Maldred found a little boat on the pebble-strand amongst the fishing-craft, little more than a coracle, and pulled out in the dusk of the October evening to the three vessels, an uncomfortable proceeding, however short, for even in the sheltered bay the sea was choppy. At the first ship he came to he shouted to ask if the Bishop of Durham was aboard, and was directed to the next craft. There, with a seaman agreeing sourly that there were more than sufficient clerks below, he climbed a rope-ladder and went in search of his quarry.
If the galley had shown damage at close quarters, this vessel revealed greatly more, the decks a tangle of rigging and cordage from a broken mast amongst shattered woodwork, men working everywhere to clear the havoc and make what repairs were possible. There was much more, and better, accommodation here than on the galley however, and Maldred wondered why the royal party had chosen the latter. It was much faster, to be sure.
The sound of chanting led him below to where the clerical company were evidently celebrating the evening office, discomforts and mishaps or none. He found them at least in better heart than most of the passengers in that crowded ship, although two of the eight or nine priests were injured, and the old Bishop Ethelwin had an arm broken when he had been thrown against a bulkhead by the violence of the storm.
The monk Oswald was indeed there, probably the youngest of the party, a sturdy, red faced but serious-seeming man in his early twenties, in the black habit of the Benedictine brothers, his shaven tonsure somehow looking out-of-place on a head more apt for a helmet — on the crown of the head, of course, in the Romish fashion instead of above the brow as was the Celtic Church usage.
When the chanting ended, Maldred explained his mission. Although most of the clerics looked with scant favour on the Scot, the young monk seemed eager enough to return to the princesses, and apparently pleased that they had remembered him. Bishop Ethelwin expressed no objection to his departure, asked heedfully after the royal ladies, and sent the two young men on their way with a rather awkward left-handed benediction — it being the right arm which was broken.
Thankful to escape from the smells below decks, Maldred led his companion down to the heaving boat. There he was positioning the oars to row back to the shore when Oswald insisted on taking one, rolling up the wide sleeves of his habit to reveal quite muscular and hairy forearms. Clearly he was used to handling small boats. He did not appear to be a companionable or particularly friendly character, but he curtly explained that he was the youngest son of a small Northumbrian thane from a coastal area near Alnwick, called Amble, and had used such craft for inshore fishing since childhood. Maldred, who was not strong on monks and clerics generally, thought that this one might be less obnoxious than some.
He was less pleased, however, at the flattering reception accorded to his companion by the princesses, their concern for his comfort, their assumption that Maldred would hasten to find him food and bedding.
His services apparently no longer required thereafter, that young man returned to the church, where serious drinking was now in progress. King Malcolm had a large capacity for liquor — as, in consequence, tended to have his close associates. Not that he was a drunkard; Maldred had seldom seen his cousin actually drunk; but drinking was how he spent his evenings as a rule, and as the night progressed his mood was apt to grow the more uncertain. Wise men were inclined to keep out of his way. Aware of this, Maldred's intention was merely to report that all was well with the ladies, learn if any other duties were required of him — for he acted as esquire to the King as well as standard-bearer — and then retire to the folds of his own plaid in some quiet corner, to sleep.
However, this sensible programme was upset. He had reached the King's side, up at the altar, and was informing Malcolm of the state of the three ships out in the bay — and having to lean over Edgar the Atheling to do so who was sprawled forward asleep over the altar-top — when a guard brought in a weary, travel-stained messenger for the monarch, who had obviously ridden far and fast.
He had, he declared, come down Browney to Wear from the Blanchland and Alston fells, from the furthest west of the Scots expedition's units, under the Thane of Arbuthnott. He brought word of major trouble in the west. The Earl Cospatrick, formerly of Northumbria, the King's cousin — and Maldred's also — was laying waste the Cumbrian countryside with a large host. Far too large for Arbuthnott to challenge with his company of only a few hundreds.
"Why?" The King, shoulders hunched like a bull about to charge, snorted that one word, and reached out a great hand to grasp a bunch of the messenger's clothing as though to shake the answer out of him.
"I know not, lord King," the man gasped. "My lord of Arbuthnott did not know. Only that he, the Earl Cospatrick, had come north from Deira with a host, a large host, and was burning and slaying far and wide in your Highness's province of Cumbria . . ."
Malcolm spat out an oath. "Damn you — to what end? What does it serve Cospatrick, foul fiend burn him, to ravish Cumbria? He has lands in Cumberland his own self — Allerdale, that he heired from his father."
"Perhaps it is not Cospatrick that it serves, but his new master William of Normandy?" the Earl of Angus suggested, who seemed less drink-affected than many. "It could be on the Norman's orders."
"Aye, that is likely. William! If William knows that I am here. . ."
"Lord King — my lord of Arbuthnott sent this word also. That folk he has captured, fleeing from the south, from York and Deira, say that King William is gready wroth. He is laying waste all that country, right to York, in the fiercest fury. Sparing neither man, woman nor child. For their support of the Atheling. He has even burned the great monastery and church of St. Peter. . ."
"Hear you that, man?" The King shook the sleeping prince. "William makes Deira pay for your failure. And sends Cospatrick north to lay waste my Cumbria, a curse on him!" Cumbria, the southern portion of the old British kingdom of Strathclyde, which stretched from Alcluyd or Dumbarton down to Lancaster, had been attached to the Scottish crown for over a century. Indeed, King Duncan had made his son, Malcolm, Prince of Strathclyde and Cumbria at the age of five. That was now the nominal tide of Malcolm's own son and heir, the young Duncan.
Edgar shook his head vaguely, looking bemused.
"A third word, Highness," the courier said. "My lord says that he has sure word that the new Earl of Northumbria, Robert de Commines the Norman, is slain. And near a thousand of his people with him. At Durham."
"The Comyn? God — who did this?"
"They say the Durham folk themselves. He was a hard man, hated. But my lord thinks that the Earl Cospatrick contrived it, on his way north. In revenge."
The King stared as though through the speaker. "It could be. . ."
"Aye — that is like that fox!" Angus exclaimed. "He deserts the Prince Edgar here, for Norman William — who had earlier displaced him as Earl of Northumbria and appointed this Comyn in his place. Then, sent north by William to ravage Cumbria, to distract ust he pays his debt to the Comyn on the way! With the Norman's men. The man is agile!"
"Comyn is no loss, at least! But this of Cumbria . . . ?" The King tapped the altar-top with blunt fingers. "Why? Why should William send Cospatrick there? To distract me? I do not threaten him, William."
"Perhaps he thinks that you do, Highness," Maldred put in eagerly. "Perhaps he thought that you were on your way south to support Prince Edgar also. With a great host. So, having suborned Cospatrick, bought off the Danes and put the Saxons to flight, he now would be rid of you. He is not to know that you were not aiming at him."
"True. . ."
"You were not coming to aid me, then?" the Atheling had awakened sufficiently to demand.
Malcolm ignored that. He could hardly explain that he had just been fishing in troubled waters, taking the opportunity whilst William and de Commines were otherwise preoccupied, to do what he best liked doing, raiding into Northumbria, striking terror into his cousin's former earldom, and gaining great booty, cattle and slaves in th
e process. Malcolm Canmore, despite his ancient throne, was no more than a robber chief at heart. Abruptly he rose from his bench. "This of Cospatrick, of Cumbria, must be dealt with. At once," he declared strongly. "We will waste no more time in sleeping. We march, Forthwith."
"But, Highness . . . !" Angus began. "This is what the Norman wants..."
"But nothing, man! It is what I want. Cumbria is mine. I shall not see it destroyed, to serve William's purposes. Or Cospatrick's either. And, by God, when I have cleansed it of my devil-damned cousin and his rabble, I will turn Cospatrick's Northumbria into a smoking desert that will make the Duke of Normandy's ravishment of Deira seem like a bairn's play! So — go rouse the camp. We ride, night or none."
"Sire!" the Atheling protested, rising up distinctly unsteadily. "What of me, in this? What of my mother and sisters? They cannot go riding the night, in war. . ."
"Nor shall they!" Malcolm told him grimly. "Women we can do without."
"What then . . . ?"
"You have your ships. The storm is abated. Go where you will."
"But . . . the ships are in no state to sail, to cross the Norse Sea. All are sore damaged."
"Then bide here until they are repaired, man. Seaworthy. There is timber here. Pull these hovels down. Their roof-trees will give you sufficient for your needs."
"But William could descend upon us. He will hear that we are here. We are but seventy miles north of York. . ."
"Christ God.— then go to Scotland, man! Aye, go to Scotland. It is none so far, by sea. Sixty miles to the mouth of the Scots Sea. Your galley will serve for that, safely enough. Go shelter in my realm meantime, with your women. But, see you — only them. Only the galley. I do not want those other ships, a flood of Saxons to support. Just the galley."
Edgar looked doubtful. "Scotland? I do not know . . ." He gnawed his lip. "What shall we do in Scotland? Where shall we go . . . ?"
"Go to my town of Dunfermline. You have been there before. In Fothrif. You will be well enough there. You can bide at Dunfermline until you know your own mind. Whether you go back to Hungary, or whether you try again to regain the throne of England."
"You are . . . kind. But — you will not be there. In Scotland. We may not be well received . . ."
"Maldred mac Melmore here will go with you. He will look to your comfort, man. Now — I must be doing."
"What of the others? The three other ships. . . ?"
"That is your concern, not mine. What would you have done with them had I not been here? See you to it. Maldred — conduct the prince to his quarters. You will bide with him and his women. Convey them to my palace at Dunfermline. When they have their craft ready to sail."
Maldred shrugged unenthusiastic shoulders. "If you so command, Highness. When will you return to Scotland?"
"When I have taught Cospatrick and the Northumbrians a lesson! Aye, and William too, it may be." The King was stamping for the door as he replied.
As Maldred led the uncertain Atheling — he seemed to have little head for liquor, as for coping with emergencies — through the village to the princesses' cottage, the bulls' horns were blowing the muster, a great wailing, and cursing soldiers were everywhere turning out, expressing their disgust in emphatic terms. At the 'cot-house, lit now only by the glow of the dying fire and the flickering flame of one candle placed beside the uncasketed Black Rood crucifix on the table, they found the ladies retired for the night but sitting up in their makeshift couches, aroused by the horn-blowing and noise, and wondering what was to do. The monk Oswald had found a decently discreet place to lay himself in that part of the hovel screened off and reserved for the cow — now no doubt eaten.
The prince announced the situation baldly. "There is trouble in Cumbria — invasion. Cospatrick again. King Malcolm marches. Now, forthwith. We are to go to Scotland. So soon as we can sail."
"Scotland!" That was in the nature of a chorus, from the m princesses.
"Scotland, yes. Malcolm says it. Only ourselves. Not the other ships."
"But why? Why Scotland?" his mother all but wailed. "We are going home. To Hungary. Not to that, not to that ..." She swallowed the rest.
"We cannot sail for Hungary, across the Norse Sea, with our vessel damaged as it is. Many oars short. The mast broken. Taking in water. We should never gain the other side. And we cannot wait here while the ship-men affect repairs. William the Norman is only seventy miles away. Less, it may be, by now. He will learn of our presence, nothing more sure. And will come for me. So we cannot, dare not wait. You know how that evil usurper would serve us! Scotland is the nearest, the only secure haven we could reach. We can limp that far north, sixty miles only . . ."
The Princess Agatha buried her face in her hands. "I want to go to Hungary, sweet Hungary," she exclaimed. "Not to that cold and barbarous land. Where they are not even true Christians!"
"Mother!" the Princess Margaret warned, indicating
Maldred. "At least they are offering us shelter and safety. Which is truly Christian."
"I have had enough of exile, of strangers, of war. I am not a young woman any more. I yearn for my father's house, my friends, the sunny land of my birth."
"I do not wish to go to Scotland either," the Princess Christina declared. "It is a rude, heathenish land. Let us put to sea, if William comes. He cannot reach us in the ships. Finish the repairs out in the bay. Then sail for home, when all is secure."
"Think you, girl, that William has no ships, no fleet?" her brother demanded. "You do not know what you say. He could send hundreds of vessels against us. Only the storm spared us from pursuit, I think. Now they will be out looking for us. Malcolm is right. The sooner we are in Scottish waters, the better."
"Besides, Scotland is better for our cause than is Hungary, surely?" Margaret put in. "For Edgar's cause. He will never win the throne of England, from Hungary. But from Scotland he might. That, no doubt, is why this King Malcolm is offering us refuge there. To hold us as a threat against the Norman. Let us be threat, then, God assisting us! Not just flee the scene, and leave all to the wicked usurper."
There was silence for a moment or two as they all stared at the lovely speaker, sitting up amongst the furs and blankets of her couch, in a shift which revealed rather more of her excellent upper parts than that piously modest young woman would be apt to demonstrate to male gaze. Maldred, for one, was lost in admiration. And not only on the physical plane. Clearly this princess had the spirit of the family. Arid shrewdness too, since she had so quickly perceived Malcolm Canmore's advantage in having the Athelings in Scotland.
The monk Oswald spoke, at their back. "What of Bishop Ethelwin and the others, in this, lord Prince?"
"He . . . they are not to come. King Malcolm was very strong on that. They must go . . . elsewhere. I am sorry, but that is his command."
"Go where?"
"I do not know." Testily the other said it. "Perhaps, perhaps to Denmark. Or Norway..."
"You —you will not leave us?" Agatha Arpad asked the monk, almost pleaded. "Stay with us, in God's mercy. If go we must to this heretical land. Where they do not recognise even the Holy Father in Rome, it is said. We shall need you sorely."
"If my humble services are required, Princess, and if Bishop Ethelwin agrees, I shall be honoured to remain with you..."
There was a commotion at the low-browed door, and the King himself stooped to stride in unannounced.
"Maldred," he jerked. "I may need more men. When you win back to Dunfermline, have MacDuff of Fife muster another host. Two thousand will serve. To be ready if I send for them. Ready to march with all speed to Cumbria. You have it?" He turned, to glower at the women. "I march within the hour, ladies. You will sail for Scotland so soon as you may. You will be safe there. Maldred mac Melmore will see to it. Until I return. The Prince, here, can go with you, or ride with me — whichever he pleases."
"Edgar — in sweet Mary Mother's name, do not leave us now!" the Princess Agatha cried. "You must not go. Sire — we need h
im. You do not."
"As you will. I but reckoned that he might wish to take a hand in settling his score with Cospatrick."
"No — he has his duty to me and mine, first. In this grievous coil. If go to Scotland we must, Edgar must accompany us."
"Aye. I think that I see why he has not won his English throne!" Malcolm said heavily. But he had scarcely looked at either the older woman or her son once during this exchange, his eyes being concentrated on her elder daughter's delectable person, so much more in evidence than was customary. Margaret must have been very well aware of his assessing gaze, but she ignored it, did not even make any special attempt to cover herself more fully or to huddle down in to the bedding like her sister Christina. Maldred admired her spirit the more.
"My brother did not win his throne because his reputed friends and William's reputed enemies, deserted him, Sire. Or never so much as lifted hand to aid. Although . . . nearby."
"Ha — you think so, girl?" The King stepped over, to where he could look down directly on her. "You conceive all to have a duty to rescue this prince?"
"I conceive that all who profess to hate the Norman usurper and his savage ways should have rallied to send him back to Normandy!"
"So-o-o! You are free with your opinions, for the daughter of a landless man!" he growled.
"But the grand-daughter of two great kings, Sire — Stephen and Edmund Ironside!" she gave back.
Margaret the Queen Page 3