Margaret the Queen (14 page)

"And I
am to bridle this, this treacherous mount!" Maldred exclaimed.

"Watch him, constrain him, be ever at his elbow," the King said. "Earn your knighthood! Off with you, now. Prepare. I shall see you in the morning. Before you move off."

In his doubts, M
aldred went seeking his brother
Madach. As all too often nowadays he found him in company with Magda of Ethanford.

"Are you commanded to go to Galloway tomorrow? With this force of Cospatrick's?" he demanded.

"Galloway? Cospatrick? No. What is this?"

"It is some strange venture of the King's." He explained the situation. "But why send me?
You
would have been better, more experienced. And the same kin."

"I have my own command, of our Athollmen. Part of his main array. There is a difference, man."

"There is something else. He would make me knight. Before we go. The, the bait to the hook!"

"Knight, Maldred? You? Splendid!" Magdalen cried. "Well-deserved, I say!"

Madach, who had been a knight for a couple of years, grinned. "As well now as ever. If it is not to be on the field of battle. Malcolm is not usually so amiable. He must think well of you. Better than I believed."

"That is where it is so strange — I do not think that he does. He mocks me always, now."

"It is but his way. Be thankful."

"But. . . should I accept?"

"Accept? A God's good name, why not?"

Maldred glanced at Magda. His doubts over his monarch were not for her ears. "Knighthood is . . . especial. To be held in honour. It must be received in honour, and given in honour. Not, not
..."

"Honour? What more do you want, man? So be it the King honours you, what is your complaint?"

"I would rather be knighted . . . otherwise."

"Then you are a fool! Knighthood is knighthood, however bestowed and whoever the bestower. It is
being
a knight that is important, not who knighted you."

"Should not a man greatly respect the hand which holds the sword?"

"Watch your words, brother!" Madach warned. "Men have died for less than that. I say, grasp the accolade while you may. Besides, you dare not make refusal of the King's offer. As well spit in his face! Take it and be thankful. Forby, if Malcolm does not knight you, who else is like to do so? Tell me that."

Slowly Maldred picked his words. "As I understand it, any knight can make a knight.
Only
a knight can do so — but the right is with any who has himself been knighted."

"Save us — what are you at? That may be so, as a notion. But in practice only kings, princes and the very great ones, with commanders in the field, do so. What is this?"

"You may think me foolish. But
...
I feel at odds with Malcolm. Once I am made knight, I am so for all my days. I would not wish for so great a matter to be spoiled. For me. Because of this."

"Maldred — you should not throw away the King's knighting because you find fault with the King," Magda said. "If all did that, there would be few knights! Do not refuse this."

"There, there is a way out, I think. If Madach was to knight me first!"

"Wha-a-at! Saints save us — what madness is this?"

"None," Maldred assured, earnestly. "See you, this is for my own mind only, my mind's peace. None other would know — save only Magda here. After my vigil. Do it secretly. Then I know, in my heart, that I have been knighted by a true man, a true knight. Whom I respect. So that afterwards I can go before the King and receive
his
stroke of the sword. Before all. It will not matter, then. No harm in that — the second accolade. It will not wipe out the first and true one. But it will ease my mind. None will know, only ourselves."

"Dear God — what a brother I have! To think of this. Why should I do this, take this risk? If the King were to find out. . . !"

"I swear never to tell anyone. It would cost you nothing."

"Do it for him, Madach," the girl said. "A secret, between us."

The older brother looked from one to the other. He shrugged. "It is a folly. But, so long as none hear of it, I suppose there is no hurt in it. Very well — come to me in the morning, before you see the King
..."

So that February night of 1070, Maldred kept his vigil. The Celtic Church had its own relaxed way of dealing with this, as with other ceremonial — for knighthood was a religious as much as a military state, in theory at least. Not being building-bound like the Romish faith, nightlong kneeling before a high altar was not required; but instead the postulant was expected to go off alone to quiet places and meditate with his Maker — if he could — on the meaning and significance of the new phase of his life he was about to enter, on service to an ideal of chivalry, of defence of true religion, of respect for women, of upholding of justice, of cherishing the weak and helpless and of eschewing cowardice, corruption and treachery at all times. When he had finally meditated on all this to the extent of his capacity — and it was recognised that all, military men in especial, had not the ability for unduly lengthy silent communion on the verities — the candidate was to take himself to some holy spot and there, facing the east, take his solemn vow to carry it all out, God aiding him, to his life's end. He was then considered fit to receive the accolade.

So Maldred went wandering on the Fothrif Moor above Dunfermline on a windy night of showers and a fitful half-moon, amongst the whins and short heather and outcropping rocks. He did not find the deliberate meditating easy. Natural and spontaneous thought was one thing, but forcing himself to deep and continuing consideration on an abstract theme he found all but impossible. But he tried, came to recognise that he was in fact thinking of nothing very apposite in particular and of everything, haphazard, in general, and sorrowfully came to the conclusion that this was not for him.

So he turned and wended his way back over the rough and difficult terrain to a stone-circle on which he had recently stumbled — there were three or four of these dotted over the high and desolate moorland ridge. Here, in the centre, facing east to the tall index-stone, he sank to his knees and promised his Creator to at least try to fulfil all these lofty conceptions and ideals — while seeking to shut out of his mind's-eye the all-too-clear picture of King Malcolm, the fount of honour, trampling over that unhappy Wearmouth peasant-woman's ravaged body, on his horse, and other similar incidents, surrounded by his knighted warriors. Was it only high-born ladies of one's own nation to whom the protective vows applied? Justice to be upheld only in law-courts? Religion to be fought for only as policy? If this amounted to unsuitable meditation, he prayed for forgiveness. That he did so here in an ancient stone-circle, no doubt Margaret Atheling would brand as heretical and a return to paganism. But much honest worship had been offered up in such a spot, however misguided, and therefore surely it was holy? As holy* anyway, as knighthood conferred by such a monarch?

He found his way back to his cell at St. Ternan's thereafter, soon after midnight, deciding that this was as much vigilising as he was fit for — and -slept with his usual alacrity.

When the hollow clanging of St. Ternan's bell awakened the monks for early-morning prayers, Maldred roused himself, washed and sha
ved, and went to Madach's cell
nearby. His brother was still asleep. Wakened, he showed no enthusiasm for the business. But the postulant insisted, fetched him his sword and knelt before him. Owlishly, the other grumbled and frowned and then tapped each bent shoulder with the steel, muttering that he hereby named Maldred mac Melmore knight, and let him be a good and true knight hereafter until his life's end. Maldred rose, took the sword, held it up by the blade, cross-like hilt high, then kissed it. He was a knight.

He left his yawning brother, and went for his breakfast.

Later, all ready for his journey, he presented himself at the palace. The King was no slug-abed and was already briefing the Earl Cospatrick and a group of officers. Maldred did not have to wait long. Malcolm beckoned him forward.

"Here is our knight-to-be. I swear that he was awake all night, making his vigil!"

"Scarcely all night. But I did what I could, Highness."

"I am disappointed in you, cousin — so serious a youth, and that is all you could do? Myself, I mind that I fell asleep after a minute or two. On your knees, then. Cospatrick, man — give me your sword."

There was little more ceremony about it than in Madach's cell earlier. The King slapped the sword-blade down more heartily on Maldred's shoulders, and added a few extra words, that is all.

"Maldred mac Melmore, I name you knight," he said, almost casually. "See you keep your vows, maintain the right, serve my cause and do so all your days. Aye, do that! Arise, Maldred of Atholl, knight."

It can fall to few men, surely, to be knighted twice in the one morning.

Cospatrick was the first to come forward to shake his hand — but his grin was mocking.

Soon thereafter they were on their way, Maldred disappointed that no one from the Athelings' party came down to see them off. No doubt they were deeply engaged in morning worship. Also, amongst other doubts, he had one about leaving Magda to see much of Madach with himself removed.

* * *

They had to cover some one hundred and fifty miles of Lowland Scotland, in diagonal fashion, to reach Galloway, over the high spine of the land, first having to ride fully twenty-five miles up the firth to Stirling, to win across the Forth itself. Thereafter they went almost due southwards, across the grain of the country, though anything but directly, for they had to make innumerable detours to find river-fords, to circle lochs and flooded areas, to avoid marshes and dense forests. This was no time of year for such travel. But though most of the company grumbled, Cospatrick himself was in good spirits. Clearly he was glad to be on his own again, his own master and free of the trammels of Malcolm's establishment. He made himself entirely affable towards Maldred — who did not particularly like him, but found him easy enough to get on with. He was a strange man, with a reputation almost as fierce as Malcolm's to add to his well-known unpredictability as to loyalties, yet cheerful, at least superficially friendly and good company, with little of the proud noble about him. He was good-looking too, in his own way, tall and a fine figure of a man. Although of the Celtic royal house, his mother had been sister to a previous Saxon Earl of Northumbria and he had been married to a daughter of King Harold of England, he who had died at Hastings.

He made a hard-riding commander, and despite the difficult conditions, led them fully seventy miles before halting for the night at the Hospice of St. Bride in Douglasdale, in the former kingdom of Strathclyde. That Cymric-Celtic realm, stretching from the northern Welsh marches and the Yorkshire border right up to the Lennox Highlands and the fringe of the Hebrides, had been an independent monarchy until a century-and-a-half previously when Constantine the Second of Scots annexed it; and still its relationship with Scotland was apt to be uneasy, the latter's sovereignty at times only nominal.

Indeed, Cumbria, its southern province, was now largely English-dominated, although Cospatrick's brother Waltheof was styled Malcolm's governor thereof; and the great Lordship of Galloway was, like the Hebrides, a possession of Orkney, although again the Earl Erland Thorfinnson ranked as governor. In the circumstances, Strathclyde was an unruly and unmanageable entity, more of a source of weakness than of strength to the Scottish crown.

Off again at first light, by noon next day they were actually in Galloway,
Outer
Galloway as it was termed, which extended from the Cumbrian border at Annandale right up to the Lordship of Renfrew on the Clyde estuary. But Inner; or Galloway proper, was otherwise, confined to the great many-pronged peninsula itself which thrust out into the Irish Sea. Their destination was another fifty miles at least.

Cospatrick went more warily now, concerned not to thrust his head into any noose, having a notable sense of self-preservation. His company of two hundred was large enough to be safe from casual interference but not from major assault in a semi-hostile land — and certainly not small enough to escape notice. So they went now by hidden ways, keeping within the closer hills and higher moors, more difficult going as this made and much as it added to their journey.

In the late afternoon they came down from the bleak, snow-streaked Lochinvar Hills, by the Garpel Burn to the Water of Ken, and to the cashel of St. John of Dairy, a remotely-sited monastery in a quiet valley at the hub of waters. Cospatrick had little fear of trouble or betrayal in such places, for the churchmen were entirely sympathetic towards the Scottish crown, in Galloway, feeling themselves somewhat beleaguered indeed. For the Romish Church in England, through the Archbishop of York and Bishop of Durham, were making claims that this area should be under
their
jurisdiction on the grounds that there had once been a diocese of Whithorn owing allegiance to them, even though that was centuries before — an issue which had taken King MacBeth to Rome and agreement with the Pope. But that Pope was dead, and now the English bishops were at it again. The Orkney earls were Romish likewise, if they were anything; so the Celtic churchmen of Galloway lived under something of a shadow and were apt to welcome warmly any signs of attention from the North.