Queen Hereafter Read online

  “He will wait years to be paid,” Margaret said. “The Saxons have nothing left.”

  “Hush,” Lady Agatha whispered, leaning toward her. “We are guests here, dependent on Malcolm’s goodwill. And you, of all of us, must take care.”

  “Why?” Margaret asked, with dread in her stomach. She waited for her mother to mention marriage negotiations, confirming the fear Margaret had entertained ever since leaving the convent last November. Lady Agatha did not answer, merely turned away to examine Lady Juliana’s stitchery, correcting the girl’s technique.

  Silent, upset, Margaret knotted the last threads while the women chatted about the king. As she used her little silver scissors, she realized that news of the king’s deeds left her with such resentment that even daily prayer could not ease it. She held up the stitchery piece to examine it, hearing murmurs of admiration around her.

  “Excellent.” Her mother peered closely. “But those few stitches are crooked.”

  Without answer or expression, Margaret began to tear out the flawed threads.

  Chapter Five

  In the year 1070, King Malcolm wasted England.

  —Chronicle of Melrose, ELEVENTH CENTURY

  Damn the woman,” Malcolm muttered at supper a few nights later. “Enough of her games!”

  Overhearing that, and the grumbling agreement from the men who sat near the king, Margaret wondered if the king was upset with her or her kinswomen, who had been obvious in their disapproval of Malcolm’s manners and rudeness. She had not followed the conversation, for she had been listening to Hector, whose harp tune was too fast and loud for a quiet supper. Fearing that she would be ill if she ate to such noise, she had abandoned her plate.

  Now she turned to Ranald, sitting nearest her. “Whom does the king mean?”

  He waved fingers greasy from roast fowl. “Lady Gruadh, who was Macbeth’s queen. She has a talent for setting the king’s teeth on edge.”

  As she had earlier, Margaret felt a stir of curiosity about the woman. “Do you know her?”

  “I have met her. A beauty still,” he murmured, “and a woman to admire.”

  Margaret watched Malcolm lift a horn filled with wine, the liquid sloshing down his arm as he drank. The curved vessels, often beautifully decorated in precious metals, were propped on small stands when full, but many warriors found sport in emptying their drinking horns quickly in long gulps. While that was considered manly, Margaret thought, any sensible woman would have used a practical cup.

  “That damned Moray woman,” Malcolm groused again. “Now she is gathering troops, they tell me! Have you heard aught of this, Ranald?”

  The Highlander shrugged. “All I know is what we have heard most lately, sire. The lady has sent word around to alert any Moray men who owe her a fee of knight service. It could be a reminder of service due in place of rent.”

  “Or else she means to trot out another army,” Malcolm said.

  Margaret turned to Brother Micheil, also nearby. “Another army?”

  “She marched against the king years ago. He bristles over it still,” the priest murmured.

  “She herself led the army?” Margaret was amazed. Micheil nodded.

  “Fancies herself a warlord, but she is just a pest.” Malcolm sliced into a chunk of meat on his platter. “She wears sword and shield when she likes, and keeps housecarls around her who have been loyal to her near all their lives.” He chewed for a moment. “I sent a request that she send her granddaughter here to play harp for us.”

  “What became of that, sire?” De Lauder asked. “I do not recall any reply from them.”

  “She refused. Sent word that she expected to be trapped by snow all winter.” He frowned, contemplating the meat on the end of his knife. “I wonder what she plans up there. Likely she means to push her grandson’s claim to Moray and all Scotland.”

  Ranald nodded. “It would make sense.”

  “That boy has a ferocious grandmama.” The king belched. “We should not have let her play so freely up there with her knights and her trading ships, thinking she would keep busy.”

  “Not busy enough, sire.” De Lauder sat forward. “If we could persuade the lady to disband her armies, that is all we need do to avoid trouble with Moray.”

  “I am not afraid of that accursed female!” Malcolm nearly shouted. The harper played more loudly, suddenly, and Margaret realized that Hector’s increasingly vigorous music served to provide privacy for the discussion at the king’s table.

  “Gruadh practices witchery, they say,” De Lauder pointed out. “She would be arrested and burned if this were England or France, sire.”

  “Witch?” Margaret gasped as her family members looked at each other with concern.

  “Interesting,” Malcolm replied. “Scotland does not follow the same laws that King Alfred laid down, but we could apply something similar if we had reason.”

  “Just a rumor,” Ranald said quickly. “The lady knows a little hearth magic, but no more than that. Herbs, smoke, and chants are harmless.”

  De Lauder rapped his fingers on the tabletop. “Sire, what if you took the Moray lad, this young Nechtan, for fostering in your household? Train him as your ally. Then send him back to Moray to rule in your name. You would have a loyal leader in the north.”

  “A fosterling can return home,” Malcolm said, frowning, “but a hostage must remain under threat until released. Moray’s regent-witch would have to obey if we held the boy hostage against her willfulness.”

  “But Nechtan should not be separated from his family,” Margaret said, thinking of Edgar, taken as a young adolescent to Normandy as William’s hostage.

  Malcolm looked at her then. “My lady, surely you have embroidery to do, or prayers to say.”

  “Prayers?” At his rude dismissal, her temper flared and her usual cool hold over her behavior slipped. “Shall I pray for this council, flummoxed by a clever woman in the north?”

  De Lauder laughed, and a few men smiled. Malcolm slapped his palms flat on the table. “Lady, pray for the woman in the north if you will, but leave us for now,” he snarled.

  “My lord.” Margaret forced a smile. Taught to behave with constant courtesy, she would not be made the fool—that was enough to tip her temper. “I would stay.”

  “Then we had best talk of nicer matters,” he snapped.

  “Excellent,” she replied tersely. “You said that you invited the lady harper to court to entertain.” Anything but Hector’s twanging, she thought, as the harper continued a fast rhythm, perhaps to cover any raised voices. “Perhaps a new invitation, nicely composed, will flatter the Lady of the North, who may wish for advancement for her granddaughter at the king’s court.” Nearby, one or two of the men laughed, though she did not think it so far-fetched an idea.

  “Hardly! But the girl would make a good hostage,” Malcolm said, nodding.

  “Hostage?” Margaret felt stunned. “I did not mean to suggest that.”

  “All Moray would know that their princess is captive in the royal household, and we would have some control. Good!” He smacked the table, looking pleased.

  “Sire … it is neither right nor courteous to make a prisoner of a young girl!” Margaret said.

  “Girl? She is old enough to be married.” Malcolm looked keenly at her, eyes bright with wine and a sort of glee. “Now Lady Gruadh will have no choice! The girl-bard will be hostage for her grandmama’s pretty behavior. And you, Lady Margaret, are canny as a general!”

  “BUT I LIKE the little Scottish chapel,” Margaret protested one morning by the gate as Father Otto stopped her from leaving the compound. “It is a pleasure to walk through the glen to visit Brother Micheil.” Beside her, Finola nodded.

  The Benedictine scowled. Margaret knew he did not consider a Culdee to be a worthy priest for the royal Saxons. “I conduct morning and evening masses in our chapel room in the tower, in proper Latin form,” he reminded her. “The priests of the Scottish Church had better start doing so them
selves to bring their flocks under Rome’s protection. Otherwise what relief from sin do they offer their parishioners? There will be no redemption on the Day of Atonement for the Scots.”

  “I understand that, Father. I simply wish to bring Brother Micheil an altar cloth that I have embroidered.” She lifted the cloth bundle in her arms.

  “Very well. If he offers to confess you and assign penance, decline. I will absolve you later.”

  As Margaret went with Finola through the little glen, called Pittencrieff by the locals, she saw two horses, a black and a bay, munching grass near the little church. She felt a bit disappointed, for she had looked forward to private, tranquil time to pray while there.

  The door of the church opened and she saw De Lauder exit, followed by Malcolm Canmore, who towered over Brother Micheil as they all paused on the front step. The king handed Micheil a pouch, which the brother weighted in his hand as if it held coins. Just then De Lauder saw Margaret and spoke quickly to Malcolm, who turned.

  “Good day, Lady Margaret,” the Norman called in French. “How nice to meet on such a fine day.” Malcolm said nothing to her but continued to speak with the Celtic priest.

  “Sir Robert. My lord king,” Margaret added in English, bowing her head slightly. “Brother Micheil. We brought a gift for the chapel, if you will allow.” She held out the folded cloth.

  “This is very fine,” Brother Micheil said, accepting it to examine part of the embroidery.

  “It is indeed. We will leave you, then. Good day, ma princesse,” Robert De Lauder said. The king only stared at her oddly, then stepped away with the leader of his guard. As Brother Micheil held the door open, Margaret waved Finola through with him and remained on the step, obeying a sudden impulse.

  “Sire,” she called. Malcolm turned. “May I speak with you?”

  He gestured for De Lauder to wait with the horses. “Aye. What is it?”

  “Sire, my family and I are grateful for your hospitality,” she began.

  “You are welcome. Good day.” He began to walk away.

  “Sire, may I have permission to speak my mind?” she asked hastily.

  He turned back, folded his arms. “You will do so regardless, I suspect. Say what you will.”

  “My brother Edgar is young and has a great burden on his shoulders. But he is sometimes easily influenced by those who could gain from the success of a rebellion in England.”

  He cocked a brow. “No doubt you think me among them. Go on.”

  “Edgar sets great store by your example, sire. We are indebted to you, but the recent attacks in Northumbria …” She paused. “I sometimes wonder at the nature of your loyalty toward my brother’s cause.”

  “Is it the habit of Saxon ladies to concern themselves with such matters?”

  “What affects her kinsmen is any woman’s concern. If you support my brother’s rights as king, then consider supporting his people as well. And please advise my brother wisely—”

  “Shall I advise him that his sister coddles him overmuch and he should grow ballocks?”

  She drew a sharp breath at his crude reply. “I have watched over Edgar since we were children, after my father’s death, when our mother entrusted me with the welfare of my siblings. I do not have the right to speak on his behalf, but it is a habit of my heart.”

  “You should have children of your own if you feel such a tender calling. I, too, lost my father at an early age, but my brother and I were sent to different kin to be raised separately. Your interest is commendable, in that case. I understand that you are neither wed nor betrothed, Lady Margaret,” he added bluntly.

  She nearly bristled. Such inquiries should go to her brother. “I feel called to do God’s work rather than be married, sire.”

  “A nun?” He narrowed his eyes. “A waste of a good mind and a good bloodline.”

  He was distracting her from what she wanted to talk about. “Sire, allow me to speak my mind. You now host the Saxon royalty in your household, yet you have attacked the Saxons of Northumbria.”

  One brow lifted. “Hearsay only.”

  “Messengers reported it so. And Edgar brought slaves up from England, driven north by you. How will you be regarded after such deeds by your peers in royalty and authority, the leaders of the Low Countries, of France, the Holy Roman Empire, and others—such as those whose trade routes fill Scotland’s larders. The pope himself will hear of your deeds,” she added.

  “What does it matter to you?” he asked.

  “Surely you want the respect due Scotland’s king, and do not want to be seen as a mere brute.”

  He nodded slowly. “You think about more than broidery and prayer, it seems.”

  She thought he mocked her. “I have been given an education equal to any prince’s due to my rank. I was tutored in Greek and Hebrew, in the works of the holy fathers, in the stories of the Greek wars. You generously offered to loan me some of your books, sir,” she added. “I would like that. My mind is keen, and I wonder about many things, such as matters of kingship.”

  “Read whatever you like of my books. I have studied the treatises on laws and some others, but there are some on theology that you might find interesting. Robert the Norman has the cupboard key. As for the leaders of the world—my deeds are no worse than King William’s, and possibly better. Is there more you wish to say, Lady Margaret?” He seemed impatient to go.

  “I only wish to say that if you can help the Saxon cause, and support Edgar, then please do so sincerely. I believe you are an honorable man.”

  “Do you?” He inclined his head. “My thanks. Whatever I do, I discuss with my war council. Though I believe you could outreason some of that lot,” he added.

  She lifted her chin. “One other thing, sire. Whether or not you uphold Edgar’s cause, it may be best for my kinswomen and I to return home. These are my own thoughts. I do not speak for Edgar.”

  “You have no home,” he pointed out. “England is not safe and your lands are forfeit there, and Hungary is very far away. I hear the warriors there are almost as savage as the Scots,” he said wryly.

  “The Magyars are tough as any. Sire, I am not concerned for myself, but for my kin. My mother wishes to return to Hungary where her uncle, good King Stephen, God rest his soul, is likely to be declared a saint. My lady mother could help further his beatification if she could return there. It is a very good cause,” she defended as he glowered, brows drawn.

  “A saint’s cause can be furthered anywhere, given ink and parchment, the price of a messenger, and rank important enough for Rome to notice. As for saints, we have those in Scotland, too. We are Christian, though it may surprise you, with your Roman rules.”

  “The Scottish Church is worthy, though very different from that of Rome, I have noticed.”

  “All prayers go heavenward.” He pointed his finger straight up. “What difference the feathers that lift the wings?”

  “Prayers in accordance with the true Church will get there faster,” she countered.

  “Gaelic rolls smooth off the tongue like the kiss of the wind,” he said. “Perhaps God enjoys hearing that instead of martial Latin all the while.”

  Intrigued, not expecting a poetic thought from him, she tilted her head. “Loquerisne Latine?” Did he speak Latin? She was curious to know.

  “Non modo Latine, sed Anglice, Gallice et alias,” he answered. Not only Latin, but English, French, Gaelic and others. “Norse, too,” he said. “Are you surprised?”

  “You were raised as a prince, so a command of languages is expected,” she said coolly.

  He huffed. “Even from the savage King of Scots?”

  She did not falter. “Scotland is a worthy place. I rather like it.”

  “Yet many Saxons think us all ignorant rascals. My lady, you are safe here, whether or not you believe it. But heed some advice, if you will.”

  “Sire.” She waited, hands folded. Heart pounding, too, for he was formidable to face when he was angered, as he seemed to be n
ow.

  “Let your brother decide for himself what to do. He will be a better man for it.”

  “I am only concerned for the welfare of all my family,” she said, flustered.

  “He wants your happiness, yet he must defend his rights in England. He is young and earnest, without father or mentor but for a few exiled Saxon lords who have their own grudges. I would keep one or two of those and toss the rest,” he muttered. “A goal of rebellion must be shared by all, or it will not succeed.”

  She had not expected sympathy, and it reassured her. “So you are sincere in your desire to help my brother?”

  “God knows the lad needs help. It is a wonder he does not embroider, as flummoxed as he is by womenfolk.”

  Her cheeks burned to be so chastised. “So you truly think this rebellion has merit?”

  “The Saxons could gain back some of their losses, but your Edgar is no match for King William. That one is for me to take on. Good day, lady.” Heel grinding gravel, he walked away.

  Margaret fisted her hands, watching his back. Right or not, the Scottish king had been rude again, with a brusqueness that seemed part of his nature. But she had been impulsive and outspoken herself. What if the king decided that he need not support the ungrateful Saxons after all? He could throw them out of Scotland entirely. If her family was banished again with nowhere to go, and if the Saxon campaign failed due to loss of Scottish support, the fault would be her own.

  Picking up her skirts, admonishing herself for speaking her mind, she entered the cool, dim church. An hour of prayer and meditation would soothe her agitation, but would not erase the blunder she had made.

  “INCIPIT EVANGELIUM SECUNDUM IOHANNES,” Margaret read from a page in her Gospel book that began the words of St. John. “In principio erat Verbum et Verbum erta apud Deum …”

  “In the beginning was the Word,” Cristina repeated, drawing threads through linen as she listened. “Go on. Hoc erat in principio …”