Queen Hereafter (5 page)

“I will itch to death in this,” Cristina said to her mother under her breath.

“We are warm and dry and did not drown,” Margaret said. “And the woman has made us hot soup. We must be sure to thank her.”

“I would if she spoke a civilized tongue,” Cristina muttered.

“The generosity of these poor fisher-folk should be praised,” Margaret said.

“True.” Lady Agatha adjusted her blanket with two fingers as if loath to touch it. “Do you suppose there are fleas in this?”

Mother Annot, their tall and gaunt hostess, came forward with a large bowl and ladle, offering more soup. Margaret’s stomach felt ill at ease, but she did not want to refuse the kindness and raised her cup, though the soup smelled both salty and fishy.

Her mother leaned toward her. “No need to eat that. We do not even know what is in it.”

“It is fish broth,” Cristina said, peering into her cup. “Ugh,” she said, scratching under the woolen blanket. “I do not much like Scotland.”

Seeing the trusting smile on the Scottish woman’s face, Margaret felt embarrassed on behalf of her kinswomen. She sipped her soup and smiled. “Thank you, it’s very good.”

Mother Annot smiled and filled Margaret’s cup yet again.

MORNING LIGHT SEEPED
through the chinks in the stone wall as Margaret finished her early prayers. Accustomed at the abbey to rising several times a night to kneel in prayer, she could keep that habit anywhere now, although the others still slept, tucked in blankets on the floor. She slipped past without disturbing them.

Mother Annot cooked flat cakes that smelled buttery and good, sizzling on an iron plate suspended over hot flames. Finding her red shoes and cloak drying by the hearth, Margaret put them on, savoring their warmth. Then she stepped outside, going past the house with its attached animal byre to the enclosed latrine beyond; she ducked into that and later emerged to stand in the misty dawn. A few clustered houses with thatched roofs and stone walls created a small, muddy village that lacked a center, for she saw no obvious church or chapel structure. Each home seemed to be as plain as the one belonging to Annot and her family.

Margaret had seen the homes of the poor in England and in Hungary, too, but she had never been inside one of them, living always in the finest royal quarters. These Scottish folk had little, yet they shared without expecting a reward. She breathed deeply of the moist, salty air and once more felt humbled by the kindness shown to the Saxon fugitives.

She went back into the house, where she and the others were eating hot oatcakes when Edgar and Wilfrid came to the door, having spent the night in another domicile. “The ships are being unloaded now,” Wilfrid told them as they escorted the women to the beach.

“And this morning Cospatric rode to the king’s royal residence, not far from here. King Malcolm will send an escort for us soon, no doubt,” Edgar said.

Farther down the beach, Margaret saw two longboats leaning like whales in the shallows while men waded back and forth with crates and gear. English-bred horses now grazed on fresh grass along the dunes, and wooden boxes were piled on the dry sections of the pebbled beach.

“We must see if our things are safe,” Cristina said. “That is all the fortune any of us has now,” she added.

“At least we have something,” Margaret said, though Cristina ignored her and ran ahead.

Searching with her sister through the boxes as they were opened, Margaret looked in particular for an ebony reliquary that contained a priceless crucifix in gold and gems. The treasured piece housed a precious relic, a sliver of the true cross saved by Saint Helena, on whose feast day Margaret had been born. The Black Rood, as some in England had called the cross, had been coveted by Edward of England, but Lady Agatha had guarded it carefully, hinting to Margaret that it might be part of her dowry someday. Other crates contained gold and silver plates, vessels, cups, and candlesticks; several small chests held thousands of coins, English and foreign, the edges clipped with use yet still valuable for trading or melting down. Their well-being might rest on their ability to pay the Scots king, and so Edgar seemed anxious to locate the coins, while Margaret and the others looked for household goods.

Cristina gave a little cry as she discovered the ebony box packed in damp straw, and then she and Margaret looked eagerly through another box. Soon Edgar returned, having walked off to speak with Wilfrid after finding a few chests of coins. “Thank the saints, we have some means,” he said.

Margaret smiled, noticing how tall her brother had grown and how somber he seemed. She felt a surge of love and gratefulness to know that they were all safe. And Edgar, who had so much responsibility on his broadening shoulders, might yet have a chance to reclaim England, so long as the Saxon lords supported him and the Scottish king kept his promises.

“The ships need repair,” Edgar now said. “The fishermen will make the arrangements. We needs must be guests in Scotland for a little while.”

“You had planned that for you and your men already,” Margaret said. “But may we hope that Malcolm will harbor so many Saxon fugitives? With all of us here, the Normans have even more reason to attack Scotland. I do wonder if Malcolm will send us away,” she added.

“He hates the Normans and does not care what they want,” he replied. “Though he was partly raised in Northumbria, he is king in Scotland, and means to defend its perimeters against invaders. He will have sympathy for our plight,” he added, “for he was banished as a child from Scotland when Macbeth killed his father, a king called Duncan.”

Sympathy was not a quality she expected from Malcolm of Scotland. “We shall see. If he does offer us respite for a bit, that would be most welcome.”

“I hope for more than respite,” Edgar replied. “Truly, I believe God’s will brought us here with that storm. We have been swept nearly to the king’s doorstep. He and I had agreed to meet farther south at a neutral meeting place. To be brought here to his home seems … fated.”

Her heart raced. “How so?”
Please
, she thought,
do not speak of marriage
.

“For the sake of the rebellion, of course,” he said. “His welcome bodes well for the Saxon uprising. With his full support, we can reclaim everything we have lost and more.”

“He will want repayment for that support, and we have no land, no titles.” But they had royal blood and marriageable princesses, she thought, looking sideways at her brother.

“We can win England back,” he said only. “Where else can we go?
No other place will accept us now. Wherever the royal Saxon fugitives flee, the Normans go in pursuit. But the king of Scotland does not fear them. Indeed, by sheltering us, he sends William a message that he will not be intimidated.”

“So we must stay here indefinitely?”

“We have no choice. Look there,” he went on, gesturing toward the grassy dunes that edged the beach. “Cospatric is back—and Malcolm’s men are with him.”

Increasingly apprehensive, Margaret stood motionless in the whipping wind off the sea as the riders crested the hill. A few men dismounted to walk toward them, and Cospatric strode forward to speak to Edgar while Wilfrid joined Margaret. Some of the Scotsmen were on horses, others on foot, and some wore good mail armor while others had leather. She noticed that many wore patterned cloaks and tunics of the distinctive wool that the fisher-folk had worn, woven of crisscrossing hues. Most wore iron helmets and carried weaponry.

“Why do they bring weapons to meet shipwreck survivors and women?” she asked Wilfrid.

“Saxons and Scots will never trust each other,” he said. “My lady, your brother beckons you to come forward.” She did, slowly, Wilfrid walking beside her.

“These are Malcolm’s elite housecarls,” Cospatric was explaining to Edgar. “The king is not currently at his palace in Dunfermline, as he expected to meet us farther south. We are welcome to wait there for his return.”

The leader of the Scottish envoy came forward. “This is Sir Robert De Lauder, head of King Malcolm’s elite guard,” Cospatric said in introduction.

De Lauder bowed his head, showing fine manners, and Margaret smiled politely. He was shorter than she, and wore a long chain mail hauberk with a dropped hood, revealing his dark hair trimmed close, his face clean shaven in foreign fashion. She narrowed her eyes, suspecting that he was not Scottish; the other men were simply dressed and armored, with rough beards and long hair.

“Welcome to Scotland, sire, my lady,” he said in English, but with a marked French accent. “You and your party are welcome here.”

“You are Norman?” Margaret asked.

“I am from Normandy, true. I pledged to King Malcolm’s service many years ago, well before King William came to England.” He turned as a second man joined them. This one was tall and broad, blond and ruddy, in shabby leather over a patterned tunic. His expression was grim and he planted his legs wide, grasping the great sword at his belt. “This is Ranald mac Niall, one of the king’s guard,” De Lauder explained. “King Malcolm sends word that he is grateful for your safe arrival and he wishes you to stay in his palace of Dunfermline, a few leagues from here. You will enjoy many comforts there until he can return.”

“The welcome is appreciated,” Edgar said.

“Sir, we have horses for you and a cart fitted for the ladies,” De Lauder said.

“We brought horses from England,” Edgar said. “Perhaps your king will accept some of that fine stock. We look forward to meeting him.”

Word quickly spread that the Saxon party would leave immediately for the king’s tower, and Margaret and her kinswomen were escorted to a cushioned wagon. When Cristina, who muttered that she disliked carts, mentioned that she and Margaret would prefer to ride, horses were brought forward for them. De Lauder himself assisted the girls into the wooden saddles, offering his cupped palms as a boost for their feet.

“This is a courteous escort,” Cristina said, “and it will be good to stay in the king’s palace instead of these old huts. I am glad to leave this dirty village, I vow.”

Margaret blushed, hoping Cristina would not be overheard. But she, too, yearned for the comforts of a fine palace. She particularly looked forward to a hot, fragrant bath and the feel of clean linen and silk against her skin. “These people have been kind, though a royal welcome is due our brother,” she remarked.

“It is our due as well,” Cristina replied with a sniff.

The Scottish horses were smaller than Margaret had seen before, stocky and sturdy, and she adjusted her skirts and cloak in the saddle, waiting while Lady Agatha and the maidservants were settled in the cart. Gently tugging the reins as her horse sidled, Margaret calmed him with soothing words and pats to his neck. She caught the Norman knight’s look of surprise.

“You handle the horse quite well,” he said.

“
Ce n’est rien
,” she answered. “It is nothing. We were raised in Hungary and placed in Magyar saddles when we were still very young. And we rode in England, too,” she added.

As the men readied to depart, Margaret saw that some local people still waited on the beach. Mother Annot was with them, waving, and Margaret lifted a hand in return, realizing that there had been no time to properly thank their hosts. Just then, De Lauder rode toward Margaret and Cristina and offered fur-lined cloaks for the journey, as the November air was damp and chilly. Moments later, the escort began to move out.

Looking over her shoulder, Margaret hesitated, drawing back on her horse’s reins. She felt a tug of remorse, not having thanked their hosts, who had saved their lives and had been exceedingly kind to them. On impulse, she guided her mount around to ride down the beach, despite shouts of surprise from her sister and others.

Reaching Mother Annot and the cluster of women and men with her, Margaret leaned from the saddle. “Thank you for your hospitality,” she said breathlessly. “We do appreciate it.”

Mother Annot smiled, nodded, and Margaret realized the woman did not really understand her. But she wanted to show her gratitude somehow. None of the other Saxons had bothered, being in a hurry to leave these people for better circumstances—that troubled her, too.

Shrugging out of the fur cloak that De Lauder had loaned her, she unpinned her own red cloak beneath it, swept it free, and handed it to Mother Annot. The old woman caught it, looking astonished, then shook her head in protest.

Margaret gestured her insistence that the woman keep it, but Annot handed it to a younger woman who stood holding a small child, shivering in the wind’s chill. Noticing that Annot and a few of the other women were barefoot despite standing on the wet, cold, stony beach, Margaret reached down and pulled off her red leather shoes, which Annot had cleaned and dried for her overnight. She handed them to the Scotswoman and tucked her stockinged feet under her skirts.

“Thank you, woman.” Annot tried English, then switched to Gaelic, shaking her head as if to refuse. One of the fishermen, her husband, came close.

“My wife says she cannot take these things from you, lady. You are too generous.”

“I want her to have them. Please tell her they will look very fine on her. I have other cloaks and shoes and can do without these,” Margaret added. “Please, say I am happy to do this.”

As he translated, Annot grinned with delight and shoved her feet into the shoes, which were too small, but she danced a little while the others laughed. Then she looked up at Margaret. “
Tapadh leibh
. Thank you!”

“Tapah-lev to you,” Margaret said, smiling. She then rode back toward the others.

Her mother and sister, her brother, and the men stared at her, but De Lauder rode closer, smiling. “Saint Martin himself gave his red cloak to a beggar, they say, and you did better than that. You made the Scotswoman very happy, eh? You are a fine lady,” he murmured. “King Malcolm will want to hear about this.”

Margaret felt her cheeks grow hot. She did not want attention—she had only wanted to express her thanks, embarrassed that no one in the Saxon party had done so. She had several cloaks and pairs of shoes packed in chests, and Kata would fetch another pair. Most had not been worn since she had gone to Romsey Abbey three years past.