“Mirren will be glad of the help. And the girl speaks refined English. She will be a help to your sons, since so much Gaelic is spoken around them.”
“I had not thought of that. Good!” Margaret seemed relieved. “Oh, there is Malcolm.”
The king, Eva noticed, now stood high along the slope, fists at his waist, brow furrowed as he surveyed the activity at the gate. Then he and a few of his guards walked downhill, where he met Margaret, greeting her softly, taking her hand to escort her with him. He paused, placing a hand on her arm, leaning down to listen to her.
Now as they stood together, Malcolm nodding solemnly, as if taking a lesson from an advisor. His queen’s act of almsgiving would be perceived as his charity, too. He only benefitted from her deeds, both on earth and in heaven, and so he would have to approve.
MOST NIGHTS, MARGARET ROSE with the distant bells of Dun Edin to pray before dawn, but now she too often dozed over her needlework in daylight while Eva played harp melodies. One of her ladies would take the work gently from her hands and let her sleep. Some of her fatigue was due to the new little one stirring in her womb, and with this third child, her state became obvious more quickly. She laced her gowns more loosely and let out, once more, the deep side seams.
Other days, Eva would play lively tunes when the nurses, including sweet-tempered Gertruda, would bring the children to the queen’s chamber, where the ladies would read to them and show them the paintings in the queen’s books. Flaxen-haired Edward patiently listened, while redheaded Edmund was a rascal more likely to tear a page than sit quietly in a lap. Lady Agatha said such a child must be whipped as he grew older if he would not behave. Margaret would never give such an order, but instead encouraged Gertruda to play with Edmund, who did well with calm and affectionate attention.
Within a fortnight of the royal household’s arrival in Dun Edin, Malcolm and Edgar gathered a host of men from Lothian and elsewhere to ride south, armor glinting and weapons spiking the sky. So far they always returned safely from such forays, and Margaret had learned to accept the comings and goings of the warriors in her household. But often she would stop to gaze from a window as she passed, searching in the distance for riders returning.
Only messengers came and went, bringing reports she did not want to hear—skirmishes along the border, Normans beating Saxons, burnings and tyranny continuing. The messengers brought little word of Edgar or Malcolm, and no direct word to ease her mind.
Chapter Seventeen
My little queen is a thief … a pious little robber.
—BISHOP TURGOT, Life of Saint Margaret, TWELFTH CENTURY, QUOTING MALCOLM CANMORE
Knights arrived at the gates one September evening, setting up such a ruckus to be admitted that Margaret awoke from early sleep, hearing the shouts. She bounded from bed and went to the window, panicking when the torchlight showed men running across the bailey, ordering the gates opened, calling for arms, for assistance. Malcolm had left De Lauder in charge of the royal residence, with Edgar and the rest south in England.
Wriggling into a loose-cut tunic over a shift, then grabbing a cloak, for the air was chilly, she shoved her feet into slippers, left her hair loose and uncovered, and hurried down the steps. In the bailey men dismounted from horses and grooms led weary animals to the stables to be rubbed and watered.
Ranald and other housecarls gathered about the men who had newly arrived, and in the light of torches through the darkness, she saw Edgar on horseback, his hair gleaming golden as he shoved back his chain mail hood. He slid from his horse and spoke to the king’s men, then walked with them toward other men dismounting, a group having arrived at once. Her heart beat fast with the relief of seeing her brother well, on his feet and safe. She turned to Finola nearby.
“Quickly,” she told her, “send a servant to wake Cook, and find Parlan and Ella. Tell them that I would like food and drink to be served in the hall for these men, no matter the hour.”
Wilfrid saw Margaret and came toward her. “My lady, Prince Edgar is here and well, and brings news … dire news from England.”
She clutched the cloak at her throat. “Malcolm?” she asked low.
Wilfrid shook his head. “The king is safe, last we heard.”
“Margaret!” Her brother approached, stooping to kiss her cheek, for he had yet grown taller, even more so than their father had been. “Malcolm is unharmed.” He blew out a breath. “But there is other news.”
“Tell me.” She could see that he was weary to the bone, and recovering from an arm injury, his forearm and wrist wrapped thickly. Some of the other men had bandaged injuries, too. She did not recognize all of his followers, particularly in the darkness and torchlight, but she saw a black-robed monk and caught her breath. “Brother Tor!”
“Aye, we went to Melrose and saw him, and he decided to ride back with me; he has matters to discuss with Malcolm. But the king is not yet here,” he said. “He will be soon, though.”
“Thank God. Tell me what has happened,” she repeated, while she saw Tor speaking with Ranald and Wilfrid, then turning to greet Brother Godwin as the younger monk hastened across the courtyard to see if his help was needed. Margaret turned back to Edgar.
“We moved south a considerable distance into England this time,” he said. “And so we were nearby when a rebellion erupted on the Isle of Ely, led by Wilfrid and Tor’s kinsman, Hereward of Lincoln, the rebel who has driven William near mad with frustration. A host of Saxons held out there against a Norman siege for days in a swampy area of the fenlands.”
“Were you with them?” she asked, pressing a hand to her chest. “Were you injured there?”
“This? A sword cut to the forearm, and healing,” he said. “We were not in the fens exactly, but nearby, engaging a few Norman knights to distract them from attacking the rebels in the swamps. Edwin and Morcar were with the rebels, though. They have stayed in Northumbria and gained back some of their lands from William, though they fought against his men without his knowledge. So they joined Hereward when he and his men pushed north, secretively, through the forests. They set up a siege in the swamps near Ely.”
“Was it successful?”
He sucked in a breath. “King William heard of the resistance and brought fresh troops north. They went into the fens to drive the rebels out—burned them out, to be sure.”
“In a swamp? How could they manage? Surely the rebels stayed safe from flames there.”
“There are tall rushes and foul liquids in the fens that burn like wick and oil,” he said. “Nonetheless, William’s efforts did not work. So”—he paused, half laughed, shoved a grimy hand through his hair—“he hired a local witch and paid her to curse and defeat the Saxon rebels with her black arts.”
“Witch! Dear saints!” Margaret covered her mouth. The thought that there could be people of such evil skill and intention truly alarmed her.
“Aye. He paid the old hag good silver and had her brought to the swamp. His engineers constructed wooden ramps that they laid flat to bridge areas of the fens, and they even built a wooden scaffold tower high enough that they could see for a distance. The old woman climbed the thing and shrieked vile curses at the Saxons. We could hear her screaming,” he said.
“What then?” Margaret asked, as others gathered near her—Eva, she saw then, clutching her plaid close about her shoulders, her hair wild and loose, and Juliana, gentle and wide-eyed.
“She showed her bare arse—pardon me, my ladies—and spewed her curses. The Saxons paid her no mind, laughed at her, and plotted their next attack from their stronghold in the fens.”
“What was the outcome?” Eva asked, standing beside Margaret, shoulder to shoulder now.
Edgar looked down at her. “Eva,” he said. “Lady Eva, it is good to see you.” He sounded tired, relieved, staring at her for a long moment as if dazed.
“You are hurt,” Eva said softly, and Edgar shrugged as if to say it was nothing at all.
“The outcome,” Margaret reminded h
im.
Edgar sighed heavily. “We did our best to distract William’s troops as they came and went in that swamp, but it was like nipping at a great furious beast. They shook us off and prevented us from getting help to the Saxons within the fens. Then the Normans loosed a thousand fire arrows and the swamps seemed to explode … I saw the witch fall from her post and flee along with others, Norman and Saxon. But her curses must have taken hold. Hereward’s lot were defeated.”
“Were there many lost?” Margaret asked. “Thank God you are safe. What of your cousin?” This she said to Wilfrid and Tor, who now came near again. “Brother Tor, I am remiss. Welcome. It is good to see you here.” She gazed up and smiled.
“Lady, my thanks,” Tor said. “Our cousin escaped, we heard later. Edgar and his men were able to get away as the Normans turned out of the fens. They made their way into the border hills and from there to Scotland. They came to our small monastery at Melrose to have their wounds tended, and because they knew they had friends there.”
“Some of the others did not fare as well. Morcar,” Edgar said, “was captured. William took him down to London in chains. We may never hear of him again, unless a ransom or trade can be arranged with Malcolm. I do not have the means to rescue my own,” he added bitterly.
“We will talk to Malcolm,” Margaret said crisply. “Our friend will not be abandoned.”
Edgar paused. “As for Edwin … he was one of those killed.”
“Dear God,” Margaret breathed. Morcar’s brother, Edwin of Mercia, who always smiled, who made an effort to consider the fairness in every matter, gone. “Killed at Ely?”
“He got away, but we heard he was attacked by his own men soon after. William had bought off their loyalty. The king is ruthless. How can we sustain a rebellion when the enemy uses gold as a weapon?”
“Aye. Dear Edwin, I will pray for his soul, and Morcar’s safety,” Margaret said. “But who is left to run with you, Edgar, in the resistance?”
“Cospatric has changed sides again,” Edgar said. “Lady Juliana, your father is at Melrose—we brought him there after he was wounded helping us in a skirmish. I believe he regrets the terms of the bargain he made with William to save his lands, and he has thrown in his lot with the Saxons and Scots again.”
“Thank the saints for that. But what of my father’s injuries—is he well?” Juliana asked.
“He will recover,” Brother Tor said quietly. “He took an arrow to the chest, but Edgar and his men acted quickly in bringing him to Melrose, where we have a small hospital. Medicine and prayer are helping him. If I may speak with you and your stepmother, I bear private messages from your father.” Juliana nodded gratefully and hurried to fetch Lady Edith.
Margaret watched Edgar carefully. She could see that he was tired, and that he seemed to hide something more from her—perhaps just the depth of his despair over this cause, she thought. “What of Malcolm? Tell me what you know.”
“He was in Northumbria and Cumbria last we heard, but I do not know where he is now.”
“I see.” Knowing the danger her husband faced, all she could do was pray for him. Thanking Edgar, she linked her arm gently in his, and with Eva at his other side, walked with him to the great hall, where soup steamed in bowls and servants waited ready. Aware that her brother and the others needed no more questions but should eat and rest, Margaret slipped out of the room. She did not approach Brother Tor, though she dearly wanted his thoughts. But that could wait, as Juliana then brought Lady Edith into the hall and Tor showed them a folded parchment, likely a letter from Cospatric. The three sat down together.
Margaret noticed that her brother chose to sit with Eva a little apart from the others. While he ate soup, they murmured together, heads close. Margaret paused by the door, unexpectedly touched by the sight of her brother, her friend, and the degree of kindness that now seemed evident between them. How had she not seen this before? And then she wondered if either of them realized it, and what good could come of it—little, truly, for anyone.
She had much on her mind and in her heart, and ought to take it to her prayers, she thought, and so she hastened across the yard toward the peace and privacy of the little timber chapel.
DAYS LATER, MALCOLM RETURNED, grim and drawn, with little to say about the events in England. He met with Edgar, with his council of lords and thanes and priests, and he stayed awake at night, pacing. But he told Margaret little of what weighed on his mind, only that William thrashed in a temper ever since his return from France—some of which Margaret had heard from Edgar. Otherwise, Malcolm praised the state of the royal household, where Margaret had set servants to refreshing and refurbishing Dun Edin just as she had ordered at Dunfermline. And he gave her a somewhat distracted approval when she told him that almsgiving was now a regular occurrence at Dun Edin.
“Every Thursday morning, sire, when you are here,” she said one day, “I think we should go to the gates and portion out alms as food, clothing, or coin.”
“As you wish,” he said. They stood in the treasure room in Dun Edin, a chamber hidden in the storerooms beneath the tower, bolted by lock and key and accessible only by stairs leading from the king’s chamber. Malcolm had brought her there to go over an accounting sheet of her own dowry things brought from Dunfermline, including a box containing sacristy vessels that she wanted to donate for use in the citadel’s chapel.
“I will go out more often than that,” she said, “if there are people at the gate.”
“Thursdays will do. Send servants on the other days.”
“And on holy days we will bring basins and wash the feet of the poor.” Malcolm looked up sharply at this, and she smiled. “We shall do the same at Dunfermline when we return there. For your reputation as a good and godly king, sire, it is surely important.”
“For my sins, Margaret,” he muttered, “what you will.”
“WHERE IS MY BOOK?” Margaret asked irritably. “I cannot find my book of the Gospels.” She turned over the cushions on a bench near where her ladies sat sewing in the great hall, growing impatient, having looked for the book in several places that morning. “It is not in my chamber on the little table where I usually keep it. Has anyone seen it?”
“I saw it last week,” Cristina replied, “when you were reading to the king from its pages. Why does he not read to himself? He must have been properly educated.”
“Aye, he was tutored as a boy in Scotland, and at his uncle’s home in Northumbria, too,” Margaret said. “He is adept at languages and skilled in arithmetic, but he is not much of a scholar, I will grant.” She sighed. “His attention was more on warrior training, and though he studied the histories of the Greeks and Romans for battle strategies, his tutor read those to him. He had little reason and, I imagine, little patience for much reading.” She flipped over another cushion and looked inside a sewing basket. “Where is that book?”
“Read another one,” Cristina suggested. “You left Aldhelm’s De Laude Virginitatis in your sewing basket with your other things. I saw it there yesterday.”
“So the king cannot read the books he owns?” Eva asked. “Or the book he commissioned?”
“He reads Latin for documents, a little Gaelic for the same. I have been tutoring him, and he is progressing nicely,” Margaret replied. “I was so sure I left the book on a little table in my chamber, wrapped in a cloth. Shall I read from the Aldhelm?” she asked, pulling the volume from the basket.
“That one is so dull,” Juliana said. “Your copy of the Gospels is one of the prettiest books I have seen, and it is all extracts, and not so much to read all at once. Surely it is somewhere; it could hardly fly away.”
Margaret stood, still distracted. “I will go upstairs and look again. I am weary of this weather,” she added, as rain poured over the tin roof of the great hall. Margaret, quite frankly, was tired of the sound, bored with sewing, even bored with reading and conversation. Her back ached, she was hungrier than she would admit, and she felt restless. That mor
ning she had not even gone outside to help with the almsgiving at the gate, for fear of slipping on the wet slope.
She was quickly growing large with this child, her tunics stretching tight even with the lacings open, and three months to go as yet. She had succumbed to Kata’s urgings to eat more, and this was the result, she thought. But there was no excuse for gluttony, even in a breeding state; she must be an example in all ways, and should not be lax in her discipline.
Leaving the solar, she climbed the stairs to the bedchamber to search for the missing book. At night she still shared the great curtained bed with Malcolm, despite her mother’s advice to banish him until she was lighter of her child. But he let her be, and she let him stay. His warm bulk beside her at night was a comfort. Accustomed to his presence there, she missed him when he was gone and was grateful each time he returned.
Determining again that the manuscript was not there, she heard a soft knock and turned to see Eva in the open door. She waved her into the room. “I cannot find it,” she said. “I fear my head is fuzzy with my condition.” She gave a weak laugh.
“Let me help you look for it,” Eva said, then glanced out the small window where the shutter gapped slightly open. “Such a big crowd on the High Street today. Is it market day?”
Margaret shook her head. “They came here for alms, and Malcolm allowed the servants to give away only some scraps from last night’s supper today, though I told Parlan to take a few old blankets and cut them up to share. My husband claims we simply cannot feed and clothe everyone who comes to our door. But if I had gone down to the gates today, I would have let them all inside. It is raining,” she said. “It is cold.”
“The king’s argument is sound,” Eva said gently. “There is not always enough to share.”
“He can afford more than he will admit,” Margaret confided. “His treasury has silver and gold enough to feed and clothe all of Scotland, I vow.” She stopped. “Shut the door, if you please. I want to show you something.”
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