Queen Hereafter

by Susan Fraser King

  Eva did, and Margaret beckoned to her. “The king has a chamber here—and another like it in Dunfermline.” She opened a cupboard and a box within, and removed a few small iron keys on a metal chain. Then she lifted a flaming candlestick in its ceramic dish, and went to a curtained corner of the room to reveal some narrow steps. She led Eva down these to an oaken door, heavily latched. Unlocking that, she pushed it aside so that she and Eva could enter.

  Like the treasure room at Dunfermline, this one was stacked with chests and boxes. Margaret set down the candlestick and used another key to open one of the larger chests. With Eva’s help, she tipped back the hinged lid.

  She stood back, smiling a little as Eva gasped. The gleam of gold and silver coins was an astonishing sight, and proof of the wealth of king and crown. Eva sank to her knees and ran a hand over the coins—some were English silver pennies and deniers stamped with an image meant to show the queen’s deceased uncle King Edward; some were gold pieces, others stamped Flemish and French coins. Many of the edges had been clipped, evidence that the coins had circulated long before reaching Scotland.

  “Malcolm means to have these melted down and imprinted as new Scots coins with his own image,” Margaret said, “though for now, Scotland still relies on foreign coinage even within its own borders. There is more than enough here to help the people in Dun Edin, and all of Scotland.”

  “There seems to be. Margaret,” Eva said with a rare, impulsive use of her baptismal name, “is this yours to dispense?”

  “Where do you think my dowry coins are? Here in Malcolm’s treasury chests. If I want to help the Scottish people with some of this, the king himself cannot say me nay,” she said thoughtfully, looking down at the glittering mass of coins. “I could do that.”

  “He would object. The crown needs the treasury for buildings, for roads—”

  “For wars,” Margaret said.

  “Surely he is practical about expenses. Though it does look like an enormous amount.”

  “I do not know how much is here, but a little will not be missed. We could buy more woolen blankets in the marketplace, perhaps some candles, and more foodstuffs to give out …” She made a quick decision, her heart pounding. “Hand me that pouch, there.” She gestured toward a few empty leather pouches piled on top of a small chest.

  “Where is the king?” Eva asked as she grabbed a pouch.

  “He left earlier with a hunting party. They were chafing to be gone and rushed through the gate even before the almsgiving.” Margaret began to fill the pouch with coins, the chinking of silver and gold loud in the small room. She handed the full pouch to Eva then scooped up more coins as Eva fetched a second pouch. When that was filled, too, Margaret shut the lid and locked it, holding one leather bag while Eva held the other.

  “There,” Margaret said. “If I cannot spend this in the lawn market for supplies, I will give the coins away myself. Come,” she whispered, as Eva took up the candle. Turning, Margaret gasped.

  Malcolm stood outside the doorway, and with him were Brother Tor and Edgar, too, having come down the steps. Margaret froze, as did Eva, as the three men walked into the room.

  “Look here,” Malcolm boomed. “I have caught me two little thieves in my own house.”

  “Aye, and what will you do with them?” Edgar asked, folding his arms.

  “Arrest and punishment for robbers,” Malcolm said.

  “At the very least they must return what they have stolen,” Tor remarked, holding the curled handle of an oil lamp that set the room aglow.

  “My lord,” Margaret said, lacking patience for flippancy. “I thought you were hunting.”

  “The rains were too hard. We came back.”

  “Let us pass, please, sirs,” Eva said, holding her head high, her sack of gold close.

  None of the men moved. Malcolm folded his arms, leaning squarely in the doorway. “And where are you going with those? What, exactly, is in those bags?”

  “My dowry coins,” Margaret said. “In part.” She could not lie.

  “For what purpose? Silks for a new cloak? Gold thread for needlework? Do you crave new shoes and rings, by God, when Scotland has expenses to pay?” His voice rose.

  “I crave to share with the poor to ease their many needs.” Margaret hugged the bag to her.

  “Good God, woman, we do alms every morning and feed countless souls at our gates,” Malcolm burst out. He looked at the other men. “Thieves in the king’s own household should have immediate punishment, I think.”

  “Sire, allow me to apologize for not informing you sooner,” Margaret said. “But this is, after all, my dowry fortune, and I may do with part of it as I see fit.” She had seen his temper flare for a moment, but now he looked amused again, his green-brown eyes sparkling, lips quirked. Edgar, too, smiled openly, but Brother Tor was utterly somber.

  “Robbery is sinful,” Tor said, “but sire, this is the queen.”

  “Ah, I have it,” Malcolm said. “Come with me.” He took Margaret’s arm and lifted the pouch from her hands, dropping it on top of one of the chests. Edgar took Eva’s arm, too, relieving her of the bag of coins. Margaret saw the girl glare up at Edgar.

  “Let go,” Eva said.

  “Share the queen’s thievery, share her fate,” he said.

  “And what would that be?” Eva demanded.

  “Truly, I do not know,” Edgar muttered. “Malcolm, what’s to be done with them now?”

  “I want to show you something,” Malcolm said. “So you will remember that stealing king’s gold is disgraceful.”

  “It is charitable, especially if it is hoarded when it could benefit others,” Margaret argued as he led her into the corridor. Edgar followed with Eva, and Malcolm turned to direct the monk to lock the room again with the key that Margaret relinquished.

  “Watch the steps, now.” Malcolm guided her upstairs carefully, through the bedchamber, and out and down a corridor. A servant, passing them in the hallway carrying an armload of linens, stopped to stare.

  “That gold can be put to good use,” Margaret said as they went. “We can do more than give alms at the gate. Thousands of Saxons wander this land. We can help them.”

  “Let William feed and clothe them all. He created their destitution, not I.” Malcolm led her along another set of stairs to exit the tower.

  “But you brought them to Scotland,” she pointed out.

  He did not answer as they crossed the bailey to enter a building used as garrison quarters and storage, though Margaret had never gone inside it, having no reason to do so. Her husband guided her down some steps that seemed to go deep into the very earth, the musty dankness and darkness encroaching. They turned along a low-ceilinged, stone-walled corridor that cut a channel through the living rock that supported the fortress. Arches of stone formed small niches that were barred shut with iron grates. She saw several cells lining the tunneled passage like small caves.

  “Dungeons!” she said.

  “Aye, for thieves and the like,” Malcolm said.

  As they walked past, Margaret noticed with surprise that there were men in those cramped, dark spaces. They came to the grates to peer at the visitors, and as she passed, Margaret saw in the light of Tor’s oil lamp that each man had a glimmer of keen intelligence and even sadness in his eyes, so that meeting their gazes pulled at her heart.

  “Who are they?” she whispered to Malcolm.

  “Normans,” he said. “A few Saxons who side with Normans. Knights whose ransoms will bring more gold to Scottish coffers. A good thing, given this day’s events,” he added.

  “How long have they been kept in here?” she asked, peering past him.

  “I brought them from the south weeks ago. No need for you to know at the time. It need not concern you, as the matter is well in hand. Letters have gone out for their fees.”

  “But Malcolm—”

  “Guardsman,” he called. “Open that last door for us.”

  Two housecarls stood at the end of
the grim corridor, both looking bewildered as the king approached with the queen in tow. One opened the iron grate of the last cell with a key and scraped the door back on its hinges. Malcolm led Margaret over the threshold, with Edgar and Eva just behind, and Tor following with the lamplight. Inside, Malcolm waved a hand.

  “Ladies,” he said. “Would you want to stay in this place?”

  The little chamber was like a cave carved from the rock, with steeply curving walls and a floor scattered with straw. The only furnishings were a flat pallet with a folded blanket, a triple-legged wooden stool, and a chamber pot.

  “We would provide more blankets,” Edgar said.

  “Do not take such delight in this,” Eva snapped at him. Margaret smiled to herself in spite of her mounting irritation and, undeniably, a little frisson of worry.

  “Well?” Malcolm asked. “What do you think of the king’s chamber for thieves?”

  “It is of course a horrible place,” Margaret answered impatiently. “Those men should not be here either, for they have committed no real crime. And why bring us down here? Your jest is hardly amusing.”

  “Brother Tor, tell the ladies what you think of this place, and their crime.”

  “Of course the queen and her lady do not want to be here,” Tor said calmly. “Yet this cell poses a metaphorical quandary as well. Would you visit such a dark and sinful place in your soul through questionable moral deeds? I believe that both of you are innocent souls, of course,” he said, “but the king’s message in bringing you here is very clear. Even if you meant to do a generous and merciful thing, you trod a wrongful path, and this is where it could lead.”

  “Thievery is thievery,” Malcolm summarized.

  “What we did was out of charity, not sinful urges,” Eva said.

  But for a moment, Margaret felt her gut constrict with doubt. She had thought Malcolm was merely amused at her indiscretion, and bored on a rainy day. But Tor, whose judgment she valued, looked stern and disapproving. “Do you believe we sinned in this?” she asked the monk.

  “I believe your pure soul was led astray by base instincts that mankind must fight,” he said.

  “It was my idea, not the queen’s,” Eva said quickly.

  “It was mine,” Margaret said. “And my portion to use as I please.”

  “I suppose that is true,” Malcolm admitted.

  “Enough,” Edgar said. “The jest is done. We all know the queen’s deed, and Lady Eva’s, was charitably meant, if hastily done.”

  “I will confess and be cleansed, nonetheless,” Margaret said.

  Malcolm sighed and took her arm again. “This was simply a small lesson in manners, as you have often tried to teach me.”

  “I do not teach manners quite like you do,” Margaret said indignantly.

  “In future, do not take a man’s gold without his permission—even if you obey one of your saintly urges.” He led her back through the door and along the corridor, while the housecarls and the prisoners, too, gaped after them.

  “What about the coins?” Margaret asked. “Give them to me for my own purposes.”

  “Very well. If you distribute silver coins at the gate tomorrow, do so sparingly, please,” he said. “And send your steward to the market with orders to purchase what you will to give for alms this month. Within reason,” he warned.

  “I will see to it directly after prayers,” Margaret said as they stepped out into the light of the bailey, with the rain clearing to clouds.

  Chapter Eighteen

  She ordered that nine little orphans utterly destitute should be brought in to her at the first hour of the day, and that soft foods such as children at that tender age like should be prepared for them … she did not think it beneath her to take them upon her knee.

  —BISHOP TURGOT, Life of Saint Margaret, TWELFTH CENTURY

  It is a simple request,” Margaret said. “Why such fuss?” She had only suggested to Wilfrid and Parlan that a group of orphaned children be brought to the great hall each morning to be fed. “The children should come from the town and nearby region.”

  “But, Lady—” Wilfrid began.

  “Cook only has to stew some fruit and grind the porridge fine before cooking it, and Ella can find dishes, spoons, and cups small enough for little hands and lips. Some of my own dishes will do; they are of a delicate shape and size.”

  “But dear Lady, we cannot allow these children to handle such precious things,” Parlan protested, standing with Wilfrid. “Wood and pottery suit children best.”

  “We should set out the best dishes for this, to welcome them and show that we honor them. Sir Wilfrid, I think we should have one hundred little ones here, orphans, too. Bring them to the hall each morning. Let us begin this very week.” She felt excited, inspired by her new plan.

  “One hundred a day?” her steward exclaimed. “Lady, finding them and escorting them here would take up a great deal of time.”

  “Perhaps one hundred is too many,” she conceded. “Fifty a day, then, and a hundred on holy days. More at Yuletide would be fitting. I will feed them all myself.”

  “Beg pardon, but that might take all of a week, not just a morning, and would require the time and efforts of many here. You have many duties, and this could be a burden. And if I may say so, I am a steward and a warrior, not a herder of … lambs,” Wilfrid finished.

  “Ah,” she said, thoughtful. “Thirty, then, every day.”

  Still he seemed dissatisfied. “Who will shepherd the imps at the gate?” Wilfrid asked. “Who will watch them and keep them from running, climbing, hurting themselves and others?”

  “Godwin,” she said, inspired. “And Gertruda. They each have a sweet way with children.”

  “What of the parents and kinfolk of these children? Do we turn them away hungry only to feed their broods?” Wilfrid asked.

  “We must have something for them as well, then,” she said. “Parlan, go remind Cook to grind the oats fine and cook them with a little milk. And have him stew apples with cinnamon and nutmeg, for the children may enjoy that. Both dishes should be ready at sunrise each day.”

  “As you wish, Lady,” Parlan said, and she could see he was no happier than Wilfrid.

  She was determined to have the small children brought in to her each morning after her prayers and before her own breakfast. She had devised a new penance for herself, though she would not reveal that. “I wish to honor the little children more,” she said. “And this is a way.”

  “Then spend more time with your own,” Wilfrid said honestly. “Your little Edward follows you everywhere he can, and Edmund is always happy to see you. And there will be another soon to take up your time and concern.”

  She blushed at that. “But it tugs my heartstrings so to see the little ones in need at our gates. They are sometimes too small to eat what is given in alms, and so they do not get much just for themselves.”

  “Then invite a symbolic number of children,” he suggested. “Keep the groups small but for holy days and celebrations. Six children,” he suggested.

  “Twelve, the number of the apostles.”

  “Nine,” Wilfrid countered. “Surely that has some significance.”

  “Ah, nine choirs of angels. Perfect,” she said. “And a hundred children on holy days. I will not be gainsaid on that one. See it done,” she added, when he began to protest the larger number.

  Looking around, she saw her husband crossing the room then. Malcolm must have heard the commotion and some muttering as Parlan went past him. She explained her plan. “Admirable,” Malcolm said. “But do this only if you promise to eat with them.”

  “Just after they do,” she promised, while he pursed his mouth to one side, seeming no more content than her stewards.

  Two days later, Margaret emerged from prayers leading her ladies like ducklings, while Eva followed her, head high, looking more a princess by nature than even Cristina. In the great hall, nine children of various ages surrounded Wilfrid and Godwin, until Gertru
da shooed them toward a table. Margaret sat down and took the smaller ones into her lap, one at a time, and fed them with a golden spoon dipped into a crystal bowl. The older ones were each given their own spoon and bowl, and as they ate they laughed, beaming like sunshine.

  The next day, more children were brought in, and so it continued until feeding the children was routine at Dun Edin, while almsgiving continued at the front gates. Wilfrid and other housecarls easily found little ones to bring to the queen, and word spread that kindness and alms could be found at the king’s residence.

  While Margaret’s ladies stitched little shirts and stockings from cloth scraps, Godwin revealed sleight-of-hand tricks with silver pennies to amuse the children gathered in the hall. He even taught Brother Tor, though his solemn attempt at such tricks made Margaret laugh.

  Nine children became twelve, twelve became thirty, then fifty, and on All Saints Day on the first of November, one hundred children were led into the great hall. Margaret fed as many as she could manage with her own hands, her own spoon, and she encouraged her own Edward to help, no matter how small he was, along with truculent Duncan and willing Donald.

  “Their father will make them warriors,” she told Tor, “but it falls to me to make them merciful princes.”

  “As much use as warrior skills, if not more,” he replied.

  Her secret ambition was to invite a thousand children to the royal fortress one day, though she suspected that Wilfrid, Tor, and Malcolm would have none of it. The feeling of charity, whether to children or people at the gates, or some other form, was heady—she wanted more of it, could not get enough; it was like water for her thirsty soul.

  WINTER SKIMMED BY like a vague dream, Advent to Lent, days filled with her duties, her prayers, caring for her small sons, seeing to her charity gestures. Exhausted at times, Margaret pushed on as the liturgical calendar came round to Septuagesima and the beginning of the Lenten season and the advent of her own devoted fasting. Diligent about cleansing any existing sin, she also tried to consider her condition, allowing herself a little porridge, a withered apple from storage, or a little broth each day.