* * *
Dunkeld lies in the south of Atholl, only just within the Highland Line — otherwise it would have been very hard to reach at this season of the year. As it was, with the broad Tay and all its tributary streams running high, the Pass of Birnam was difficult enough to negotiate — although it would have taken considerably more than that to hold up these three brothers.
The Abbey and College lay amongst the riverside haughs, in splendid woodlands, surrounded by steep forested foothills, the second most holy place in all Scotland after Iona. Around them huddled the quite sizeable township of cot-houses and hovels, with the monks' orchards, farmeries, mills, tanneries, fish-hatcheries, bakehouses and the like, a self-contained community. And high above, on the summit of a jutting rock, guarding the mouth of the Pass of Dunkeld itself, reared the rath or defensive hall-house of the Primate, Hereditary Abbot and Mormaor — now Earl — of Atholl, built on the site of the former Pictish dun or fort which gave the place its name — the Dun of the Keledei, or Castle of the Friends of God.
This eagle's-nest of a house in the very jaws of the Highlands was home to the young mac Melmores, a wonderful place for boys to have been reared, even though it had had a bloody past, abbey and rath having been burned by Norsemen only forty years previously, and their grandfather Crinan, King Duncan's father, slain whilst in revolt against MacBeth at the Battle of Dunkeld a score of years later. Their parents welcomed them warmly, quietly rejoicing in this surprise home-coming. Melmore mac Crinan was a deal more abbot than earl, a gentle and studious man, and much more suitable Primate for Scotland than most of the long line of warriors from whom he descended. Much the youngest of Crinan's three sons by Malcolm the Second's daughter Bethoc, he had been too young to be involved in the wars of succession in MacBeth's time, and had spent the years of exile in a monastery, not fighting and plotting. Now, a man in his mid-fifties, he took little part in national affairs, save those connected with the Church — which, being non-hierarchal and non-diocesan, did not go in for much of organised ceremonial or conclave on a national scale — well content to stay at home and administer his widespread mortuath of Atholl. He and his nephew Malcolm had little or nothing in common, save blood. His wife, the Lady Annalie, daughter of a former Thane of Calatria, was a comfortable, motherly soul, as well content with a stay-at-home husband — and who could have wished that her sons were like-minded.
Madach, the heir, was of course full of the recent successful campaign in Northumbria — and had brought home a string of pack-horses laden with booty to prove his prowess. He had the good sense, however, not to dwell upon the savageries and destruction inseparable from King Malcolm's warfare and raiding. Maldred for his part was as full of the situation at Dunfermline, of the Queen's banishment and of Margeret Atheling's excellencies — he tended to play down her strictures against the Celtic Church, for obvious reasons. Kerald, who was a moderate and thoughtful youth, very like his father, had as ever the least to say — but of course he had only recently been home for Yuletide. He did, however, say that his abbot at Culross, Bishop Fothad of St. Andrews, the Chancellor of the realm, and other Church leaders, were much concerned over the Queen's situation and anxious to effect a reconciliation. The Earl Melmore agreed, strongly for that mild man, and said that he would write a letter to the King, as Primate as well as uncle.
So pleasant weeks passed, energetic weeks of hunting and hawking and fishing, of climbing amongst the snow-peaks, of skating on the high lochans, of great eating and talking and boasting, after the fashion of young men, of long evenings of story-telling and music and dancing round the hall fires — and if sometimes Maldred's thoughts turned longingly to feminine company back at Dunfermline in Fothrif, he did not express it in words.
Then, in the fourth week of their stay, with the recognition that it could not go on for much longer beginning to colour their thoughts, the astonishing, appalling news reached Dunkeld — the Queen was dead, Ingebiorg Thorfinnsdotter had died at Kincardine.
At first they could scarcely credit it, or take it in. She had always been a notably hale and healthy woman, and was still not thirty years old. But when confirmation of a sort came, in the form of details that she had died of a bloody flux, on St. Matthew's Eve, they had to accept at least the fact of death.
Dunkeld, like the rest of the land, was stunned. The Queen had been well-liked. Popular was scarcely the word, but admired and approved of by the great and the common folk alike, as her husband had never been nor sought to be. And, needless to say, it did not take long for the rumours of poison to arise and grow and circulate. Any sudden death of the prominent was apt to be explained away so, by the sensationally-inclined — but this was particularly fertile ground for it. The King's lack of affection for his wife was well known. The death had happened after messengers from Malcolm had arrived at Kincardine demanding the return of the young princes to his keeping — and being refused. She had shown no previous signs of illness. Thereafter, the King had ordered a swift and private burial, which he had not attended — just where was not stated, but in no suitably prominent place evidently. And, most significant of all, it was recollected by the older folk that Malcolm's father, King Duncan Ilgarach, or Bad-Blooded, had been known as a poisoner, his doing away with certain Danes by the use of meiklewort, or hemlock, notorious.
So the kingdom buzzed with talk and conjecture and apprehension — for if the King could do such a thing, what mightn't he do? Fear also for the consequences. For what would the Norsemen do, the Queen's brothers, the Earls Paul and Erland of Orkney, Zetland, the Hebrides and Galloway, when they heard? Dunkeld was not the only place in Scotland to have been burned and ravaged by the Vikings in the not-too-distant past. The young earls were not so fierce as their tremendous father, the Raven Feeder, but their Vikings were as tough and savage as ever, and if they suspected poison could they do other than launch their dreaded longships?
Maldred, although he did not love the King and had been quite fond of Ingebiorg, refused to believe in the poison theory. Even admitting Malcolm's ferocity in raiding, his utter ruthlessness and contempt for human life, he would not have done this, surely? The consequences were too obvious, the danger to his realm apparent, the entire conception too stupidly heavy-handed. The Earl Melmore agreed, as did Kerald — but Madach was not so sure. Madach said that Malcolm would get rid of anyone who stood in his way, man, woman or child. Ruthlessness was not qualified, save only by expediency. If the King considered the dangers were worth risking, as related to the benefits, he would not shrink at wife-murder or poison.
If Maldred were to accept that, he could in conscience no longer go on serving the monarch as esquire and standard-bearer. So he did not accept it. He said that he would have to go back to Dunfermline. Madach also declaring that if there was trouble with the Orkney earls, he would be needed. Kerald could claim no such urgent recall, but decided that his abbot would expect his return.
The three brothers set off southwards, then, in a different frame of mind from their northwards journey, holiday-making over.
5
IN THE CIRCUMSTANCES, Maldred was surprised at the air of normalcy which prevailed at Dunfermline on his return to Court — surprised and even a little shocked. It was almost as though the Queen had never been. No mourning was in evidence, no sense of loss or even of change, certainly no aura of guilt or apprehension. Presumably stories of poison did not penetrate here, or if so were carefully ignored.
He was surprised, too, at the altered state and standing of thje Athelings, as revealed that first evening, within an hour or so of his arrival, at the meal, almost a banquet, in the hall. The King, who had received the mac Melmores back briefly casual, seemingly unconcerned and in comparatively good humour for that man, came in to seat himself at the head of the long table, with Margaret and Edgar on his right and left, and Princess Agatha, Christina and the Saxon and Hungarian lords who remained, at the other end, where the Queen had used to sit. All the visitors, save perhaps Marga
ret herself, seemed more at ease and assured than heretofore.
Maldred found a seat beside Magdalen of Ethanford at mid-table.
"A change since I went to Atholl," he murmured. "Is it for the better?"
She shrugged. "Who knows? Some find it so." "And you do not?"
"Me? Who am I to judge? A mere waiting-woman."
"But the Lady Margaret's friend. She sits now at the King's right hand. And her brother at his left."
"Think you she chooses that? However well it suits others."
"Edgar? Her mother?"
"He is not now being told to go prowling through England. Or to remove himself to Hungary. And she, the Lady Agatha, sees her daughter as Queen of Scotland, one day!"
"Dear God!"
"You are surprised? After the way your King eyes her, seeks her company, speaks to her? He desires her, and does not hide it."
"But... the Queen. New dead . . . !"
"He was at it long before she died. You know it. But now, he is the more eager, more pressing, more hopeful."
"And, and she. . . ?"
"She wants none of him. But she does not reject him out-of-hand. For the sake of her family. And for Edgar's hopes of the English throne. I fear for her."
"But. . . always you said that she could well take care of herself. That she was strong. A match for any man."
"She is, yes. But it is different now. She is not thinking only of herself. Before, the King had a wife. Now he is the more dangerous."
"She would never wed him," he decided, with conviction.
"Not from choice. But princesses are seldom allowed to wed from choice. And there is much at stake. A kingdom, possibly. If Edgar could call his sister the Queen of Scotland, use your Malcolm's name and power to help him against the Normans, he would be greatly strengthened. In rousing the English to fight for him. You must see that."
"Yes. But would she? Sacrifice herself?"
"She might well. For Edgar's sake. And her mother's. To turn their dream into truth. If not, what have they? Nothing. Only failure. In Hungary, little to go back to. Safety, that is all, they say."
"So Edgar urges her to this, this infamy! To give herself to Malcolm, fiend take him!"
"I do not know. Edgar, I think, is torn in two ways. For he hates King Malcolm, in truth, and is fond of his sister. It is their mother, I believe, who is eager. She sees it the answer to prayer!"
Maldred snorted, and attacked his venison angrily. It was some time before he could bring himself adequately to appreciate the company he was presently keeping. Which was a pity, for it should have been excellent enough for any young man.
At least the new Atheling influence improved the quality of the evening's entertainment, Margaret managing to dilute and modify the steady eating and hard drinking, with music and song and the like, in a way that Ingebiorg had never prevailed on Malcolm to agree to. Drunkenness, as a consequence, was much reduced.
For all that, Maldred went to bed an unhappy young man.
Next day, he sought to speak with the King alone — and found it more difficult than he had anticipated. Previously it usually had been easy enough to contrive, for the monarch's esquire, for Malcolm was hardly a sociable man and company was apt to keep its distance discreetly. But now he always seemed to be surrounded by the Athelings and their hangers-on. Where formerly he had all but ignored and neglected them, now he sought them out, arranged activities and entertainments for them — in especial Margaret, of course, but she was adept at including others — and behaved generally like any man in the throes of courtship. Which was, his young cousin considered, for a middle-aged warrior-monarch of fierce, not to say ferocious, reputation, ridiculous, unsuitable and quite deplorable.
To add insult to injury, Maldred found himself dispossessed from his accustomed quarters in the palace, his room in the main hall-house having been allotted to the Earl Cospatrick and his family; for while he had been away in Atholl, Cospatrick had brought his children north from Bamburgh, four of them — Dolfin, the eldest and illegitimate, aged twelve; Waldeve and a second Cospatrick, aged ten and eight; and a daughter, Ethelreda, seven. This was quite good going, considering that the Earl himself was only twenty-nine. He had fetched them, not so much because he could not bear to be parted from them, his wife dead, as because of the conditions now prevailing in Northumbria as a result of the Scots activities, famine rife so that even cannibalism was reported and people dying like flies in the hard winter owing to their homes having been burned, their beasts driven off, their corn and forage destroyed. Bamburgh had been unable to replenish its storerooms after the siege, in consequence.
So the little palace on the Forth was overcrowded indeed, and Maldred and Madach, like others, had to go to find lodgings with the monks at St. Ternan's monastery. This was no great hardship, for it was less than half-a-mile away, and the Keledei were friendly and practised hosts; but it was an obvious demotion — and on account of the renegade Cospatrick, to make it worse — and it also meant that Maldred saw less of preferred feminine company, inevitably.
Nevertheless, it was from this other cousin, Cospatrick, that Maldred did learn something of the King's attitude and anticipations, in the present situation. The Earl was scarcely popular at Dunfermline, in the circumstances, and seemed to find his young kinsman preferable company to most of the Scots nobles. His was an extrovert, swashbuckling character which required an audience, and Maldred was sufficiently junior not to be able to rebuff him but at the same time of near-royal blood. After a slightly-veiled insult from Hugh O'Beolain, Abbot of Applecross, the second afternoon, he confided in Maldred that these pestilent Scots lords would be singing another song shortly, when they would be thankful for the services of an experienced soldier who knew more of warfare than burning peasants' hovels.
"You think that there will be warfare? Fighting?" Maldred said. "Soon?"
"Certainly. Only a fool would not."
"The King is no fool, my lord. Does he think so? He shows nothing of it."
"Malcolm knows the danger, boy. That is why he is glad to have me here."
"Is it so? This war — where will it come? Where strike?"
"It could come anywhere. At any time. William is no laggard — as I know well! He will not linger, licking his wounds. But now Malcolm has others to look out for. The Norse."
"You mean the Orkneymen? Paul and Erland?"
"These too. But they are scarce the main threat. I mean the true Norse, the Viking host. King Olaf."
"Olaf the Farmer is no warrior. Unlike his father, Harald Hardradi. And what has he against Malcolm?"
"He may deem sufficient. Even though the Orkney earls do not call him in. Our cousin Ingebiorg was also his, you will mind. His mother's sister's daughter. Kings mislike such . . . incidents."
"The Queen's death?"
"Aye — with the putting of her away first."
"I had forgot that Thorfinn Raven Feeder's wife was sister to Harald Hardradi's. The King — Malcolm? Does he perceive this danger?"
"Oh, yes. As you say, he is no fool. Even though I say that he has acted foolishly this time."
"Foolishly? Is that how you name it, my lord?"
The other looked at him carefully. "You would say differently?"
Maldred was equally careful. "Many would — and do — say worse."
"This talk of poison, you mean?"
"You know of that? Does he know — Malcolm?"
"He it was told me."
"He did? And what did he say? More?"
"He laughed."
"Laughed! Does he not care? Care for his name and repute, if nothing else? Care for the danger this may bring on his kingdom?"
The Earl shrugged. "Who knows? If he does, he does not let it trouble him. But — he is ready to muster at short notice."
"When it might be too late ..."
The following day, of strong frost — February being the hardest month of the Scots winter — the monarch led his guests to a bonspiel or ice-carniv
al at Loch Leven, where Maldred had taken the young women to see the birds in November. The loch, being shallow but extensive, was famous for freezing over, and folk flooded to it from far and near. It was a dozen miles from Dunfermline, so that an early start had to be made. Indeed it was barely light when they set out, and to brighten things up in that biting cold, servitors rode with blazing torches in a long double line, very romantic-seeming. Maldred could not remember the King having done anything of this sort before.
The sun had risen over the Lomond Hills to the east by the time they reached their destination, and the loch was a glittering, gleaming expanse which hurt the eyes, morning smokes rising blue against the white from the islands, on one of which was the cashel of St. Serf, an offshoot from Culross, and on another a small Pictish fort, now used as a fishing-station.
Fairly constant movement was necessary for the distinguished company to keep warm, but there was no lack of activities — skating, individually, in formation and in races, curling, a form of ice skittles, sledging, with contests, man-drawn and horse-drawn, fishing for the large loch-trout through holes in the ice. This last was scarcely a warmth-inducing pastime but it could be combined with the bonfires lit on the ice, it being suggested that the heat attracted the fish. This lighting of fires on ice was contrived by insulating the surface with a thick mattress of green yew branches on which were spread layers of fresh, untanned deer-skins, hide-up, the firewood being lit on these and the ice not melting appreciably. There was the music of fiddles and pipes, for dancing, even.
Margaret the Queen Page 9