Margaret the Queen (31 page)

Laughing chokingly, she clung to him.

* * *

The first outburst of emotion over, but still holding on to each other as though afraid that they might somehow be parted again, they panted out words and phrases and half-formed questions and explanations and wonder and delight — frequently interrupting to kiss again, to stroke each other, to pat or just to grin joyously in the pale moonlight. Magda's was the major surprise, of course, for she had not known even that he was back from the English war, and his appearance out of the night in this wild and lonely place, to her deliverance, was like a miracle. But he had his own surprise singing within him — surprise at the sudden and blinding clarification of his understanding and emotions, as at her frank, spontaneous and enthusiastic response to his kissing and embracing. Nevertheless, he felt disinclined to possibly precipitate any return to normal and conventional behaviour by any injudicious comment on the subject. It might be only relief, excitement, a temporary reaction, on her part at least.

"Your ankle?" he said, instead. "You are hurt, Magda?"

"Yes. I fell . . . Oh, I have been a fool. I must have strayed from the road, the track. As it got dark. I did not realise it at first. But when I did, I turned back. But must have taken the wrong path. Hurrying, when I realised that I was lost in this wilderness, I fell over some stone in the heather. Turned my ankle. So I could not walk. I tried to limp, with the aid of a stick I found. But could not. . ."

"My dear, my dear. You would be afraid. Frightened. And in pain
..."

"Not really afraid. More angry with myself. I was not frightened — until I heard a sort of howling. In the distance. I feared that it might be wolves. I realise now that it was your horn, only — such a witless dolt!"

"No! No — do not say it. Lost, and in pain . . . See." He pointed to a large heather-bed nearby. "There — you must sit. No — I shall carry you." It was an excellent opportunity to gather her up in his arms. She was a well-made creature and no light-weight. So he panted a little as he strode with her. "You must sit. . . rest
...
no more trying to . . . walk."

"Dear Maldred!" she said.

Sitting in the heather, his arm about her, she alean against him, they talked — but scarcely listened, so preoccupied were they both with each the other, their sheer physical presence and proximity. He explained that he knew of her errand for the healing water, that he had been as far as the hermit, knew of the crippled pilgrims and her sending of them on on her garron. She asked about his activities in England and when he had got back. But answering her in some measure, he was much more aware of the disturbing rise and fall of her swelling bosom under his arm and against his side; and when his hand somehow came to rest on that conveniendy projecting shelf, she did not appear to notice — or at least did not push it away.

Gradually they fell silent.

It was the man who spoke, at length, his voice different, a little husky. "You are happy, Magda?" "Yes."

He digested that, turned it this way and that, and decided that it was satisfactory, even encouraging, especially as she had not stirred in his arms, save for the pleasing rhythmic motion of her breathing.

"You are . . . content?" he pressed.

"Content, Maldred? No — I scarce think that is the word I would use."

"What I mean is
...
we are here . . . just you and I. None other. It does not displease you?"

"Should it? After all, you have come to my rescue, found me. Should I not be pleased, be grateful?"

"It is not gratitude I want."

"What, then?"

"You, yourself."

She said nothing.

"We kissed each other."

"Yes."

"Was that. . . gratitude?" "Who knows? It might have been." "You named me your beloved, your, your heart's darling." "Did
I. . . ?"

"Yes." His breath came out almost in a snort. "That is what you said. I would have an honest answer out of you!"

"This of question and answer. Is it. . . necessary?"

"Yes it is. I want to know where I stand."

"I thought that you, Maldred mac Melmore, were a man of deeds. Rather than words!"

"Deeds? What do you mean — deeds?"

"I mean, have done with all these words and questions. My dear, you kissed me roundly enough before, without talk! Should you not put it to the test again — and discover your answers, honestly? Like a, a good knight. . ."

She got no further words enunciated for some time.

But he was back to his words again, presently, if somewhat breathlessly. "Does this mean . . . that you care for me? Love me? Would be mine? Mine only . . . ?"

"Dear Mary Mother — must it be I who make the avowals? When you, when
you
have always mooned after Margaret Atheling, doting calf-eyed!"

"Me? Margaret — the Queen? Not so. How can you say it? Nothing of the sort. I admire her, yes. Esteem her greatly. And find her . . . kind. But that is all."

"I wonder. For she is beautiful, much more beautiful than am I. And notably attractive to men. And clever. Moreover she is fond of you
..."

"And you? You are all these things, and more.
You
are beautiful. And fine. And strong. And good — but not
too
good, I think! You it is I love . . ."

"So! You have said it, at last! I despaired that ever you would
..."

"Save us — why do you think I came searching for you, here? Near out of my wits!"

"Margaret might have sent you."

He actually shook her. Then he recollected belatedly. "The forester! The man Donald," he exclaimed. "He will still be searching for you. Up on the higher ground . . ."

He moved her — but only a little, not so drastically that

he could not retain his arm round her — to blow loudly on his horn, three short blasts and again three. They listened, but heard no response.

"He could be far away. Beyond hearing. Perhaps I should go back up to the track? Call him from there."

"Why so eager? Let him be. We are very well here, are we not?"

"How think you I am going to get you back to the Ward? We need him to go and bring back a garron. If he does not come, I shall have to go my own self. . ."

"No. You will not. You will not leave me now. We can bide here, very well. Keep each other warm."

"But. . . Margaret? The Queen. She will be anxious."

"For you? Or for me?" But she smiled as she said it. "She will survive the night. As shall we."

"Your ankle? Does it not pain you greatly?"

"Not when I do not move it."

"You must not get cold."

"I shall not — if you hold me sufficiently close."

"To be sure. . ."

Nevertheless, he blew on his horn again. And after the third attempt they heard a faint but distinct reply. Thereafter with regular blowings, he guided the forester down across the slanting moorland to them. Presently they saw the red gleam of his torch.

"At least we shall have a fire to warm us, while he is gone," Maldred said. "This old bog-pine burns fiercely. Full of pitch."

"I am none so ill as we are," she assured him.

Donald arrived, part congratulating, part commiserating. He helped Maldred gather a collection of bog-pine roots and splinters, with some dry old heather-stems for tinder, and they lit a fire from his torch, before he departed again for the Ward.

Thereafter, they reckoned, they had about two hours to wait — and envisaged no weariness or boredom in the interim. They did not actually tell the man not to hurry back, but Maldred urged that he should be very careful in his selection of a suitable garron to carry the sufferer home, a notably canny beast required, and not to rush his choice. Two hours, after all, was not a great deal for all the necessary private concerns they had to cope with.

Keeping that fire going developed into something of
a
distraction.

12

they chose to
have a Yuletide wedding. It was not all natural and healthy impatience. The Queen's lying-in was due for late January, and Magda, as principal lady-in-waiting, was expected to be involved. For Maldred, too, an early marriage was advisable, since the nation was on continuous alert militarily, and few expected the coming spring campaigning season to be a peaceful one. King William was over in Normandy at the moment, teaching his eldest son, Duke Robert Roundlegs, a lesson in keeping his place, with his usual heavy hand; but he was expected back in England before long — and he was reported as having sworn to teach the Scots a lesson likewise when he returned. So all men who could bear arms were under notice to hold themselves in readiness for war, the leadership ranks in especial. _ So the wedding was held, in the midst of the now much muted Yuletide celebrations, on Holy Innocents' Day — which the wags found entirely suitable — 28th December. Maldred would have liked the ceremony to be performed quietly at his old home of Dunkeld, and Magda in agreement. But the Queen saw it otherwise. The union of her two true friends must be no hole-in-corner affair, she insisted — and she was certainly going to be present personally; after her return to Dunfermline at the end of November, there was to be no more riding the country for her until after her delivery. So Dunfermline must be the venue, the abbey where she and Malcolm had been wed. She herself would see to all — since Magdalen had no kinsfolk in Scotland to arrange and pay for what was necessary. She, Margaret, might be handicapped physically meantime, but certainly was not otherwise. This would give her something absorbing to attend to, during the last weary weeks of waiting for her time. Magda confided in her husband-to-be that this was the Queen's way of purging her conscience over her initial resentment at the couple's announcement of betrothal — which
Maldred had scarcely been aware of in his elation but which the young woman declared had been entirely evident although sternly swallowed. Be that as it might, most of the preparations were taken out of their hands, with all the expense. It was to be no quiet wedding therefore, with all the Court attending, the celebrant again to be Bishop Fothad of St. Andrews, the Chancellor, assisted by the Benedictine Oswald — since Malcolm would by no means have the monk Turgot back.

In the presence of the King and Queen and a large and distinguished company, they were joined together, Magda looking quite lovely in a lively, spirited way, with little hint of the blushing and demure bride. Prince Edgar, in theory her monarch, took her father's place, if less than enthusiastically, and Madach acted groomsman, with Kerald assisting the Bishop. Their father, the Primate, graced the occasion but did not officiate. Once again the Romish addition was longer and much more high-flown than the main Celtic service; but with the bride nominally of that persuasion this fell to be accepted.

Thereafter the banquet was almost as lavish as had been the royal one, the entertainment judicious, and once again the populace were well provided for, indoors this time in the abbey domestic premises. Also the poor, the crippled and the freed slaves fed, with the Queen herself going to serve them, taking the bride and groom with her. Malcolm perforce paid for all; and if he did not appear the soul of mirth and hospitality personally, at least he did not deliberately prevent others from enjoying themselves — save in the one respect, for the royal command now was that drinking should be in moderation only, the King himself showing an extraordinary abstinence compared with former days, however painful a process he appeared to find it. There were grumbles, naturally. Surely a wedding, his nobles and guests complained, was no occasion for this excessive holiness? Also, to be sure, there was none of the traditional and much-appreciated bridal-bedding ritual and high jinks, wherein the happy pair were publicly disrobed, the groom by the women guests, his partner by the men, amidst much practical advice and admonition, and thrown on to the nuptial bed together, there to demonstrate their fitness and aptitudes for the married state. Margaret would not hear of anything of the sort — and for this the couple were not ungrateful, however disappointed their friends. To ensure that no enterprise of a more private nature was perpetrated, Maldred had arranged that they should slip away during the waiting on the poor folk, and ride to Kerald's abbey at Culross six miles off, for the first night. The Celtic Church authorities were not difficult about such things. Thereafter they would go to the house and property of Bothargask, which was to have been Maldred's inheritance on coming of full age but which his father had presented to him now as wedding-present. Bothargask was in the Stormounth, not so far west of the Ward, and had been his mother's dowry.