Margaret the Queen

by Nigel Tranter

  "We saw your host and feared that it might be some of the Norman's army. From York. From whom we have fled. We are not in your Scotland here, are we?" he asked.

  "No — not by a long road! We are ten miles south of Tyne. In Northumbria. But how come you here, man?" Malcolm demanded. "I deemed you in Deira, with Sven of Denmark. You fled, you say?"

  "Fled, yes," Prince Edgar said bitterly. "It was all that was left to us. This William the Norman is the Devil Incarnate." He had some difficulty with that phrase. "You know that he bought your Earl Cospatrick away from me. With great promises . . ."

  "Aye — that is William, fiend take him! And why I am here. To teach my Cousin Cospatrick of Northumbria a lesson, not to sit down with the Norman. But that was weeks past. Where is Sven Estridson and his Danes?"

  "William has bribed King Sven also. Sent him great quantities of gold, English gold, my gold! To buy him off. Danegeld again! Sven has sailed back to Denmark, deserting me. Like Cospatrick. I could not face the Norman alone. So must needs flee. We set sail from the Humber. Back to Hungary. Leaving all. But this storm caught us. Three ships are lost, the rest blown here. Near to Tyne, you say?"

  Malcolm Canmore failed to express the sympathies which might have been looked for. He was indeed urgently assessing his own position in the light of these tidings. If Sven's Danish army had sailed for home, and this Edgar's Saxons had dissolved in flight, then his own situation here, in less than major strength, could be dangerous. William of Normandy, with his great host based on York, was only seventy miles away to the south. Freed of any threat of Saxon-Danish arms, he could strike swiftly north against the raiding Scots expedition. He would be well informed by spies — always William was that.

  When the Atheling got no reply, he went on. "These are the lords Alfwin of Elmham and Leleszi of Hungary." He indicated his two companions. "I have my mother and my sisters on the ship. And others of my company . . ."

  Malcolm nodded. "Yes. They may come ashore. We shall spend the night at this Wearmouth. While I send out scouts . . ." He looked away, frowning. Then turned. "Maldred — go bring these ladies to me. My greetings to them. We shall find the best of such hovels as there are, for them." He returned to Edgar Atheling. "Where was William when you last heard? At York? Or nearer to Humber?"

  "We sailed from Ravenspur. The Norman was then said to be at Selby, south of York, burning and slaying. . ."

  Maldred hurried down to the beach, and ran up the gang-plank on to the galley's damaged prow, to bow before the party waiting there. He had eyes only for the four women, however, one of middle years, the other three young, one a girl no older than himself. They all looked storm-beaten and weary, but held themselves proudly, and were, in his enthusiastic eyes at least, beautiful. Especially two of the younger ones. Half-a-dozen men stood with them.

  "I am Maldred mac Melmore of Atholl," he told them respectfully. "The High King Malcolm bids you kind welcome. And asks me to bring you to his presence."

  "Mary Mother of God be praised!" the older lady exclaimed. "So it is the King of Scotland. We scarcely dared hope . . ." She was a handsome, slender woman of almost gypsy-like good looks, but with the lines of sorrow or pain in her features, her appearance no doubt accounted for by her Hungarian blood. "I am Agatha Arpad, daughter of King Stephen of Hungary. And these are my own daughters, the Princesses Margaret and Christina." She did not name the youngest girl.

  He bowed again. "Princesses, I am yours to command. I act standard-bearer to Malcolm mac Duncan, my cousin." He could not prevent himself putting that in. "Will you come with me?" He had difficulty in keeping his eyes off those younger women.

  Two of these, then, were Edgar the Atheling's sisters, the elder the most lovely creature it had ever been Maldred's good fortune to set eyes on, of a calm, ethereal beauty, flaxen-haired, violet-blue-eyed, notably well-built, seemingly serene, untroubled, despite her wet hair, soaking clothing and all the ordeal they had undergone, all Saxon in appearance this one, with no hint of her Hungarian ancestry. Her sister, younger, perhaps twenty years of age, was darker, more like her mother, but less assured, attractive also but more aware of her dishevelled state, even shivering a little in the chill wind. The unnamed one, presumably only an attendant, was nevertheless almost as eye-catching as the Princess Margaret, although very different, with red-brown hair, sparkling hazel eyes and a slender but quite provocative figure. Never, surely, could monastic Wearmouth have witnessed such a visitation as this.

  Giving the Princess Agatha his arm down the swaying gang-plank, in some danger of himself falling off — and wishing that it was one of the others, for Maldred was a very normal youth in most matters — he led his bevy of storm-tossed beauty up the beach towards the village, followed by most of the richly-dressed men, and watched by a great many distinctly envious soldiers, not all of whom kept their admiration and feelings silent or even muted. They found the monarch ejecting a couple of Romish priests from the small St. Peter's church in the village with scant ceremony, and ordering the building to be prepared for his occupation.

  Malcolm was no ladies' man, and greeted the newcomers in fairly off-hand style — they in turn looking askance at what he was doing. But even he at second and third glance, clearly became not a little conscious of the pulchritude and refinement in evidence, more especially of the older daughter Margaret, to whom his fierce gaze kept returning. He adopted a more attentive attitude accordingly, although nothing would make that man courtly or other than unpolished.

  "You are wet and cold, ladies," he paused to say. "But, never fear, we shall soon have you warm and your bellies full. There are but miserable hovels here, but we shall find you the best." Clearly the church was for himself. But from Malcolm Big Head, who normally never so much as took women's feelings and susceptibilities into account at all, this was significant indeed.

  "We praise Almighty God that He, in His infinite mercy, directed the cruel storm and wind to bring us into your good care and ward, Sire," the Princess Agatha told him devoutly.

  The King grunted non-committally at these sentiments. Moreover, this term sire was a Continental usage being introduced by Norman William, and therefore to be deplored.

  But the praise and thanksgiving was quite quickly interrupted when, presently, Malcolm decided on a cot-house for the ladies — scarcely to be compared with the premises he had reserved for himself but reasonably clean and warm, the central-hearth fire of driftwood less smoky than some. Unfortunately its dark interior proved to be encumbered with a bed-ridden old woman in a sort of cupboard recess, unnoticed at first. The King was having her bundled out when there was protest from one of the princesses, Edgar's elder sister Margaret, the beautiful one.

  "No! No — please, Highness!" she cried. "Not that. Do not turn her out, I pray you. Let her stay." She had a low-pitched, almost throaty voice, pleasant to hear and much less accented than her mother's — she had spent much of her youth, of course, at her great-uncle Edward the Confessor's Court in England. "We shall find another house..."

  "Not so," the King snapped, unused to his commands being opposed. "The old witch can kennel elsewhere, well enough. Out with her."

  "Sire," the young woman said, her fine bosom indicating depth of breath and emotion both, "of your royal clemency, do not do it. For sweet Mary's sake! If lodge in this house we must, let her remain in it. In her own bed. She is old, sick I think. There is room for us all."

  Malcolm stared, as though disbelieving his own ears and eyes.

  "Bear with us, Sire," her mother said. "The dear God would not have us to be unmerciful, selfish. Let her remain."

  The King clenched great fists. "No!" he barked. "Take her away." His voice quivered. "Do as I say." As his men hustled the old woman out, he turned to stamp after them. At the door he spoke again, without turning. "Maldred — see to these . . . ladies. Their needs." Then he was gone.

  There was silence in the shadowy, smoke-blackened, earthen-floored chamber — into which muffled sobbing sounded
from the younger sister, Christina.

  "Restrain yourself, daughter," the Princess Agatha said tensely. "And you, Margaret. You should know by now that kings are not to be contravened so. The good King Edward spoiled you. We are wholly in this Malcolm's hands — and he is named a hard man." She glanced over at Maldred, suddenly realising that he was still in the cottage, and bit her lip.

  "Are we not rather in God's hands, Mother? Has that changed? Has He spared us the storm for us to refuse His mercy to others? Because the King of Scots is heartless, must we, who need mercy ourselves, be so also?"

  Christina gulped and snuffled.

  Maldred cleared his throat. "Princesses," he said, "your gear? Clothing, apparel, linen? The King commands me to see to your needs. If you will tell me what I can do . . . ?"

  "To be sure." The older woman turned to the young girl, who had stood throughout silent although keenly alert, absorbed in it all. "Bedding, other clothes, we have on the ship. It is dry, I hope. Or drier than these here. Magdalen, take him. Bring what is necessary for the night."

  The young woman nodded, proffered an incipient curtsy, and signed to Maldred to follow her out.

  Skirts kilted up, she skipped before him down to the beach, ignoring the soldiers' pleasantries. She darted a smiling glance back at her companion.

  "What name do they give you? Malfred or Malfrith, was it?" she asked.

  "No. Those are Saxon names," he said, a little scornfully. "I am Maldred mac Melmore, of the house of Crinan of Atholl."

  "So? Is that so very grand?"

  He frowned. "Not grand, no. But of ancient line. My father, Melmore, is Earl of Atholl and Abbot of Dunkeld."

  "Abbot! A churchman and an earl both? So you are a bastard?"

  "I am not!" he cried. "I am lawful second son. In our Church, the Celtic Church, abbots may wed. Not all, but some. Our abbacy is heired, hereditary. Dunkeld is the greatest of all. My father is Primate of our Church."

  "Indeed," she said. They had reached the foot of the gang-plank, and without pause she went tripping lightly up the steep incline. She seemed something of a light creature altogether, he decided.

  Because she had sounded distinctly unimpressed, he informed her slender back, "Moreover, my uncle was King Duncan. And my great-grandsire King Malcolm the Terrible!"

  "The Terrible? Then let us hope that King Duncan was something better than either Malcolm," she called back. "For I think this present one is a brute-beast!"

  Shocked, he caught his breath. She could have been overheard. There were sailors working about the galley, and Scots soldiers nearby, seeking what might be found. Even gently-born women could die, and horribly, for such a remark.

  "For God's sake, watch your tongue!" he said.

  Reaching the decking of the bows platform, beside the broken prow, she turned to grin at him, before moving on.

  From up here the damage done to the vessel was evident on all hands, with men already seeking to effect repairs of a sort. The girl led the way down the stair to the oar-deck and along the gangway between the rowing-benches, many of which were smashed, the decking littered with the fragments of splintered oars, some blood-stained and telling their own story.

  The stern quarters had suffered less. In a dark small cabin under the poop fighting-platform, his guide wrinkling up her pretty nose at the sour smell of sickness, Maldred was given an armful of feminine clothing, cloaks and furs, to carry, his companion burdening herself similarly. As they were about to leave, she turned back, to collect an object from one of the chests which cluttered the confined space.

  "I should take this," she said. "Perhaps it will serve to protect our virtue from all you rough Scots!"

  "We ... I ... what is it?" She had produced an oddly-shaped silver casket, richly chased.

  She opened it, to show him inside a crucifix, strange in that although it was studded with diamonds, it was made of very rough wood, dark, almost black.

  "This is the Lady Margaret's most prized possession," she told him. "It is called the Black Rood — made from a piece of the true cross. Given her by her grandfather, King Stephen of Hungary — Saint Stephen she calls him. . ."

  "The true cross? Do you mean . . . Christ's cross? From Calvary in the Holy Land?"

  "Of course. Whether it is truly that or no, who can tell? But she believes it — they all do. And they are a very holy family!" The girl wrapped relic and casket in a fur rug, and gestured him out.

  "How did they get it? This King Stephen? If it is truly Christs's cross." Maldred kept glancing at his companion's bundle with some awe.

  "From the Emperor, I think. The Emperor is kin to King Stephen. He would get it from the Pope, at Rome. He is King of the Romans. But — it could be any piece of old wood. It looks no different from any other, to me. Although I would not say so to the Lady Margaret, you understand! She would have me starved for days. If not flogged. . . !"

  "Flogged? The Princess? Never that, surely!"

  "Perhaps not actually flogged, no," The other flashed her impish smile. "But punished severely, oh yes. She could impose harsher penances than any priest, that one."

  "But . . . but ... I cannot believe that. She is kind, good, beautiful. She pleaded for that old woman ..."

  "Ha — another one! You men are all alike. You see a fair face, fine eyes and a bed-worthy woman's body, and you are lost! For a little, at least! You esteem all softness and mild gentleness. But the Lady Margaret is more than that. She is good, yes — too good, perhaps. But strong too. She has steel in her — as unbreaking as any man's sword. So watch you, young Maldred mac Whatever-it-was! Standard-bearer you may be — but do not try your standard on Margaret Atheling, if you would keep it flying! Or on Magda of Ethanford either. So you are warned!"

  "I, I . . . am not ... I have no such ... I would not think of anything of the son . . ."

  "Liar! I have seen where your eyes rove. And the look in them."

  Sidelong he considered her, over his bundle. He had never encountered a creature such as this, so outspoken, so lacking in modesty, so sure of herself. Scots girls were not like this. Nor any Saxon woman he had met hitherto.

  "You are quite wrong," he told her. "Much at fault. About me, at least. I am not a knight yet — but I shall be. I respect women. Seek to cherish them."

  "Knights are the worst!" she asserted, but smiling again. "But — never heed me, Maldred — or not overly much. I do not think that you are all bad. Indeed I would say that you are the best of the Scots we have seen here, as yet. Better than that King of yours, certainly. Or that arrogant lord who met us." They were back to the village, now wholly taken over by the Scots host, its occupants banished into the oncoming night. "I am Magdalen, daughter of Oswin, Lord of Ethanford," she confided. "I think my father sent me, to attend the princess to Hungary, to be rid of me! Like most other men he does not like the truth from female lips!"

  Maldred did not attempt to argue that.

  Reaching the cottage, he did his best to make the interior as tidy and comfortable as possible for its new inmates. There were no real furnishings, only the roughest of built-in timber bunks, benches and a table, some wooden platters and chipped earthenware pots. Not that the ladies were complaining — after all it was a considerable improvement on the cramped, dark and noisome cabin on the galley. He scoured other houses for additional items, and though he did not find much suitable, he was rewarded for his efforts by kind words of praise and thanks from the lovely Margaret — and a raised eyebrow from Magdalen. He said that he would go and see what was the position about feeding. The Prince Edgar did not seem to be concerning himself greatly about his womenfolk's wellbeing.

  The entire village smelled of roasting beef, with cattle-beasts being cooked whole above a score of fires. At the commandeered church, Maldred found the King and his lords using the altar as a table, round which they sat drinking ale, and coughing somewhat, whilst soldiers aloft dug a hole in the thatched roof to let out the smoke from a well-doing fire of church furn
iture — since the building was provided with no fireplace or flue. Malcolm was still questioning the Atheling — who looked uncomfortable — closely as to King William's dispositions and possible strategy.

  Men brought in the repast, vast quantities of beef with oaten cakes, and little else. Maldred used the King's authority to have no insignificant portion carried off to the ladies' cottage. With the rough if plentiful ale it was scarcely delicate feeding for princesses, but all that was available — and, as they asserted, better than they would have had on the ship. Again they expressed their gratitude to the young man — as well as to their Creator in a lengthy grace-before-meat, worthy of a better feast. They had a further task for Maldred, after they had eaten. Would he go to try find their chaplain and confessor, one Oswald? He was a young Benedictine monk of Durham, who had been lent to them by Bishop Ethelwin to replace their true confessor, Anselm, fallen sick. They had become separated in the confusion of the flight from the Humber, when the monk had gone searching for his bishop. But they had heard that Bishop Ethelwin was on one of the other ships, and possibly Oswald was with him. They had prayed Almighty God for his welfare.

  Maldred was less than enthusiastic about this errand, but said that he would do what he could. There were no quays or wharves for deep-draught vessels at Wearmouth, so the other three ships remained at anchor in the bay. There had been some slight coming-and-going with small boats, but the visitors' reception by the Scots had been cool to say the least, King Malcolm having no wish to be burdened by the useless remnants of a defeated Saxon army. So, other than the royal party from the galley, the refugees were remaining in their ships meantime.