saxons, but to pound hard on them himself. His lands in Cumbria had been attacked by his cousin Cospatric, and Malcolm had acted in retaliation, pushing farther south in his wrath.

  Margaret felt sick to her stomach, at times, aware of what Malcolm was doing, what Edgar was witnessing. How could any decent king—any moral man, she thought—raid an almost devastated land to do more harm to people already reduced to nothing, when their own royal family were in his personal protection? She felt profoundly betrayed, so that prayer could not appease her anger.

  One rainy evening a message arrived from Edgar, brought by an exhausted young man. The Saxons and Scottish courtiers gathered in the hall to hear him. “Edgar the Aetheling wishes his lady mother and the princesses to remain in the safety of the Scottish king’s household. The prince will head north soon by order of King Malcolm.”

  Margaret sighed, relieved to hear Edgar was returning, though not pleased to learn that he was following Malcolm’s orders so directly. “Edgar is safe, then. What of King Malcolm? When will this end in the south?”

  “That I cannot answer for you, Lady Margaret—none of us can,” the young man said. “Malcolm still has business in England, due to his cousin’s actions. Cospatric, now earl of Northumbria by William’s favor, wrecked Malcolm’s properties there and retired to his family seat at Bamborough, which he retains through a bargain with King William.”

  “We heard of Cospatric’s betrayal. Where is Malcolm now?” De Lauder asked.

  “The king is back in Northumbria. He has been burning churches, killing women and children and—”

  “Dear God,” Margaret blurted, while her sister and others gasped. Lady Agatha slumped into her seat and crossed herself.

  “—and pregnant women and—”

  “Christ’s mercy!” cried Lady Agatha.

  The messenger nodded. “The Scottish king stole treasures away from Durham, and now he is leading innumerable English people northward into servitude in Scotland.”

  “Slaves! Why must we stay here?” Lady Agatha asked in German. “This man is a monster!”

  “The whole of northern England is torn by war, and thick with the smoke of burning homes and crops. The roads are haunted by thieves and desperate men, and lined with corpses, between the devastations of the Normans and those of the Scots.”

  “Stop,” Lady Agatha said. “We can hear no more of this!”

  “We cannot stay here. Edgar is mad to think so,” Cristina said. “We must find some way to l
eave if he will not arrange it for us.”

  “Pardon, my lady,” De Lauder said, “but you would be hunted wherever you go by Norman troops under William’s orders.”

  “It is true,” the messenger said. “Thus, Edgar the Aetheling desires his kinswomen to stay safely in the north.” He paused. “He asks that you remember the gratitude and loyalty your party owes to the King of Scots.”

  Margaret shook her head and nearly protested aloud, then turned away. She could not feel grateful to a man so deceitful and cruel as Malcolm.

  THE AIR SMELLED GREEN and earthy in early spring, as crocuses made way for buttery primroses and violets peeked through the grass in shady spots as Margaret, Finola, and Cristina walked back from the hillside chapel. Ahead, Dunfermline’s open gates were crowded with men on horseback and what looked like hundreds of people on foot—so many that some of them lingered outside the palisade gates. As she walked up the hill toward the fortress, she saw one of the riders remove his helmet, his hair shining gold in the cool sunlight.

  She turned toward Cristina. “Edgar has returned!”

  “But who are the others?” her sister asked. Margaret did not answer, picking up her skirt hems to run up the slope.

  Making her way through the crowd, Margaret wondered, too, who the people were—they were not foot soldiers, but older men and women and children, all of them looking gaunt, pale, and weary, a ragged, dirty, and woeful lot. But as some of them gazed up at the king’s tower, she saw relief on their faces, even hope. That sight near broke her heart.

  Then the English language murmured among them told her who they were. “Saxons,” she said to Cristina.

  “Slaves?” her sister asked as Margaret took her arm, tugging her close as they walked toward the men who were dismounting. Edgar stepped down from his horse, spoke to a groom, and turned to see his sisters. Crying out, Margaret ran forward to hug him, feeling the hard press of steel mesh armor as he embraced her, and then turned to Cristina.

  “Mother will be waiting inside for you by now,” Cristina said. “Come!”

  But Margaret held back, taking Edgar’s arm. “These are Saxons with you,” she said quietly, looking toward the people in the bailey.

  “Aye,” he replied. “We brought them out of England—they are some of the captives and slaves Malcolm took.”

  “So many! What will become of them now?”

  “Some will be placed in royal households here and elsewhere, the rest taken to homes throughout the countryside to serve there. This group was much larger when we first set out,” he said. “Malcolm’s men left one or two at every house we passed, I think. Every little house in Scotland will have its Saxon slave now. It is best,” he added.

  “Best? They should be in England, in their own homes,” Margaret said.

  “If it were possible, but it is not.”

  Seeing Brother Micheil and Father Otto in the bailey blessing those who filled the yard, Margaret stood watching. The Saxon slaves filled the space like a market day crowd, yet they were silent, woebegone, no doubt wondering what would become of them.

  She looked up at Edgar. “I wish I could greet each one of them and wipe the dust of the road from their faces. I wish I could give them drinks, supper, a bed for the night—yet I am not the chatelaine in the king’s household. But Dame Agnes is here now. She will help.” She indicated the woman moving through the throng, followed by servants carrying full leather bladders of what was probably watered ale. “These poor folk have lost their families and friends, have seen their homes and lands destroyed, have witnessed the ravaging of Northumbria—and now they are slaves.”

  “At least they are alive.” Edgar pressed her shoulder. “Dame Agnes and her servants, the priests, too, have the matter well in hand. Let us go greet our mother.”

  She walked with him past servants running by with flasks, buckets of water, and plates of oatcakes as Agnes called out for straw pallets and extra blankets to be laid out in the tower, byres, and bailey. The people would share makeshift beds in groups, but each would have a clean place to rest for the night, and something to eat. Margaret lingered, still wanting to help, but Edgar tugged on her arm to bring her away.

  Inside the great hall, ale and soup were served to the returning knights. When Cristina and Lady Agatha began to closely question Edgar, Margaret hushed them. But Edgar looked up.

  “The king is still in Dun Edin,” he answered. “His orders are that the Saxon slaves be portioned out to as many households as possible before he returns here.”

  “But these are our people, Edgar,” Margaret said. “Your people.”

  He shook his head wearily. “There was no choice. Malcolm ordered this done.”

  The next day, Edgar brought several young female Saxons to meet his mother and sisters, suggesting that they accept the girls as maidservants. Margaret and the others welcomed them warmly, and Dame Agnes found beds for them in the main tower, assigning a few of them to the royal ladies, the others to work in the household and kitchens.

  Margaret fiercely wished that she could set the girls, and the other fugitive Saxons, free to return to England. But she knew that a life of slavery in Scotland was a better fate, even for the girls who seemed well educated, with gentle upbringings. Two of those joined Lady Agatha’s circle as maidservants—Wynne, Margaret learned, was the daughter of a deposed, deceased earl, while Matilda was the widow of a landowning knight. Both quietly accepted their new status, understanding the needs of ladies and the skills of embroidery as well as household tasks.

  Walking with Edgar through the upper bailey a few days later, Margaret listened while he described the conditions he had seen in England. She sensed a deeper sobriety in his voice and manner, a new determination in the set of his features.

  “The ruination is unimaginable, Margaret,” he said. “Homes destroyed—farms burned to the ground. Fields sowed with salt by the Normans at William’s order, to make sure nothing can grow there. Corpses—are you strong enough to hear it? Aye, then—corpses stiff by the side of the road as we went past, from injury, disease, or starvation, with no one left to mourn or bury them but strangers. And the stench—” He paused. “It is hellish in northern England now.”

  “Surely some have survived the brutality and remain there. And what of Malcolm? We thought he went south to help, but now it seems he has only added to the dilemma.”

  “He wrought his share of the destruction, true. And … he took Saxon prisoners as well as slaves.”

  “Prisoners?” Margaret asked, stunned.

  “Saxon knights and Normans, too. He shut away a good number in his fortress at Dun Edin, waiting for the price of their ransom fees,” he explained. “It is the nature of war.”

  “He promised that he would help the Saxon cause,” she said, feeling distressed. “Oh, I am so weary of this talk of war and things we cannot change. Tell me instead about Dun Edin—I hear it is a grand town and fortress, the equal of some in Europe. A trading town even nicer than Dunfermline, some say. Though I will admit it is very pleasant here.” She tried to smile. Edgar’s slumped shoulders and haunted eyes upset her, and she wanted to see him brighten again.

  “Dun Edin is an excellent place, a fine citadel on a massive rock high above a town and a busy seaport that seem thriving. Malcolm is rebuilding the fortress in stone, and soon it will rival any Norman castellum, I think. Already he is calling it Edinburgh, after a Saxon model. He does admire many things about England, Margaret.”

  “It does not seem so,” she said, and nearly bit her lip. She had meant to be more cheerful.

  “Still, it is a very fine place. You would like it there.” He glanced sidelong at her.

  “How could I like it, with Saxon prisoners shut within its walls?”

  “SURELY MY FATHER had good reason to act the way he did,” Lady Juliana said in defense of her father, Cospatric, who had eight offspring; brown-haired, seventeen-year-old Juliana was the daughter of his mistress. Cristina had brought up the subject o
f the war once again as the ladies sat sewing. Margaret knew that her sister enjoyed airing her grudge toward any circumstance that kept her and her family in Scotland.

  “But he attacked Malcolm despite the hospitality shown him, and us,” Cristina persisted.

  Drawing thread through cloth, Margaret looked up. “We must remember that Cospatric may be only protecting his lands and kinfolk in Northumbria. No doubt he had to come into William’s favor or lose all, including his head. We know what William can be like—he took our own brother hostage and shut us away.” She glanced at her sister, who scowled.

  “Thank you, Lady Margaret.” Juliana, the youngest of the ladies at court, had come to Dunfermline as a hostage to ensure Cospatric’s loyalty to Malcolm—but now the dispute between her father and Malcolm meant that she might never leave Scotland.

  The afternoon sun poured gold through the window of Lady Agatha’s bedchamber as the stitching continued, and when a rapid knocking sounded at the door, Finola opened it to admit Lady Gudrun, the young wife of Ranald mac Niall, one of the Scottish thanes.

  “The king has returned!” Gudrun was breathless. “There is much excitement below stairs over it. Did you not hear the riders arrive?”

  “We did, but thought it a hunting party.” Margaret looked up from threading a row of stitches on an altar cloth. “What word comes with the king? Is there peace at last? Did he bring yet more slaves north?”

  “Is there news of my father?” Juliana added.

  “No slaves, and no news beyond what we already know,” Lady Gudrun replied. The Norse-born woman was a sunny vision, hair blond, eyes blue, deep dimples in her cheeks. “But now that Malcolm is back, Scotland’s role in this will cease for a while. Tonight there will be a feast in honor of his return.” She smiled tentatively.

  “Did he bring with him the Saxon knights he has captured?” Margaret asked.

  “This is a victor’s return, to be celebrated,” Gudrun replied. “The king brought slaves and prisoners out of England, true, but it is all part of war. He will earn good income for Scotland’s treasury by ransoming those men.”