Queen Hereafter Page 9

  Margaret continued, the afternoon sunlight glinting on the gold-inked letters of the opening phrases. The illustration showed an evangelist with red-gold hair and beard, seated in a grand chair; his blue and green robes draped in folds as he raised one knee, with one foot placed on a stool. Holding a feathered quill in his right hand, he paused in thought, a book propped open on his knee. Overhead a golden arch hung with curtains formed an elegant inner frame for the picture.

  The little Gospel book was her most treasured and favorite volume, a collection of evangelical excerpts presented to her by England’s Queen Edith on the day Margaret had turned twelve. Her own mother did not acknowledge the anniversary of her September birth, beyond admonishing her to pray to her name saint, Margaret of Antioch, and to Queen Helena, whose feast day it was.

  Small and portable, the book was easy to carry with her, tucked into the pocket of a cloak. The Gospel, simple yet beautifully made, had four illustrated pages, one for each evangelist, painted in soft, bright colors and gold ink; the text was carefully lettered in sienna with large initials and some phrases in gold or red. Although it was not nearly as elaborate as other manuscripts she had seen, including her mother’s copy of the Apocalypse texts, Margaret’s elegant little Gospel was dear to her, with its leather cover so worn that it curled at the corners.

  “Et lux in tenebris lucet,” she continued, “et tenebrae eam non comprehenderunt.”

  “And the light shone in the darkness,” Cristina said, “and—” She paused as a knock sounded at the door. Finola, who had been sitting sewing in a corner, got up to open it.

  Edgar entered with Lady Agatha, and Margaret felt a strange, dreadful turning in her stomach to see a twin grimness in their similar features. She set aside the book and stood. “What is it?”

  “Margaret,” her brother said, “I was summoned by King Malcolm to discuss an important matter this morning.” He paused and glanced at his mother, then at Margaret. “He has made an offer for your hand in marriage.”

  She stepped back, heart pounding. “What!” She sounded like a dimwit, though she was not surprised—she had been expecting this for weeks. “Surely you told him I do not want to marry, that I intend to take sacred vows in a convent as soon as the chance comes.”

  “I refused on your behalf,” Edgar said. “It is customary to refuse at first, after all. We do not want to seem overeager.”

  “You will appear more virtuous by refusing at first,” Lady Agatha said, “and therefore you will seem even more desirable a wife.”

  “But my refusal is sincere. I am not playing coy.”

  “This marriage alliance is imperative,” her mother said. Edgar nodded somber agreement.

  “The king and I are not suited by temperament,” Margaret said.

  “That is of no concern,” Lady Agatha said, gesturing in dismissal. “As my eldest daughter and the sister to a rightful king, you must consider your family’s welfare over your own selfish wishes.”

  “But I truly feel called to do the good work of a nun,” Margaret said quietly, hurt by her mother’s harshness.

  “The marriage would help all of us, and England, too,” Edgar said. “Malcolm is a powerful ally. He would grant us even more support—troops, coin, and the continued strength of a cunning warrior-king to help me reclaim my kingdom.”

  “Surely he knows that I possess neither land nor dowry,” Margaret said bluntly.

  “You have a fine dowry, as we saved what we could from William’s greed,” Lady Agatha said. “He forfeited our English lands, but we have treasures of gold and silver, including the blessed black cross brought by Saint Helena to Hungary, which any king would—”

  “Malcolm rarely goes to church,” Margaret said. “He does not care about that cross.”

  “Margaret gets the black rood?” Cristina asked. “What about my dowry?”

  Lady Agatha ignored her. “The Scottish king needs a wife. He is a widower with two sons.”

  “What sons? I have not heard of any,” Margaret said. “Why were they not mentioned?”

  “They are the young sons of Queen Ingebjorg, fostered elsewhere,” Edgar replied. “Malcolm wants more heirs, and Scotland needs a queen. He is satisfied that you are suited to both roles.”

  “He knows little of me,” Margaret said indignantly. The king had young children? She felt a heart-tug thinking of motherless princes whose father did not even mention them to his guests, let alone a prospective bride.

  “He says you and he had a conversation just a few days ago,” Edgar replied.

  “We did not talk of sons,” she snapped, remembering that he had mentioned her unmarried state. “Let him find a more willing bride. I will not be a sacrificial lamb for the Saxon cause.”

  “Margaret,” Edgar began.

  “Nor can we trust a man who is a brute raider,” she went on fiercely.

  “He seems smitten with you, and determined. I hoped for this marriage offer. And I thought you would be pleased to have so enchanted a king,” Edgar said.

  “Enchantment is heresy. Witchcraft,” she pointed out.

  “The marriage has already been agreed upon,” Lady Agatha said.

  “You promised this before coming here to me?” Her limbs began to tremble, and she squared her shoulders and fisted her hands in anger. “You knew that I intend myself for the Church. You knew I did not want to marry—you did not discuss this with me but left me to guess!”

  “A nun’s veil will do naught for the Saxons,” Edgar said. “A queen’s crown will help them.”

  Margaret stepped back, skirts and legs meeting the cushioned bench where she had been peacefully reading only minutes before. She felt frantic, now that the reality of what she had feared had arrived. “Malcolm has proven himself a savage, attacking our own people. Why should we negotiate anything with him?”

  “We need this,” Edgar said wearily.

  Lady Agatha moved closer. “Margaret, if you wish to do good works, do them as wife and queen. Cristina, as younger daughter, will serve as our family’s tithe to God and the Church.”

  “Me!” Cristina said indignantly.

  “Margaret’s marriage will ensure protection for the family. You can devote yourself to prayers for all our sakes,” Lady Agatha answered.

  Cristina dropped her mouth open in protest. “Margaret wants to be the one to pray for our sins!”

  “It is done,” Lady Agatha said firmly. “The marriage will take place soon, by Malcolm’s wish.”

  Margaret lifted her chin. “Then let it be a forced ceremony.” She turned away. “Leave me be.”

  “Margaret,” Edgar said quietly, “remember—without this marriage alliance, we will spend our lives in exile, either here or elsewhere.”

  “Our father lived in exile all his life,” she pointed out. “And he did well in Hungary.”

  “He longed for home always,” Lady Agatha said. “That is why he came to England.”

  And he would still be alive if not for me, Margaret thought, but she could never say that aloud to anyone, ever.

  Yet she understood what Edgar meant—her family would suffer, indeed she would, too, with a life of uncertainty, danger, and exile, if she did not agree.

  “Let the marriage proceed,” she whispered. “Now leave me.” Once they had departed the room, she dropped to her knees and folded her hands, breath whispering over fingertips as she pleaded for an answer. Heaven had never answered her directly during prayer, but she often knew what was right by the next day.

  But now she had agreed. She might long for a life of peaceful prayer and a precious chance to cleanse her soul of its sins and faults. Instead, she would be a queen.

  IN THE HOUR BEFORE dawn, unable to sleep, Margaret rose from bed and dressed hurriedly in a lightweight cloak of mulberry wool over a linen shift, leaving her hair unbraided and uncombed. Pushing feet into kid slippers, she meant to go briefly to the little temporary chapel downstairs to pray in solitude. Sleep eluded her, for she was thinking
again how soon she would become a queen, a wife, a different woman than she was now.

  When she went through the curtained doorway of the small anteroom off the great hall, she was startled to see Edgar there. He was not alone, for two other men were with him: a stranger she did not know—a large man, grizzled and burly—and the king himself, in candlelight and shadows in a corner of the snug little room.

  “Forgive me.” She paused, stepped back, began to turn.

  “Margaret, wait,” Edgar said. “It is fortunate that you are here. You will want to meet the abbot of Abernethy, who arrived last night. Sir, my sister, the Lady Margaret.”

  “Princess.” The stranger came forward. He wore a scarred leather hauberk, sewn with protective iron rings, over a shabby tunic and boots. He looked like a rough warrior more than a cleric, and he glared at her like a field general.

  Margaret hesitated. “You are … an abbot?” she asked. “Of the Celtic church?”

  “In a way, lady. I am Kenneth Macduff, lay abbot of Abernethy, mormaer of Fife. Abbot is a hereditary title in my Fife,” he explained when she looked confused. His English was slightly accented.

  “I see. Greetings, sir.” She glanced at Edgar and avoided Malcolm’s stare; he leaned a shoulder against the wall, arms folded. She drew her cloak closer around her. “I came here to pray and did not expect to see anyone. I will leave you to your meeting.”

  “Stay,” Malcolm said, a barked command. She did not look toward him.

  “Lady,” Macduff said, “we would speak with you about the matter of marriage.”

  “Let the king address me himself if he has something to say.” She lifted her chin.

  Malcolm came forward two or three paces to face her directly. “I do have a question for you, Lady Margaret. I understand you refuse to marry me. Why?” he demanded.

  She felt an urge to back away, but did not. “I cannot condone your actions in England,” she said. “It put my mind off marriage, along with other considerations.”

  “What I do in wartime is not your concern, and neither should it be part of such a decision.”

  “Should I be eager to wed a man whose actions are cruel and sinful?”

  “The match is imperative for your family, for England, for Scotland, too,” Macduff said.

  She whirled. “The decision is made. There is no need to revisit it.” She turned to leave.

  Malcolm reached out, his hand descending on her shoulder, a paw so large she nearly stumbled backwards; yet he was gentle, if firm, in turning her.

  “I prefer that truths be known in all matters,” he said. “You will learn that of me.”

  “Then learn me this,” she said, facing him now, standing straight, feeling herself fill with an ire that strengthened her backbone, made her bold. “Why were you untruthful about your deeds in the south? You went there to help—yet you created havoc, made slaves, took prisoners.”

  “You do understand matters of warfare,” he said.

  “King William marched against the English, not the Scots. What reason did you have to attack Saxons already victimized by Normans? And you with Saxon royalty in your care!”

  “I had the right to exact revenge for attacks on my lands.”

  “Vengeance after wrongdoing has some merit. But raiding a suffering people is heinous. Perhaps you should find yourself another bride. Good day, sir.” She began to turn, but he tugged at her arm.

  “Shall I defend my suit?”

  “It is indefensible, sire.”

  “So a heinous sinner has no right to claim such a prize as yourself?”

  “I do not presume to judge a king,” she said, breathing quickly, cheeks hot.

  “Yet you do.” He stood over her, seemed to dominate the room, even with two other men there. “You wrong me, lady, when I think so well of you.”

  “How have I wronged you?” Indignant, she glared up at him.

  “Tell me this.” He leaned close. “What did you think would become of the Northumbrians once William’s troops were done burning, wrecking, raping, and slaughtering?”

  “Those people needed mercy. They were injured and helpless, deserving of aid—food, shelter, fuel, physicking, and absolution. You brought further attacks.”

  “I admit, I burned their homes,” he said. “I attacked parts of Northumbria, returning my cousin’s blow by burning lands in Cumbria. And I took slaves. I admit that, too.”

  “Thousands of slaves,” Margaret insisted.

  “Should I have left them to starve?” he asked. “Would that have been more merciful?”

  She stared up at him. “What do you mean?”

  “We led people out of there and made slaves and prisoners of them. Why would we do that? Did you consider it?” He looked at Edgar and Macduff. “Some of them were forced to eat their own dead, flayed and salted. We saw human shanks hung to dry like beef.”

  “Dear God,” Margaret gasped, setting a hand to her throat.

  “They seasoned that meat with salt taken from their own fields—the Norman troops put it there to ruin the land so nothing would grow there. Did you not listen to the messengers, lady?” he demanded.

  “We heard about the devastation. We received slaves here by the hundreds, and gave them what relief we could. But you drove them up here!”

  “What else was I to do? We burned their homes to cleanse the villages of disease and to drive out the demons of war and pestilence. If that was a sin, so be it. We brought Saxons north as slaves so that they would have shelter and food”—he nearly shouted, face reddening—“and if that is sinful, too, then send me to hell and damn my men with me. It was far worse to leave those people there!” He was breathing like a bull now, red-faced, leaning.

  “Dear saints. W-we did not know,” Margaret stammered, stunned. “We did not hear that.”

  “We did not put our reasons about, but only a little logic would see it,” Malcolm said. “Death or slavery was the only relief we could give those people. I chose for them. It is my doing.”

  “Sire,” she said, and swallowed, thinking. “I … judged you unfairly. I should have seen it as an act of charity. The fault is my own.” Now that his actions made such sense, she felt remorseful, humbled. “You were merciful, after all. The saints themselves could not have—”

  “I am not one of your blasted saints, woman!” Malcolm roared, looming in the small, candlelit room. Behind her, Edgar and Macduff stood silent. “I avenged my cousin’s raid upon my lands in Cumbria by burning his fortress black. I have committed many acts of violence, and I own freely to that. But I do not abuse or slay the helpless. I only do what is necessary.”

  “I was wrong. I will admit that,” she said. “About the marriage—”

  “Marry me or not, as you will,” Malcolm said. “But give me none of your martyrish sentiment.” He pushed past her and shoved through the curtain, leaving the room.

  “Jesu,” Edgar said under his breath as the king departed. “No man speaks to my sister in such a manner.” He stepped forward, but Margaret grabbed his sleeve.

  “Stop,” she said. “He spoke honestly. Let him be.”

  “I will have words with him later,” Edgar said, his forearm tense under her hand.

  “Malcolm does what he must,” Macduff said sternly, crossing his arms. “On Judgment Day his soul may be forfeit for his wicked deeds, but he acts with good purpose. And he is a canny man who knows the benefits of this marriage.”

  “This marriage alliance,” she amended. “He wants kinship with the royal Saxon line.”

  “He needs the marriage as much as the political alliance,” Macduff said. “You, Lady Margaret, will bring benefit to him and to Scotland as well, with your good breeding, your good sense and manners. He knows that well.”

  Margaret looked down at her hands, where golden candlelight pooled. She had thought Malcolm a ruffian with no more intent than to ruckus where he pleased, with no interest in improving his character. She drew a breath. “Sirs, I am chastised and prove
n wrong. I had condemned the king’s deeds and his motives. I have been haughty and unwise.”

  “This marriage could prove the wisest decision you may ever make,” Macduff said.

  Margaret sighed, realizing that she must find the courage to accept her fate—she had sought an answer, even a rescue, in her prayers. Now marriage seemed the path she must take.

  “Aye, then,” she said, turning away. The curtain shushed as the men left the room.

  She knelt before the simple altar that her mother had ordered erected from a table and a cloth. Lady Agatha had already placed the cherished black rood, the most precious item in Margaret’s dowry, upon it. Bowing her head, hair sweeping down like a golden curtain, she prayed. Yet her thoughts spun and would not quiet.

  Having just met Malcolm will for will, not for the first time, she knew now he would challenge her again to match him for wits and stubbornness. She was years younger than he and little experienced in the ways of warriors and the harsh world they inhabited—yet she must somehow prove herself a strong and capable woman, as fearless in her way as he was in his. That, or she would be regarded as no more than the foreign queen, a pawn, the sacrificial lamb she so dreaded being.

  Life had whirled her earlier dreams about like leaves in a wind. Once she had planned to spend her days in prayer, study, and good works. Instead, she would be a queen—and so she must be an exemplary one. In all things, she could accept no less than the utmost from herself.

  Pride was no stranger to her, for she often fought it. This time, she would grant it freedom.

  SHE DREAMED THAT NIGHT that Malcolm came to visit her—in the dream she had a humble cottage, tidy and plain—but he was a giant, so large that he filled the room when he stepped inside. His head and shoulders bowed against the ceiling; his voice was like distant thunder as he greeted her: Margaret, when you are my queen, we will make so many princes that you will be too busy for prayers!

  She could not get past him to escape through the doorway. Beyond, past the cottage, she saw a sunlit meadow with mountains in the distance. Several small boys and girls played in the field, tumbling and laughing. Suddenly she worried that no one was watching the children and one of them would get hurt in the game, and so she felt an urgent need to protect them.