Margaret the Queen (2 page)

He went to her and pulled down her pitiful clothing, very much aware of her rounded white nakedness and the dark triangle at her groin — but aware also of the great bruising on the soft flesh, bruises he guessed had been caused by the hooves of the King's horse rather than by the rough handling of the soldiers. He sought to comfort the creature, but she was only semi-conscious and beyond his feeble aid. There was nothing that he could do, no shelter even into which he might drag her. Sighing, he left her, and went back to gazing seawards into the chill wind.

Presently he decided that there were no more ships coming. Weakly, uncomfortably, he did not look at the woman again, but went for his garron and rode downhill for the river-mouth.

All four vessels were now in the shelter of the estuary, but standing off a few hundred
yards out, as though uncertain
of their landfall and reception — as well they might be, with a large armed force drawn up and awaiting them. In England, or most other lands, in the year 1069, it paid to be discreet where numbers of
men were in evidence. Perhaps th
e seafarers contemplated turning and facing the angry, snarling Norse Sea again, rather than risk such a welcome. Yet, seen thus at fairly close quarters, the damage to the ships done by the storm of the last two days was sufficiently evident to make anything such unlikely in the extreme. All four craft were in a sorry state. Even the galley, probably the least affected, was sorely battered, its rearing prow, once bearing a proud eagle's or dragon's head, broken off, the decked fighting-platform at the high bows stove-in at one side, and great gaps amongst the rowing benches.

Maldred reined up and dismounted beside his scowling, heavy-shouldered cousin. "No more ships', my lord King," he reported. "Nor any sign of any enemy force to the south, either. On land."

Malcolm nodded, unspeaking. He was, on the whole, a silent man.

"These timorous shipmen grow tedious, Highness!" Gillibride, Earl of Angus declared. He was a youngish man, dark, saturnine, slightly-built but of a smouldering fierceness of nature, who had only recendy succeeded his father, the old mormaor. "Shall we put out these boats here and hasten them somewhat?" He gestured towards the numerous fishing-cobles drawn up on the shingle of the boatstrand nearby.

"They will not sail away," the King said briefly. "We have them, and they know it."

"Why waste men on what will fall to us anyway, with a little patience?" the Abbot of Applecross asked. Knowing Hugh O'Beolain, Maldred did not esteem that to be any gentle reminder of Christian charity towards the unfortunate. All abbots of the Celtic Church were not necessarily that way inclined; the hereditary ones, like this O'Beolain of Applecross, were quite as military as, say, some of the Norman bishops.

Maldred himself spoke up. "They will not know who we are. Any more than we know them. They may be friends, not enemies. If you spread your royal banner, Highness, they might come. Reassured."

Some of the nobles round the monarch grinned at the notion that sight of the standard of the present King of Scots might reassure anyone as to a kindly reception. But Malcolm himself nodded, and signed to young Cathail mac Lachlan, son of the Earl of Buchan, who shared the duties of royal standard-bearer with Maldred, to unfurl the great blue Boar flag of Scotland which, because of the difficulty of keeping it flying in high winds, had been carried wrapped round its staff.

Whether as a result or not, the galley at least made a move shortly thereafter. Long oars were put out and the vessel headed slowly for the boatstrand. It was, of course, the only one of the four which could make land thus, with its shallow draught and forefoot construction able to run up on to a shelving beach, where the heavier conventional trading-ships required quays and jetties.

The damaged vessel drew in, and some of the Scots moved down to the strand to receive her. A gang-plank was run down from the shattered bows-platform to the shingle, as the galley grounded, and three men came down it, their rich clothing wet and weather-stained. It was to be seen that some of those who stood at the plank's head to watch were women.

Of the trio, the one in the centre was youngest, thin, almost emaciated, with a slight stoop, very fair hair, and

a way of screwing up his eyes as though short-sighted.

"That looks like the flag of Malcolm of Scotland," he said. He spoke a strangely accented English, with a hesitancy of enunciation which nevertheless did not lack authority. "Is it so?"

"It is," the Earl of Angus agreed, less than respectfully. "Who are you?"

The other ignored that. "Take me to the King," he commanded.

Angus grinned. "Beware how you crow here, cockerel!" he jerked, but turned and led the way back to the waiting Scots leadership group at the top of the shingle-bank.

As they came near, Malcolm, staring, drew a quick breath, leaning forward. Clearly he knew now who came.

"These offer no names, Highness," Angus reported. "And come from beyond this sea, I think." And to the newcomers, "Down, fools — on your knees! Before the High King of Scots."

That was ignored likewise. The pale young man spoke. "King Malcolm — we meet again. I thank God that it is you."

"Edgar!" the King said. "Edgar Atheling!"

Angus stared, and swallowed. He had been telling the man who should have been King of England to get down on his knees. He muttered something, scarcely an apology for it was not in that man's nature to apologise for anything, but in protest that he had not known. The Saxon paid no attention.

"We saw your host and feared that it might be some of the Norman's army. From York. From whom we have fled. We are not in your Scotland here, are we?" he asked.

"No — not by a long road! We are ten miles south of Tyne. In Northumbria. But how come you here, man?" Malcolm demanded. "I deemed you in Deira, with Sven of Denmark. You fled, you say?"

"Fled, yes," Prince Edgar said bitterly. "It was all that was left to us. This William the Norman is the Devil Incarnate." He had some difficulty with that phrase. "You know that he bought your Earl Cospatrick away from me. With great promises . . ."

"Aye — that is William, fiend take him! And why I am here. To teach my Cousin Cospatrick of Northumbria a lesson, not to sit down with the Norman. But that was weeks past. Where is Sven Estridson and his Danes?"

"William has bribed King Sven also. Sent him great quantities of gold, English gold,
my
gold! To buy him off. Danegeld again! Sven has sailed back to Denmark, deserting me. Like Cospatrick. I could not face the Norman alone. So must needs flee. We set sail from the Humber. Back to Hungary. Leaving all. But this storm caught us. Three ships are lost, the rest blown here. Near to Tyne, you say?"

Malcolm Canmore failed to express the sympathies which might have been looked for. He was indeed urgently assessing his own position in the light of these tidings. If Sven's Danish army had sailed for home, and this Edgar's Saxons had dissolved in flight, then his own situation here, in less than major strength, could be dangerous. William of Normandy, with his great host based on York, was only seventy miles away to the south. Freed of any threat of Saxon-Danish arms, he could strike swiftly north against the raiding Scots expedition. He would be well informed by spies — always William was that.

When the Atheling got no reply, he went on. "These are the lords Alfwin of Elmham and Leleszi of Hungary." He indicated his two companions. "I have my mother and my sisters on the ship. And others of my company . . ."

Malcolm nodded. "Yes. They may come ashore. We shall spend the night at this Wearmouth. While I send out scouts . . ." He looked away, frowning. Then turned. "Maldred — go bring these ladies to me. My greetings to them. We shall find the best of such hovels as there are, for them." He returned to Edgar Atheling. "Where was William when you last heard? At York? Or nearer to Humber?"

"We sailed from Ravenspur. The Norman was then said to be at Selby, south of York, burning and slaying. . ."

Maldred hurried down to the beach, and ran up the gang-plank on to the galley's damaged prow, to bow before the party waiting there. He had eyes only for the four women, however, one of middle years, the other three young, one a girl no older than himself. They all looked storm-beaten and weary, but held themselves proudly, and were, in his enthusiastic eyes at least, beautiful. Especially two of the younger ones. Half-a-dozen men stood with them.

"I am Maldred mac Melmore of Atholl," he told them respectfully. "The High King Malcolm bids you kind welcome. And asks me to bring you to his presence."

"Mary Mother of God be praised!" the older lady exclaimed. "So it
is
the King of Scotland. We scarcely dared hope . . ." She was a handsome, slender woman of almost gypsy-like good looks, but with the lines of sorrow or pain in her features, her appearance no doubt accounted for by her Hungarian blood. "I am Agatha Arpad, daughter of King Stephen of Hungary. And these are my own daughters, the Princesses Margaret and Christina." She did not name the youngest girl.

He bowed again. "Princesses, I am yours to command. I act standard-bearer to Malcolm mac Duncan, my cousin." He could not prevent himself putting that in. "Will you come with me?" He had difficulty in keeping his eyes off those younger women.

Two of these, then, were Edgar the Atheling's sisters, the elder the most lovely creature it had ever been Maldred's good fortune to set eyes on, of a calm, ethereal beauty, flaxen-haired, violet-blue-eyed, notably well-built, seemingly serene, untroubled, despite her wet hair, soaking clothing and all the ordeal they had undergone, all Saxon in appearance this one, with no hint of her Hungarian ancestry. Her sister, younger, perhaps twenty years of age, was darker, more like her mother, but less assured, attractive also but more aware of her dishevelled state, even shivering a little in the chill wind. The unnamed one, presumably only an attendant, was nevertheless almost as eye-catching as the Princess Margaret, although very different, with red-brown hair, sparkling hazel eyes and a slender but quite provocative figure. Never, surely, could monastic Wearmouth have witnessed such a visitation as this.

Giving the Princess Agatha his arm down the swaying gang-plank, in some danger of himself falling off — and wishing that it was one of the others, for Maldred was a very normal youth in most matters — he led his bevy of storm-tossed beauty up the beach towards the village, followed by most of the richly-dressed men, and watched by a great many distinctly envious soldiers, not all of whom kept their admiration and feelings silent or even muted. They found the monarch ejecting a couple of Romish priests from the small St. Peter's church in the village with scant ceremony, and ordering the building to be prepared for his occupation.

Malcolm was no ladies' man, and greeted the newcomers in fairly off-hand style — they in turn looking askance at what he was doing. But even he at second and third glance, clearly became not a little conscious of the pulchritude and refinement in evidence, more especially of the older daughter Margaret, to whom his fierce gaze kept returning. He adopted a more attentive attitude accordingly, although nothing would make that man courtly or other than unpolished.

"You are wet and cold, ladies," he paused to say. "But, never fear, we shall soon have you warm and your bellies full. There are but miserable hovels here, but we shall find you the best." Clearly the church was for himself. But from Malcolm Big Head, who normally never so much as took women's feelings and susceptibilities into account at all, this was significant indeed.

"We praise Almighty God that He, in His infinite mercy, directed the cruel storm and wind to bring us into your good care and ward, Sire," the Princess Agatha told him devoutly.

The King grunted non-committally at these sentiments. Moreover, this term sire was a Continental usage being introduced by Norman William, and therefore to be deplored.

But the praise and thanksgiving was quite quickly interrupted when, presently, Malcolm decided on a cot-house for the ladies — scarcely to be compared with the premises he had reserved for himself but reasonably clean and warm, the central-hearth fire of driftwood less smoky than some. Unfortunately its dark interior proved to be encumbered with a bed-ridden old woman in a sort of cupboard recess, unnoticed at first. The King was having her bundled out when there was protest from one of the princesses, Edgar's elder sister Margaret, the beautiful one.

"No! No — please, Highness!" she cried. "Not that. Do not turn her out, I pray you. Let her stay." She had a low-pitched, almost throaty voice, pleasant to hear and much less accented than her mother's — she had spent much of her youth, of course, at her great-uncle Edward the Confessor's Court in England. "We shall find another house
..."

"Not so," the King snapped, unused to his commands being opposed. "The old witch can kennel elsewhere, well enough. Out with her."

"Sire," the young woman said, her fine bosom indicating depth of breath and emotion both, "of your royal clemency, do not do it. For sweet Mary's sake! If lodge in this house we must, let her remain in it. In her own bed. She is old, sick I think. There is room for us all."