Margaret the Queen

by Nigel Tranter

  "It is the King. His royal command. I am to take her to him. Forthwith. I am sorry, but. . ."

  "She is in her bed. You cannot mean this?"

  "It is the truth. Think you that I would be here, otherwise? The King requires her presence. Now."

  "But, but why?"

  "The good God knows! But he is in a strange mood — the King. And, and not to be kept waiting."

  Shrugging helplessly, the girl was turning away, to close the door in his face, when Margaret herself, a bed-robe thrown around her, her fair hair falling to her shoulders, appeared.

  "Maldred — did I hear you say that I was wanted?" she asked. "By King Malcolm? With Edgar? Only me?"

  "Yes. Only you. The prince, he will be there, I think. His Highness requests your presence, lady. For, for some reason."

  "Must I dress? I was in bed."

  "No, I think not. He said now."

  "So be it. I shall come."

  "And I shall attend you!" Magdalen declared strongly. "Let me get a wrap, to decent me ..."

  In no more tranquil frame of mind Maldred escorted the two young women downstairs, through the hall, now all but deserted save by staring servitors, out into the open courtyard across which they hurried, wrapping themselves more tightly against the chill night air, to the tower doorway and in, there to climb the narrow, winding turnpike stair to the first floor. Malcolm had slept here, apart from his wife, for some time, an obvious convenience when it came to- bringing in alternative bedfellows. The door of his chamber stood open. The two men within were well apart, the King sitting on the great bed pulling off his boots, while Edgar stood near the door, set-faced.

  "The Princess Margaret, lord King," Maldred announced, and ushered the pair in.

  The monarch looked up, peering a little, for the light from the one lamp and the flickering log-fire — here with a chimney fireplace — was poor, and his sight was not the best of him, especially when drink-taken.

  "So! Is this to be a council-meeting, then?" he growled thickly. "Would you wish an armed guard to be brought in also, young woman, to protect your virtue?"

  "I cannot believe that necessary, Highness," Margaret answered, mildly enough. "It is but seemly that the Lady Magdalen attends on me, always."

  "Indeed? We shall see about that!" But he did not actually dismiss her, or the others. "Come here, girl," he said. "I would look at you."

  It was indicative of Margaret Atheling's character that she did not shrink back, or even hesitate. Calmly she moved forward to the bedside, not so much as pulling her robe closer around her person. She halted only a foot or two from him, and there proffered the merest hint of a curtsy, with the flicker of a smile even.

  "Can you perceive my poor looks from here, Sire?" she asked. "If they disappoint, they are, I fear, all that the good God has endowed me with!"

  He stood up, swaying a little, eyeing her closely, comprehensively, unabashed, from her gleaming, cascading flaxen hair down to her bare ankles and slippered feet, lingering noticeably at the long, graceful column of her neck and the fine swelling of prominent breasts, their shapeliness entirely obvious in the low-cut sleeping-gown which her bed-robe failed to cover. If a slight flush did mantle her features and throat at this frank and assessing scrutiny, that was her only evident reaction. Her violet-blue eyes met his own pale ones, steadily, when at length he raised them that high again.

  "Aye," he said.

  Maldred was watching the King's great fists — his hands were notably large, like his head — which were clenching, knuckles white. If they reached out, to touch and grasp and tear, as they might so well do, as he had seen them do so often, God knew what might happen. The young man was aware that Edgar had taken a step forward, and that Magdalen was as tense as he was himself.

  Margaret it was, however, who took the situation in hand, slender but capable hands. Raising another smile, she curtsied again, a little lower this time — despite the dangerous effect on her bosom — and almost in the same movement stepped back a little, and drew her robe closer, but in a perfectly natural way, as though it was slipping, rather than any hasty covering up.

  "Is Your Highness content?" she asked lightly. "I do not offend? As guest in your house, I would not wish to displease you in anything, even in my looks. But now, Sire, since that is by with, I believe that you wish to speak with me? How can I, a mere girl, advantage you in this?"

  His powerful jaw-muscles working, Malcolm eyed her loweringly. "You . . . are . . . sure of yourself!" he grated.

  "But no, Sire. Quite otherwise. Since I do not perceive how I can advantage you. All that I am sure of is your royal clemency towards a weak woman, and those in distress. And God's concern for us both."

  There were a few moments of silence, save for the hiss and crackle of the log fire.

  "I desired to see you," the King jerked. "For sufficient reason." His glance travelled over her, once more. "I find you comely . . . but forward, malapert. And over-fond of deeming God to be yours for the beckoning! I say that such is . . . presumption."

  She inclined her head. "I constantly warn myself against the sin of spiritual pride," she conceded. "I accept that, at times, I speak more freely than I should. But I will not, dare not, limit God's love and care. For me, and for you. And all. Sinners as we are."

  He frowned. "You are worse than any priest!" He gestured roughly. "But enough of such talk. I ride to Strathclyde in the morning. To Alclyde and Renfrew and Kyle. To raise men. Then south to Tweed and Esk, to confront Norman William in his power. It will be hard fighting. This brother of yours, it seems, can aid me nothing. You, it may be, have more spirit. You were long at the Court of King Edward, so-called Confessor, your father's uncle? Ten years and more, were you not? You must know many of the Saxon lords of the north. Better than this Edgar. Lords who have some valour, some hardihood. Who hate the Norman usurper."

  "I know some, yes. But, Sire, if they did not already rise to aid my brother's bid for his throne, will they rise now? For you? Or, if they did rise, and are now scattered, like the Saxons with us, will they risk all again? So soon?"

  "There is a difference. A Scots army will now be facing William. Two armies, one on Tweed, one on Esk. This has not been, before. And Cospatrick is arrayed against him, in Cumbria. It is to encourage that fool cousin of mine, Cospatrick, as well as to make William look back over his shoulder, that I want the Saxons to muster behind him. Only to muster, as yet. Not necessarily to draw sword. The threat, I need."

  "If Your Highness had confronted the Norman with your Scots armies some weeks past, instead of waiting until now, I might now be sitting on my English throne and you not concerned for your borders," Edgar intervened, with an access of spirit.

  Malcolm ignored him. "Well?" he demanded, of Margaret.

  "Our Saxon friends here in your land will know better than I, Sire," she said. "Names, strengths . . ."

  "You, I ask! I shall use them as my messengers, never fear. Send them south. By sea. Tomorrow. Merleswegen, Maurice, Siward Barn and the others. But — I want the message to come from the Athelings. Not only from me. Give me names. Edgar here knows none — or so he says. Names, girl."

  She looked over at her brother, and then shrugged those fine shoulders. "There is Leofwine of Godmanham — he did not rise, although he has ever misliked the Normans. Eadwulf of Amunderness was said to be coming, but his force never reached our army. Eadred of Lastingham is old, but fierce enough. And the Eald of Craven is powerful, if timid. Athelstan and Eadwig are great Deira lords, of whom we saw naught . . ."

  "That is liker it. Can you write, girl? Then write these names on a paper. More, if you can think of them. Also write a command for them to muster. Your fine brother will sign and seal it, as true King of England! Maldred will have it ready for me before I see your Saxons in the morning."

  "Sire — we are indebted to you for hospitality, here," Edgar protested. "But this is high-handed! I, and my sister — we are not to be used so . . . !"

  "
Begone — all of you," the King said abruptly, and turning, began to remove his shirt.

  Eyeing each other, they all bowed hurriedly to the royal back, and left the presence, their reactions various.

  4

  IT WAS ON the Eve of St. Finian, eight days later, that the urgently awaited news reached Dunfermline. A messenger from Malcolm's headquarters in the Merse brought the tidings. William had turned back, without attempting to cross Tweed or Esk, whether because of threat to his rear from reported Saxon musterings, or otherwise, was not known. But the Norman was marching off southwards, apparently in a hurry. There had been no real fighting. The Scots were now, in consequence, raiding happily over into Northumbria again, to recoup themselves for their trouble and expense in coming there, and so would not return home empty-handed. Just when they would be back was uncertain therefore — but as it was late in the season for campaigning, it would not be overlong delayed.

  As well as these general tidings, the courier had two especial and private messages to deliver — by word of mouth, since Malcolm was no writer of letters, indeed could do little more than write his own signature. What he said to the Queen was between her and the messenger — although her set face thereafter held its own eloquence. But the royal instructions to Maldred mac Melmore were clear, brief and to the point. He was to escort the Queen forthwith to the palace of Kincardine in the Mearns, and there to leave her. With her household and gear. There was to be no question nor any delay. This was the royal command. The King did not desire to find his wife, or anything of hers, at Dunfermline when he returned.

  Appalled, Maldred listened, and then went off to commune with himself for a while, before presenting himself before Ingebiorg. When eventually he did come to her, however, he found her calm and the mistress of her emotions.

  "It has come to the parting of the roads, between Malcolm and myself, Maldred," she said. "A road which should never have been started on. I blame my mother and brothers for ever having agreed to this marriage. But that is an old story. I am to be removed, out of sight and sound. Far away. You are to take me to Kincardine, I understand."

  "So I am commanded. I, I am sorry, Ingebiorg."

  "You need not be. I have not been happy here. It is probably better so. I shall not miss my husband's company, I promise you!"

  "It will not be for long. His wrath will cool. . ."

  "Do not you believe it. He desires to be rid of me. I have known that for long. I shall not come back, I think. Indeed, I shall not bide long at Kincardine, if I can help it. I shall return to my own Orkney, so soon as I may contrive it. Although tell no others so, Maldred, I charge you. I shall shake the dust of Malcolm's kingdom from my feet."

  "But you are the Queen, Highness! Queen of this land. Mother of the two princes."

  "That is Malcolm's concern, not mine. He banishes me from his house and home. But, to be sure, I shall take my sons with me. If I am so unloved a wife, I am still a loving mother. The boys go with me, whatever Malcolm says. Did he command you to leave them here, Maldred?"

  "No. There was no mention of the princes, to me."

  "He is scarce a more fond father than he is a husband. Duncan and' Donald will suffer nothing from being deprived of his presence. And — they will give me the wherewithal to bargain. His heirs. Perchance I may need to bargain. Even, it may be, for my life!"

  He stared at her. "I do not understand him. The King. I cannot see what he is at. Why now? You have been wed near a dozen years ..."

  "If you cannot see, then you are blind, cousin! It is that Atheling woman who has brought this to a head. He finds her to his taste. Have you not seen how he eyes her? He is not a man for loving women — only their bodies. Most that take his fancy he can bed at will. But not this one, this Saxon. She is proud and sure of herself— and moreover, the sister of the rightful King of England. So she is out of his reach — at present and the more desirable therefore, to a man of his sort." "But. . . but now!"

  "Out of his way, he will feel the less constrained. If Malcolm is ever constrained!"

  Maldred shook his head. "She is not like that. She is good. Virtuous as she is fair. And strong, too. She would never permit him . . ."

  "She is all but his prisoner. And he is the King. Oh, I know that you too think much of her. I have seen you look at her, likewise! You, and others. No woman who affects men so is a saint — however much she talks of God and holiness! Watch her, Maldred my friend . . . !"

  The King's orders were explicit as they were imperative, as to an immediate departure — and Ingebiorg was nothing loth to be gone. So only two days elapsed in preparation, whilst word was despatched to Kincardine to have all in readiness to receive the Queen and her attendants. The eventual leave-taking was a strange and strained proceeding, with all aware that something was far wrong, the palace staff most careful as to how they reacted, the local people sad and alarmed — for the Queen was well-liked — the visitors uncomfortable, embarrassed somewhat, and keeping well into the background. The Queen herself was, not unnaturally, tense and reserved. She avoided anything like an admission to the Athelings that she was being sent away or that her departure was other than a normal and temporary visit to one of her other palaces. Nevertheless, something of the truth behind this sudden move inevitably percolated through to the guests, although nothing could be said. No especial dissension developed between her and Margaret, the latter being noticeably quiet and withdrawn.

  Maldred, in the end, was thankful to be on the road. There were numerous Kincardines in Scotland — the name merely meaning at the head of the rowan wood. Their destination was the royal hunting-seat of that name in the mortuath of the Mearns, near the eastern end of the vast vale of Strathmore, under the foothills of the Mounth, the great mountain mass of Drumalbyn. It was, in fact, the furthest away of the royal residences from Dunfermline — and chosen by Malcolm, no doubt, for that reason — involving a journey of almost one hundred miles, through Fife, Gowrie, and Angus. There were houses which the King could have claimed were his further north still, of course, in Moray; but these had belonged to his predecessors MacBeth and Lulach, of the northern branch of the royal house, both of whom he had slain — and after a dozen years on the throne, he still avoided that country and distrusted the Moraymen and Rossmen, for valid reasons. After all, MacBeth's son Farquhar was still alive and Mormaor of Ross, scornfully rejecting the non-Celtic title of earl.

  A less than cheerful party of about a score, with a long chain of pack-horses, they travelled as fast as they might, with a chill November wind and drizzling rain no encouragement to linger. Ingebiorg took only four of her ladies with her, two of them Orkneywomen, two pages and the rest servitors and guards. They went almost due north, over the spine of Fife, crossing the skirts of Benarty and the Lomond Hills to the Tay valley, to pass the first night at the large abbey of Abernethy, where the Abbot Ewan, who had once been High Judex, or Justiciar, of Scotland under MacBeth, welcomed them, the more warmly when the Queen revealed that she went in bad odour with her husband, and indeed was all but being sent into exile. Malcolm was not loved by the Celtic churchmen, for whom he had little use, and who had not forgiven him for the death of their friend the good MacBeth.

  They crossed Tay next morning by the ford of Elcho, east of St. John's Town of Perth, and turned north-eastwards to thread the Balthayock pass of the Sidlaw Hills into the head of Strathmore, by-passing Scone, moving within sight of the royal palaces of Dunsinane and Cairn Beth, only a couple of miles apart, the latter built by MacBeth for his Queen Gruoch who had found Dunsinane little better than a barracks. Strathmore, a wide and lovely vale, extended for some sixty miles eastwards to the Norse Sea, second only to the Great Glen of Alba itself in length, and much surpassing it in width and fertility. With the damp east wind off the sea in their faces all the way, however, even Strathmore's fair prospects palled, and Maldred for one chafed not a little at the comparatively slow pace they had to take. This was not on account of Ingebiorg or her ladies, all exper
ienced horsewomen, but because of the long file of pack-garrons laden with the Queen's personal possessions, clothing and the like. Needless to say, the young princes fretted even more than Maldred.

  The second night was passed at the cashel of Restenneth, near Forfar, where the Keledei entertained the royal visitor to the best of their ability. The hospices of these Celtic Church monasteries were the recognised halting-places for travellers of all degrees, the quarters simple and the fare plain but usually plentiful. Restenneth was a very ancient foundation, and better equipped than most, on a peninsula thrusting into its loch, having been founded by the Pictish King Nechtan, who was actually baptised here by St. Boniface after defeating the Angles in 685 at the great Battle of Nechtansmere.

  In twenty-five miles next day they completed their journey, arriving at the rambling hall-house establishment of Kincardine on the Devilly Water, near the village of Fettercairn, as the early dusk settled on the drenched land, with the great heather hills of the Mounth looming high over them to west and north, and a cold mist off the sea rolling in from the east. Colin, Mormaor of the Mearns, a man in his mid-forties and another former friend of MacBeth's, greeted them, his own seat, the Green Fort of Dundevilly lying only a couple of miles to the north.

  Kincardine, although pleasingly situated and commodious, was in a poor state to receive high-born ladies, having been unoccupied for long and consequently neglected. Malcolm Canmore had never favoured it, as his namesake and great-grandfather Malcolm the Second had, preferring as his summer or hunting palace the Ward of the Stormounth on Loch Clunie, between Gowrie and Atholl, much more accessible. The Mormaor Colin had done his best at very short notice to have the place cleaned up and made welcoming, with blazing fires and decorative greenery; but nothing could disguise the bare and unlived-in atmosphere. He indeed suggested that the Queen should come and lodge in his own house of Dundevilly meantime; but Ingebiorg, although grateful, declined, saying that the only way to turn the palace into a home again was to live in it, and that this endeavour could be good for her and her women, keeping them occupied along with the house.