Margaret the Queen

by Nigel Tranter

  "Robert of Normandy — if you have anything to say to me more cogent than these idle threats and insolences, come and say it here. I do not conduct my affairs by unseemly shouting. You will be quite safe — you have my royal word."

  There was a distinct interval on the other bank, with heads together. Then a party of approximately the same numbers as their own reined forward under the English standard.

  As the newcomers splashed across, they became less splendid than it had seemed at longer range. Their faces looked tired, strained and grey, actually ingrained with soot — the more easily discerned in that they were all clean-shaven and short of hair. Their fine linen surcoats, too, over the rather rusty chain-mail, were streaked with black and the char-holes left by burning embers. That last fifty miles through Lothian had left its mark. When they clambered up on to the islet, however, they did have one advantage over the fresher Scots — they sat much higher on taller, finer horses than the sturdy but squat garrons.

  The man in the white-painted mail, on a magnificent black charger, was slightly-built and in his early thirties, bullet-headed and round of features. There was a distinct likeness to his father, but the strength of character was not there, even though he was scowling fiercely. Clearly he was surprised, and a little put out, to find a woman present. He jerked a mere nod.

  "Lady!" he said briefly, then turned. "You are Malcolm . . . ?"

  "I am. In granting you this audience, Duke Robert, let it be understood that I make notable concession. For your royal father's sake — whom I hear is confined to his sick-bed by grievous wounds. I should not otherwise have granted audience to an armed invader of my realm, I promise you!"

  "You, sir, are no longer in a position to grant or to withhold audience — since you no longer are King!" the other gave back. "Did you not hear? My royal father has deposed you."

  "Then his wounds, sirrah, must have affected his wits! Where did you strike him? On the head?"

  The Duke glared. "Mind how you speak, sir — for your words will fall to be paid for! And sweetly."

  "On my soul, man, I speak as I will. If you have aught to say to me, other than vain incivilities, then say it — and begone."

  "Very well. Hear this. You, Malcolm, swore an oath of allegiance to my father. Before due witnesses — some of whom are here present. You took him to be your Lord Paramount, your kingdom a fief of his. You swore that his enemies should be your enemies. And that you would no more invade his territories. You broke that solemn oath. You invaded Northumbria, with fire and slaughter. You aided my father's rebels there. None of which you can deny. . ."

  "I do so deny — all of it. I swore fealty only for my own lands in England. As must any man. I did not invade Northumbria — I went there at the express invitation of the duly appointed and lawful lord and governor there the Bishop Walchere of Durham. As to fire and slaughter, I made only some due punishment for the grievous murder of the Bishop and governor, by his rebellious levies. Then returned home."

  "You burned half the North, sir! Hexham town, and others. Due punishment, you name it. . . ?"

  "I but made a gesture, as was proper. As your sire's friend. Did not your uncle, the Bishop Odo, come north thereafter and do the same? Only in more notable fashion!"

  Robert coughed. He and his Uncle Odo did not agree. "It was invasion, however you name it. You came to pillage and steal. We know your intent — to try to take Northumbria for Scotland. An act of war, in clearest violation of your oath. . ."

  "I have stated my intent. Do you, sir, know it better than I? I came to assist Walchere the governor, who had rebellion on his hands. And died of it."

  "So you say now. But I am not come to trade tales with you, sir. I am here to convey to you, and to execute, my father's royal will and commands. To pronounce your deposition..."

  "May I speak, my lords?" Margaret put in, clear-voiced. "Of your charity, hear me. Lest there is further misunderstanding. My father-in-God, the good Archbishop Lanfranc, spoke with you, my lord Duke, before you came north?**

  Warily, at mention of Lanfranc's name, the Norman eyed her. "No, lady. I did not see him. I take my orders from the King, not the Archbishop of Canterbury."

  "To be sure. But he is your father's good friend, as he is mine. He was of necessity concerned to deal with much, in England, whilst you and your royal sire were away on foreign wars. Much that you do not understand, it seems."

  "I understand invasion and war, lady. And my father's commands."

  "Archbishop Lanfranc is not concerned with invasion and wars, my lord. Nor am I. Nor, in this present instance, was my lord the King, here. It was Holy Church we sought to serve."

  Robert frowned. "I cannot see how Holy Church is concerned."

  "But it is, it is. In two respects." The Queen's glance flickered momentarily towards Maldred. "Bishop Walchere's plan was for the coming together of the Northumbrian and Scottish Churches. The other, is this of the Papacy."

  "Papacy . . . ?" Bewildered, the other stared from her to Malcolm, and back.

  "Do you not know, my lord? What is afoot? Worse, does your father not know? That his brother is secretly negotiating to become Pope?"

  "God's Blood —Pope! Odo? No — I'll not believe it! He is . . . this is . . . what canard is this?"

  "We have it on excellent authority. That Bishop Odo has been working to this end for long. Whilst he has been governing England in King William's absence. But — your royal father must know of this? For we have heard that he is much against the notion. Archbishop Lanfranc would surely have told him. The Archbishop has said that he would sooner die than see Bishop Odo as Pontiff."

  "If my father knows, he has said naught of it to me," Robert declared. But he looked uneasy, uncertain. "It concerns my mission nothing."

  "It may be that your father does not know all." That was Malcolm taking up the argument. "To be sure he has been out of England for years, and is not long back. And he came back sick, wounded. With much to see to, no doubt. He may well not know all. That Odo has been milking the Treasury and the taxation for long, in order to pay his supporters in Rome — the cardinals and bishops, for the election. Has been using the fines he imposed as Chief Justice of England. Has been buying many lords and their men, for his cause, with the aid of his friend William fitz Osbern. And gaining his own creatures and chaplains bishoprics in England, helped by his other friend, Thomas, Archbishop of York. Forming a party. . ."

  The stir amongst the group of nobles behind the Duke had become very noticeable, particularly at the mention of these names, as jealousies and rivalries amongst the Normans rose to the surface. These men were, in the main, those who had been away in France fighting William's battles for him, and were more than ready to believe that those who had stayed behind in England had been stealing a march on them, gaining whilst they were absent. That wily veteran, William fitz Osbern, was particularly unpopular — he was father of Ralph, the Earl of Hereford who had led the late rising and was now in a Normandy prison. And Archbishop Thomas was as suspect, always Odo's man and enemy of Lanfranc.

  Robert turned to consult those closest at his back, in especial one grizzled warrior, only the cross and mitre described on his surcoat indicating that he was a prelate, Bishop Geoffrey de Coutances. That old comrade-in-arms of the Conqueror shrugged and shook his grey, cropped head, tonsure just visible, clearly unable to inform.

  De Warrenne, Earl of Surrey, spoke — he was Robert's brother-in-law, being married to Gunhild, William's youngest daughter. "If this is so, it will demand betterment. We shall discover, and act. But — it does not concern our business here, my lord Duke."

  "No. So say I. . ."

  "Does it not?" Malcolm shrugged. "That is for your decision, to be sure. But — if you fight me here, there will be the fewer of you to fight Odo later! And I promise you, I will fight! I am strongly placed — and have other forces to throw in. And you have a long road to go home to Winchester! Is it no concern of yours, to play into Odo's hands, by throwin
g away much of King William's army?"

  Although there were growls, that obviously made some impact.

  "My lord Duke — why consider fighting and slaughter when reason and exchange and wise commerce are to the best advantage of all?" Margaret was concentrating on Robert Courthose. "When you can gain your interest by negotiation, why shed blood? You, husband, also?"

  "What do you mean?" the Duke demanded.

  "What is your concern here? Your principal concern — why you have come all this long road. To fight? Or to restore your father's best relationship with Scotland? If this, then surely it can be done by using the wits God gave us rather than by taking lives He gave us? You know now that the Scots expedition to Northumbria was not invasion, as seen by us. But in answer to Bishop Walchere's invitation; who, with Lanfranc was no doubt concerned with Odo's growing ambitions and power, in your father's absence. King Malcolm has declared that he had no intention of invading England. That he went as King William's friend. That he has not broken his oath. No doubt, if you question that, he will swear it again — the oath which he kept well for seven years. All should be as it was. Is that not good sense? The best for all?"

  There was silence there on the mud-bank, save for the champing of horses' bits, as men eyed each other. Even Malcolm looked at a loss, uncertain.

  "You would swear it again? As before?" Margaret went on, urgently, turning to him. "Would you not, my lord King? Put all back as it was, at Abernethy. None so ill? It suited King William then — it should suit him now. And this great English host can then return to him — and be to his hand for dealing with Bishop Odo."

  For long moments Malcolm did not answer her, his heavy features working. Then he nodded. "Yes," he said briefly. "The same. As Abernethy."

  The Duke looked at them doubtfully, suspiciously. Then, chewing his lip, he turned in his saddle to mutter to his advisers. He turned back.

  "We shall consider this," he said. "We shall inform you. Presently."

  "Do that," the King jerked. "Although — we would do better to fight it out here and now, I think!" And he reined round his garron and plunged back through the press of his supporters without another word to any, and into the river. In some confusion, some waiting for the Queen, the Scots followed.

  Back on the north bank, Malcolm rode directly on to the monastery. Margaret lingered however, looking back.

  "How think you, Maldred?" she asked. "Will they do it? I did what I could. I... I did not lie. You heard — I said no lie?"

  He nodded. "You did well, very well. Whether they will heed, who can tell? You have sown doubts in their minds. But Malcolm — would he take the oath again?"

  "What has he to lose? He would make it with the same reservations as before..."

  The situation across the river caught their attention. The great mass of the enemy force was now coming up, spreading widely across the levels, a daunting prospect. Duke Robert and his group were over on the south side again — but it was not at their great oncoming host that they were looking, but to the south-west, where, at a tangent, two horsemen were making for them at a gallop, lashing their mounts. Even at a distance their urgency was very evident.

  "News," Maldred said. "I wonder. . . ?"

  The Norman leaders waited for the two riders. After they came up there was much gesticulation, looking and pointing south-westwards.

  "They are disturbed," the Queen said.

  "It could be Madach, from that airt. Come from Caer-luel. Even it might be Cospatrick himself, and a Cumbrian host. If so, he has moved fast. . ."

  "I shall go tell Malcolm. And try keep him to taking the oath again."

  Presently the Earl of Surrey came splashing out to the islet again. "The Duke Robert of Normandy has considered your plea," he shouted. "Tell your prince that he will accept his renewed oath of allegiance. With solemn vow of friendship and support hereafter. In King William's name."

  They went and told Malcolm in the monastery.

  The King revealed no elation, nor even relief — although the Queen did. No haste, either, to proceed.

  "If it is indeed a Cumbrian host coming up on their flank," he said, "let them sweat. It will make them the more eager, now that they have decided not to fight, to be done with it, and gone."

  They waited, Margaret agitated. Then a small group of riders arrived at the monastery from westwards, and their leader was ushered into the King's presence. It was none other than the fifteen-year-old Dolfin, Earl of Cumbria, to announce breathlessly that the Lord Madach had sent him.

  He had reached Camelon, about two miles off, with two thousand men, and now awaited the King's instructions.

  "Only two thousand! Madach, is it? And what of your father, boy? What of Cospatrick?"

  "He raises more men in Cumbria, Highness. He will bring them on."

  "So — he is still in Cumbria. And but two thousand with Madach. Then go back to him, boy, and tell him to bide where he is, meantime. But to send many riders back and forth, to and fro, and to me here. That the Normans may believe his to be a much larger host, thinking to attack them. Off with you . . ."

  Angus was sent back to the islet, to announce that King Malcolm was coming and that Duke Robert should join him there. Their business should not take very long. The Earl came back to say that the Duke objected to a mud-bank as being a suitable place for such an important proceeding, and desired the King to come across to the south side of the river. He was sent back again to declare that the mud island would do very well, for it was more unsuitable that either of the principals should have to put himself into the power of the other, on the far side of the river from his own host. It was the islet or nothing.

  So presently both leadership groups rode out to the lowly mud-flat once more. It was no place for any ceremony — and it is safe to say that none there now desired anything of the sort. There were no gospel scrolls or similar holy objects for Malcolm to place his hand upon; also none of the Duke's people had any fluency or experience in wording royal oaths of allegiance. So, after a little awkward discussion, with everyone distinctly embarrassed and desiring all to be done with as quickly as possible, it was agreed that Malcolm should merely raise his hand, while still sitting his horse, and repeat, before all, roughly the same words as he had spoken at Abernethy — which suited the King very well.

  Accordingly, with a notably disdainful expression, much less sign of deference than previously, Malcolm mac Duncan jerked off a very abbreviated version of the former affirmation, to the effect that he, High King of Scots, took William, King of England, styled Lord Paramount, to be lord of life and limb for lands held; and to uphold and support the said William, and to adjudge all his enemies as his own — so help him God.

  This over — although at first the Normans seemed to expect something more — there followed sighs of relief all round. Nobody knew quite what to do next. Malcolm was most clearly of the opinion that there was no need for any further association between the two sides, even though the invaders muttered amongst themselves anent inadequacy. The King terminated these few moments of indecision by nodding curtly to Duke Robert, glowering heavily at the other Normans, and then turning his garron's head towards the northern bank.

  "Sir! My lord Malcolm!" the unhappy Robert called, when he realised that this appeared to be the parting of the ways, the end of the proceedings. "What now? How shall we do? We require much. Food. Fodder..."

  Blankly the monarch turned to look back at him. "So? Do you not provide your array with a commissariat, my lord?"

  "We do, yes. But it has been a long march."

  "No doubt. Too long. You could have saved yourself the pains of it! I have insufficient here to feed my own hosts. And the thousands of Cumbria yonder, also come to join me. More still to come. They will be as hungry as you, my lord Duke, I swear!"

  Robert had to muster his pride. "Very well, sir. I think this goes but ill with your oath of fealty and support!"

  "That was for my lands in England, man. And you are far
from England here, are you not? I advise that you go there, at the soonest! Your bishop here will pray to God to provide, no doubt? I bid you God-speed, my lord."

  He spurred his mount on, into the water.

  When Margaret could catch up with her husband, she reproached him. "That was unkindly done, Malcolm."

  "Did they come in kindness? You may feed your enemies, lass — I do not!"

  "They have all burned Lothian to cross before they can reach land that can feed them."

  "Then let them eat some of their fine horses! They should make fair enough meat, I swear!"

  Back at the monastery, Malcolm relented, but only to the extent of sending over a couple of barrels of the Abbot's ale and a side of beef — more of an insult than a kindness.

  As they sat down to their own repast in the eating-hall, word was brought to the King that the English army had commenced its retiral already.

  "As well they might," Malcolm commented. He raised his beaker. "Drink up, my friends. It seems that the day is ours."

  "Thanks to the Queen's Highness," Maldred put in tersely.

  His cousin looked over at him levelly. "That, yes. And to eighteen thousand empty bellies. And six thousand full ones manning this muddy ditch!"

  "Thanks, rather, to Almighty God who has this day spared the lives of many men," Margaret amended. She touched her husband's arm. "In token of our gratitude for which, my lord, I humbly suggest that we, here at Ecclesbreac, erect a new stone church to His glory, and in remembrance of our delivery, this day."