"Yes. I fell . . . Oh, I have been a fool. I must have strayed from the road, the track. As it got dark. I did not realise it at first. But when I did, I turned back. But must have taken the wrong path. Hurrying, when I realised that I was lost in this wilderness, I fell over some stone in the heather. Turned my ankle. So I could not walk. I tried to limp, with the aid of a stick I found. But could not. . ."
"My dear, my dear. You would be afraid. Frightened. And in pain..."
"Not really afraid. More angry with myself. I was not frightened — until I heard a sort of howling. In the distance. I feared that it might be wolves. I realise now that it was your horn, only — such a witless dolt!"
"No! No — do not say it. Lost, and in pain . . . See." He pointed to a large heather-bed nearby. "There — you must sit. No — I shall carry you." It was an excellent opportunity to gather her up in his arms. She was a well-made creature and no light-weight. So he panted a little as he strode with her. "You must sit. . . rest... no more trying to . . . walk."
"Dear Maldred!" she said.
Sitting in the heather, his arm about her, she alean against him, they talked — but scarcely listened, so preoccupied were they both with each the other, their sheer physical presence and proximity. He explained that he knew of her errand for the healing water, that he had been as far as the hermit, knew of the crippled pilgrims and her sending of them on on her garron. She asked about his activities in England and when he had got back. But answering her in some measure, he was much more aware of the disturbing rise and fall of her swelling bosom under his arm and against his side; and when his hand somehow came to rest on that conveniendy projecting shelf, she did not appear to notice — or at least did not push it away.
Gradually they fell silent.
It was the man who spoke, at length, his voice different, a little husky. "You are happy, Magda?" "Yes."
He digested that, turned it this way and that, and decided that it was satisfactory, even encouraging, especially as she had not stirred in his arms, save for the pleasing rhythmic motion of her breathing.
"You are . . . content?" he pressed.
"Content, Maldred? No — I scarce think that is the word I would use."
"What I mean is ... we are here . . . just you and I. None other. It does not displease you?"
"Should it? After all, you have come to my rescue, found me. Should I not be pleased, be grateful?"
"It is not gratitude I want."
"What, then?"
"You, yourself."
She said nothing.
"We kissed each other."
"Yes."
"Was that. . . gratitude?" "Who knows? It might have been." "You named me your beloved, your, your heart's darling." "Did I. . . ?"
"Yes." His breath came out almost in a snort. "That is what you said. I would have an honest answer out of you!"
"This of question and answer. Is it. . . necessary?"
"Yes it is. I want to know where I stand."
"I thought that you, Maldred mac Melmore, were a man of deeds. Rather than words!"
"Deeds? What do you mean — deeds?"
"I mean, have done with all these words and questions. My dear, you kissed me roundly enough before, without talk! Should you not put it to the test again — and discover your answers, honestly? Like a, a good knight. . ."
She got no further words enunciated for some time.
But he was back to his words again, presently, if somewhat breathlessly. "Does this mean . . . that you care for me? Love me? Would be mine? Mine only . . . ?"
"Dear Mary Mother — must it be I who make the avowals? When you, when you have always mooned after Margaret Atheling, doting calf-eyed!"
"Me? Margaret — the Queen? Not so. How can you say it? Nothing of the sort. I admire her, yes. Esteem her greatly. And find her . . . kind. But that is all."
"I wonder. For she is beautiful, much more beautiful than am I. And notably attractive to men. And clever. Moreover she is fond of you ..."
"And you? You are all these things, and more. You are beautiful. And fine. And strong. And good — but not too good, I think! You it is I love . . ."
"So! You have said it, at last! I despaired that ever you would ..."
"Save us — why do you think I came searching for you, here? Near out of my wits!"
"Margaret might have sent you."
He actually shook her. Then he recollected belatedly. "The forester! The man Donald," he exclaimed. "He will still be searching for you. Up on the higher ground . . ."
He moved her — but only a little, not so drastically that
he could not retain his arm round her — to blow loudly on his horn, three short blasts and again three. They listened, but heard no response.
"He could be far away. Beyond hearing. Perhaps I should go back up to the track? Call him from there."
"Why so eager? Let him be. We are very well here, are we not?"
"How think you I am going to get you back to the Ward? We need him to go and bring back a garron. If he does not come, I shall have to go my own self. . ."
"No. You will not. You will not leave me now. We can bide here, very well. Keep each other warm."
"But. . . Margaret? The Queen. She will be anxious."
"For you? Or for me?" But she smiled as she said it. "She will survive the night. As shall we."
"Your ankle? Does it not pain you greatly?"
"Not when I do not move it."
"You must not get cold."
"I shall not — if you hold me sufficiently close."
"To be sure. . ."
Nevertheless, he blew on his horn again. And after the third attempt they heard a faint but distinct reply. Thereafter with regular blowings, he guided the forester down across the slanting moorland to them. Presently they saw the red gleam of his torch.
"At least we shall have a fire to warm us, while he is gone," Maldred said. "This old bog-pine burns fiercely. Full of pitch."
"I am none so ill as we are," she assured him.
Donald arrived, part congratulating, part commiserating. He helped Maldred gather a collection of bog-pine roots and splinters, with some dry old heather-stems for tinder, and they lit a fire from his torch, before he departed again for the Ward.
Thereafter, they reckoned, they had about two hours to wait — and envisaged no weariness or boredom in the interim. They did not actually tell the man not to hurry back, but Maldred urged that he should be very careful in his selection of a suitable garron to carry the sufferer home, a notably canny beast required, and not to rush his choice. Two hours, after all, was not a great deal for all the necessary private concerns they had to cope with.
Keeping that fire going developed into something of a distraction.
12
THEY CHOSE TO have a Yuletide wedding. It was not all natural and healthy impatience. The Queen's lying-in was due for late January, and Magda, as principal lady-in-waiting, was expected to be involved. For Maldred, too, an early marriage was advisable, since the nation was on continuous alert militarily, and few expected the coming spring campaigning season to be a peaceful one. King William was over in Normandy at the moment, teaching his eldest son, Duke Robert Roundlegs, a lesson in keeping his place, with his usual heavy hand; but he was expected back in England before long — and he was reported as having sworn to teach the Scots a lesson likewise when he returned. So all men who could bear arms were under notice to hold themselves in readiness for war, the leadership ranks in especial. _ So the wedding was held, in the midst of the now much muted Yuletide celebrations, on Holy Innocents' Day — which the wags found entirely suitable — 28th December. Maldred would have liked the ceremony to be performed quietly at his old home of Dunkeld, and Magda in agreement. But the Queen saw it otherwise. The union of her two true friends must be no hole-in-corner affair, she insisted — and she was certainly going to be present personally; after her return to Dunfermline at the end of November, there was to be no more riding the countr
y for her until after her delivery. So Dunfermline must be the venue, the abbey where she and Malcolm had been wed. She herself would see to all — since Magdalen had no kinsfolk in Scotland to arrange and pay for what was necessary. She, Margaret, might be handicapped physically meantime, but certainly was not otherwise. This would give her something absorbing to attend to, during the last weary weeks of waiting for her time. Magda confided in her husband-to-be that this was the Queen's way of purging her conscience over her initial resentment at the couple's announcement of betrothal — which Maldred had scarcely been aware of in his elation but which the young woman declared had been entirely evident although sternly swallowed. Be that as it might, most of the preparations were taken out of their hands, with all the expense. It was to be no quiet wedding therefore, with all the Court attending, the celebrant again to be Bishop Fothad of St. Andrews, the Chancellor, assisted by the Benedictine Oswald — since Malcolm would by no means have the monk Turgot back.
In the presence of the King and Queen and a large and distinguished company, they were joined together, Magda looking quite lovely in a lively, spirited way, with little hint of the blushing and demure bride. Prince Edgar, in theory her monarch, took her father's place, if less than enthusiastically, and Madach acted groomsman, with Kerald assisting the Bishop. Their father, the Primate, graced the occasion but did not officiate. Once again the Romish addition was longer and much more high-flown than the main Celtic service; but with the bride nominally of that persuasion this fell to be accepted.
Thereafter the banquet was almost as lavish as had been the royal one, the entertainment judicious, and once again the populace were well provided for, indoors this time in the abbey domestic premises. Also the poor, the crippled and the freed slaves fed, with the Queen herself going to serve them, taking the bride and groom with her. Malcolm perforce paid for all; and if he did not appear the soul of mirth and hospitality personally, at least he did not deliberately prevent others from enjoying themselves — save in the one respect, for the royal command now was that drinking should be in moderation only, the King himself showing an extraordinary abstinence compared with former days, however painful a process he appeared to find it. There were grumbles, naturally. Surely a wedding, his nobles and guests complained, was no occasion for this excessive holiness? Also, to be sure, there was none of the traditional and much-appreciated bridal-bedding ritual and high jinks, wherein the happy pair were publicly disrobed, the groom by the women guests, his partner by the men, amidst much practical advice and admonition, and thrown on to the nuptial bed together, there to demonstrate their fitness and aptitudes for the married state. Margaret would not hear of anything of the sort — and for this the couple were not ungrateful, however disappointed their friends. To ensure that no enterprise of a more private nature was perpetrated, Maldred had arranged that they should slip away during the waiting on the poor folk, and ride to Kerald's abbey at Culross six miles off, for the first night. The Celtic Church authorities were not difficult about such things. Thereafter they would go to the house and property of Bothargask, which was to have been Maldred's inheritance on coming of full age but which his father had presented to him now as wedding-present. Bothargask was in the Stormounth, not so far west of the Ward, and had been his mother's dowry.
It took them two days to reach that pleasant place, in the difficult, flood-water winter conditions; but they were in no hurry any more, all they saw and experienced holding a new significance for them. At Bothargask, a smiling house of moderate size set on a shelf of the birchwoods above Botharstone Loch, they settled in to the magic, intriguing, timeless business of learning more about each other, all about each other. The weather was consistently bad, cold, with gales, driving rain-squalls and sleet. But they cared nothing, more than content with what they had, blazing fires, a sufficiency of food and drink, a discreet housekeeper and her woodman husband, who kept largely out-of-sight — and themselves. To make love on skin rugs before an aromatic birch-log fire, listening to the distant howling of the wolves, the whine of the wind round the house and the blatter of rain, was something never to be forgotten.
With both hands and full hearts they grasped their happiness and felicity.
All too soon it was time to return to Dunfermline. The Queen expected to be delivered about the Feast of Candlemas and it was felt advisable for Magda to be available at least two weeks earlier.
They were back only just in time. The child came early, after a short but fierce labour — which Margaret bore a lot better than did her husband, who stamped the palace like a man distracted, and all but throtded a servant who was so injudicious as to grin in the royal presence. He had not behaved like this at Ingebiorg's two deliveries. An hour after midnight, on the Eve of St. Agnes, a lusty squalling boy was born — and by the hour of Lauds thereafter, Margaret was giving thanks in divine service at her bedside, attended by her mother, brother, sister and Magda. But not the happy father, who was quite drunk, for the first time for months. When the monk Oswald finished, the Queen announced that the child would be named Edward — although Malcolm had talked about calling him after himself if it was a boy. It would be the first time that a Scottish prince had borne a Saxon name.
Bells rang that day in every abbey, monastery and church possessing such, which the royal command could reach in time.
Margaret made a notably swift recovery, the child throve and the King doted on both in his rough and abrupt fashion. He was for ever taking the infant up out of its cradle and marching around the house with it, showing it to all he encountered, behaving like any youthful father with a first-born — which, considering he had the two princes, Donald and Duncan, bestowed away out of sight with his half-brother Donald Ban in remote Mamlorn, and had fathered innumerable bastards up and down the land, was unexpected to say the least. Margaret herself, although the fond mother, was entirely sensible about the matter, and indeed not infrequently requested the monarch to leave the child alone, in less than subservient tones.
Malcolm declared that this was the son who should one day succeed to his throne — a statement which raised eyebrows and caused sundry wise heads to shake.
Margaret, however, was not above making good and effective use of her curious husband's post-natal euphoria, as had many a wife before her. She impressed on him that thanksgiving should be practical as well as verbal, outgoing not self-centred. God had been markedly good to them, and there was much that they ought to do to demonstrate their gratitude in the way of thank-offerings. For instance, there was the matter of the Saxon slaves. Thanks to Maldred's efforts, she had been able to purchase the freedom of a great many. But there were as many more still held captive. It was surely unsuitable that with a Saxon queen and a half-Saxon prince, Scotland should hold Saxons as bondmen, like dumb beasts? Could he, the King, not decree their freedom from slavery, at least? If they could not be sent home, let them remain as honest servants, freed men?
Malcolm promised to think about it.
More fax-reaching, if less expensive, a suggestion concerned some reform in religious matters and observances, she pressed. The Columban Church was strong in some ways, sincere, with certain virtues. But it was inadequate for its task, mistaken in some respects, gravely erring in others. Detached from the rest of Christendom, it had ceased to grow and burgeon, like a branch torn from a great tree. It required to be grafted on anew — or in time it would wither and die. To Scotland's sore hurt and Almighty God's grief.
The King, who had little interest in the subject, found it easier to accede that this might possibly be so. But what could be done about it?
A conference, she declared. A great council of churchmen. And others. The Keledei in especial. To discuss the entire issue. To debate what reforms could and should be made, to establish the eternal verities, standards, excellencies. Malcolm was doubtful but did not say her nay. And that was sufficient for Margaret Atheling.
Maldred was quickly drawn into the business. He must help the Queen to arran
ge such a council. It should be held during Lent, before Easter — for the mistiming of Easter was one of the major errors of the Scots Church. It would be best if the assembly was called by the Primate rather than the King. Maldred must get his father to allow the summons to be sent out in his name. Supported by Bishop Fothad's. All abbots and bishops invited to attend, with representatives of the Keledei and priesthood. They would hold it here at Dunfermline, in the eating-hall of St. Ternan's — she called it the refectory.
Maldred was as doubtful as was Malcolm, more so probably. Where was the need, he wondered? The Church was none so ill. It could look after its own affairs, surely? Would the churchmen come, indeed?
They would come, she asserted confidently. Especially if the Earl Melmore asked them. The Church, reformed, could be endowed with broad lands.
* * *
The first Council of Dunfermline was held on St. Duthac's Day, 8th March 1072, well-attended as Margaret had prophesied. Earl Melmore of Atholl opened the proceedings formally in the presence of the King and Queen, but Bishop Fothad presided. There were some dozen abbots attending, twice that number of bishops — for in the monastic Celtic Church abbots were the senior, some having as many as half-a-dozen bishops under them — although the bishops performed certain sacramental rites which the abbots did not. There were some thirty senior Keledei and an equal number of priests and monks of various categories. The Keledei or Friends of God were a special order within the Church, in theory more strict, more learned, more authoritative in matters of doctrine. Many of the abbots and bishops were of that order. As well as the clergy there were a few secular folk present, but apart from Margaret, only three women — her mother, sister and Magda. The Athelings' confessor, Oswald, sat behind the Queen, for consultation if need be. Oddly enough, Cospatrick of Dunbar had elected to attend, little of a churchman as he was.
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