Margaret the Queen (11 page)

Such tidings, of course, scarcely rejoiced the hearts of the Saxon Athelings, although they were glad enough to hear that the renegade Cospatrick was receiving his due deserts. But there was nothing that they could do about any of it.

It was apparent that the King was not going to be back for the annual Yuletide festivities. Equally evident that Maldred could not gain the necessary royal permission to go home to Dunkeld for the occasion. Anyway, he could scarcely abandon the Athelings and Dunfermline once again. He felt in duty bound, therefore, to try to organise some sort of celebrations to mark the festive season, however modest — and in this he was encouraged and to some extent aided, by Margaret, indeed all the Atheling women, although Edgar appeared little interested. It was a pity that Margaret's ideas as to what was desirable harped distinctly on the religious aspect, which was not always the most spirited. After all, Scotland — or at least Alba — had been celebrating Yule for long centuries before the missionaries arrived with their Christ Mass, and the pagan festival of the Rebirth of the Sun had been, as it were, amalgamated with the Christian anniversary of the Birth of the Son of God, in highly satisfactory fashion, producing a rousing and prolonged succession of activities to suit all tastes and temperaments, lasting for the three weeks around the winter solstice. The Celtic Church was broad-minded in this matter — as in others — but apparently the Roman Church was not, at least as represented by the Athelings. In these circumstances Maldred felt that there was little point in seeking to assert his Scots point of view too strongly, since it was only a token Yuletide he could arrange anyway; but still he stood out for certain basic ceremonies and observances — and came to recognise still further the qualities of will, determination and conviction in Princess Margaret, and the disadvantages for those who sought to oppose her, however kindly and patiently she marshalled them.

In the end they made do with a mixed and distinctly patchy series of events — it would be inaccurate to call it a compromise, for that was an attitude to which the princess could not subscribe — the least exciting and colourful Yule which Maldred had yet experienced, if the most pious. Even so the Athelings only took part in a selection of what went on, and after due consideration, needless to say those activities wherein they could trace no least hint of pre-Christian or heretical practice, thereby missing much hilarity. For instance, at the very start, at Yule Girth, the seventh day before Christmas, they did not grace the proclaiming-of-sanctuary ceremony wherein all sinners, wrongdoers and felons generally were assured of immunity from arrest and punishment until Up Halie Day — on the grounds that sin was always to be fought to a standstill. Two days later the Mistletoe Bough saturnalia, modest as it was on this occasion, was boycotted for obvious reasons. Log Even's selection and the drawing-in and lighting of the Yule Log, was ostracised in favour of the Mothers' Night adoration of the Virgin, on Christmas Eve. The decoration of doors and windows with holly and mistletoe on the Christmas Day was frowned upon as pagan, although they all did take part in the feasting after an inordinate proportion of the day had been passed by the Athelings in private worship with the monk Oswald. St. Stephen's Day thereafter was of especial reverence to the visitors, because of its linking with the later St. Stephen the King, Princess Agatha's father; nevertheless his family did not participate in the lively business of Stoning the Devil as retaliation for the stoning of the first Christian martyr, or even eat of the Martyr Cakes, with their red jam to represent blood, for which they had some unspecified objection. Hogmanay, of course, with its large-scale drinking, was anathema. And so on up till Up Halie Day itself, the Eve of Epiphany, the twentieth day of the celebrations, with its fires and dancing to be frowned upon as barbarous.

Despite disagreement on such matters, however, Maldred got on very well with Margaret — from whom he could not hide his admiration; and on a different level with Magdalen, with whom he established a close companionship — even though there was challenge, too, in their relationship, and she seldom failed to berate and mock him over his all-too-evident preoccupation with the princess, her beauty, her spirit and her strange authority. With the other Athelings he could find little or nothing in common.

So the festive season passed. And then, in the bleak days of mid-January, King Malcolm came home.

Tension immediately reigned at Dunfermline again. It seemed that it was that man's role, quite apart from his royal status and absolute power, to carry with him this aura of restless unease, a sort of prevailing if unspecified threat. He came back in triumph, the victor, laden with spoils, handing out gifts, in as high good humour as was in his harsh nature. Yet still the tension was there, the menace implicit.

The sense of unease was scarcely lessened, for the palace occupiers at least, by the fact that he brought home with him, of all people, Cospatrick mac Maldred, lately Earl of Northumbria, cousin, former ally, recent foe and now apparently colleague again. At least the Earl did not act the prisoner in any way, cheerful, noisy, brash even. A handsome man of about thirty, in a raffish way, high-coloured, well-built, with an ever-ready laugh, he was the son of the former King Duncan's second brother, where Maldred was son of the third, Malcolm himself being Duncan's own son, although illegitimate. It seemed that, hunted across Northumbria from Cumbria by his cousin, after the Norman had retired southwards, and going to ground in his fortress of Bamburgh, he had fairly quickly wearied of siege restrictions — for he was a man of impatience and constant change — and perhaps concerned at the havoc being wrought in his former earldom by Malcolm, he had made a deal with his besieging cousin, to yield his fortress and all rights he had in Northumbria, for 4500 merks — how they had arrived at the figure was not explained. This to include his own freedom. So here he was, seemingly uncaring and prepared to be on the best of terms with everyone, including Edgar Atheling whom he had so recently abandoned.

Needless to say, he got scant response from that quarter.

While the King made no effusive greetings or courteous attentions towards his neglected guests, he had at least thought to bring Margaret a gift, a handsome gold and jewelled crucifix, no doubt looted from some Northumbrian church. He thrust it at her, as soon as he saw her — and it was obvious that there was nothing brought for the others.

"A trinket — since you like such things," he jerked.

She took it, after only a moment's hesitation. "I thank you, Sire. It is very fine. Too fine for me. This should be in some house of God. Not in a poor woman's hands."

"Better so," he said. "Too good for snivelling priests!" And he glowered over at the Benedictine Oswald.

"Then we shall find good use for it, my lord King."

Cospatrick was eyeing her appreciatively, assessingly. "For one so fair, I would have brought gifts, myself, if I had known," he declared gallantly.

"And had them less gratefully accepted, my lord Earl!" she gave back, coolly.

The faint hint of a smile flickered over Malcolm's stern features. "Beggars make poor givers!" he said tersely.

"What news of William, Sire?" Edgar asked, turning shoulder pointedly on Cospatrick. "Where is he now? And in what state?"

"He returned to York. Without battle. Because of risings in Mercia and the Welsh Marches. Passed Yule at York."

"Risings? God be praised!"

"Is it God to be praised? Or myself who sent emissaries to rouse the risers?"

"These had scarcely the time, I think. . ."

Scowling, Malcolm turned to Maldred. "You, boy — come." He beckoned him aside. "What of Ingebiorg? And where are my sons?" he demanded, but lower-voiced.

"The Queen is at Kincardine, as you commanded, Highness. The princes with her . . ."

"A curse on you! I did not say to take them also, fool!"

"But the Queen did — and she
is
the Queen. You sent no word as to them, that reached me. She said . . . that they needed a mother's love."

He chewed one of his cruel down-turning moustaches. "They must be brought back. She, she went readily?"

"Very readily, my lord King!"

Malcolm glared at his young kinsman. "She is better away. An ill-minded woman. I should have sent her away long since. How is it at Kincardine?"

"Well enough. When I left, before Yule. The Mormaor Colin aids her."

"Aye, he would. He was never my friend. One of MacBeth's men." He shrugged.
"This other—the Atheling? How is it with her?"

"The Princess Margaret? She is well, as you can see."

"Tcha! How did she take Ingebiorg's going?"

"I did not ask her. Nor did the Queen seek the Athelings' sympathies."

Those pale eyes glinted at him. Then the King turned back to the others. "You!" He pointed at Edgar. "What is it to be? What do you do now?"

"Me? Do? What can I do? Here in Scotland . . . ?"

"You could be otherwhere. Slip secretly into England. Stir up others to join in these risings against the Norman. Seek arouse those Saxon lords of yours — Leofwine, Eadred, the Eald of Craven was it? And the rest your sister named. Or you could go to Hungary. Raise an army from your kin there. You will not win your throne sitting here!"

"How could I do that. . . ?"

"He could not b
ring an army from Hungary," the
Princess Agatha protested. "They would need to march for hundreds of miles, to the sea. Then require hundreds of ships. Whose ships? Hungary has no sea and ships. And to go into England, alone, without an army, would be to go to certain death. It would soon come to William's ears. Every Norman in the land would be searching for him, every Saxon traitor being bribed
..."

"So, what?" their less-than-pressing host demanded.

"If we overstay our welcome here, Sire, then we can
only
go to Hungary. As first intended," Edgar said stiffly. "But not to raise an army. That is not possible there
..."

"Did I say aught of overstaying welcome? I spoke of winning a throne."

Margaret intervened. "My lord King would sooner have you here, I think, brother, than sailing for Hungary. His concern is to keep Duke William at bay, is it not? To trouble the Norman by keeping England unsettled and astir behind and around him. He can effect that better by having the true King of England here in Scotland, a threat, than away in distant Hungary where he is no threat. Meantime, I think, better than wandering secretly in England either. For from here you could possibly lead an army southwards. Not merely stir a few Saxon lords to revolt. Am I not right?"

Her brother m
oistened slack lips at this acut
e reading of the situation, but said nothing.

King Malcolm looked at her narrowly, thoughtfully.

Then he barked a short laugh, something he seldom permitted himself. And swung on the deferentially waiting steward. "Meat!" he commanded. "Victuals. Wine. Without delay. See to it. I am hungry. As are all here. . ."

Next morning, Maldred sought leave-of-absence from the King, to visit his home in Atholl. Madach, his eldest brother, had returned with the army, and was homing also, much richer than when he had set out. They would pick up Kerald, the second brother, on the way, at the Abbey of Culross — the abbot there would not prove difficult towards his Primate's son. It was a long time since all three had been home together. The King did not refuse the request, although he was less than gracious about the business, Maldred gaining the impression that the monarch was displeased with him over something. He bade farewell to Margaret and Magda, and expressed the hope they would still be there when he got back. Madach, a cheerful, stocky and uncomplicated young man three years older than Maldred, volunteered the information that if
he
had been on such easy terms with two so attractive females, Atholl could well have waited indefinitely for his return.

* * *

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, bei
ng non-hier
archal 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.