Margaret the Queen (42 page)

At the abbey gates quite a crowd was waiting. This was normal, it transpired, for here the daily feeding of vagrants and indigent folk had been transferred from the palace premises, on the King's insistence; now the monks of St. Tertian's dispensed the royal provision, though often with the Queen's personal assistance, sometimes as many as ten-score of the needy — and the greedy, no doubt — applying. Margaret moved amongst this patiently-waiting, ragged and strong-smelling throng, with no least hint of embarrassment or condescension, Maldred at least somewhat out-of-his-depth.

The new church construction was very evident to all comers, both on account of its size and prominence and of the noise of the hammering, stone-chipping and general clatter which accompanied the work — and which helped to account for the lack of enthusiasm on the part of the abbey denizens. Magda and Maldred had seen it, of course, as they passed by on their arrival — they could scarcely do otherwise; but they had not paused to consider details. Now Margaret, with infectious eagerness, demonstrated all.

There was no doubt that it was going to be a large and fine place. No other church building in Scotland was half as large, well over one hundred feet long by sixty or seventy in width. So far the walling had risen to only about two-thirds of its full height, to the eaves-course, at some thirty feet, with seven pointed-arched windows on each lateral wall, and the beginnings of seven smaller clerestory windows above, flat pilasters rising between. The gables to east and west rose considerably higher, with the great main doorway to the west, arched and surmounted by tiers of semi-circular carving, above it a large many-lighted window with stone astragals. Although the most elaborate construction appeared to be here, the work was in fact further ahead at the east end. Margaret explained that this was normal building practice, that the east end, with the chancel or choir, and the altar, should be finished first, so that the building could be consecrated and used, at least partially, with the uncompleted western or nave end walled off temporarily. Internally, two rows each of seven great pillars — seven being the godly or perfect number— rose for the support of the eventual groined stone roof, which would be twice as high as any hall roof at nearly one hundred feet, the pillars alternately carved with spirals or zigzags. All was at present enclosed and part-veiled within a spidery scaffolding of poles lashed together, with ladders and gangways for the busy masons, masking the effect of all the expert and ambitious stone-work and ornamentation. But even so, the visitors were impressed, Maldred especially. This Holy Trinity was not going to be so large as the cathedral at Durham, but it was bigger and finer than any other church he had ever seen. And he could not but admit — if only to himself — that it made the little timber, turf and thatch Celtic churches seem very modest, if not mean, by comparison. Even though, he reminded himself, they had very different ideas behind them, as well as different functions.

Margaret led them into the chancel to see the high altar, already in position, built of polished pink granite with a slab-top of the most lovely green-veined Iona marble — this, the Queen revealed proudly, a gift from the Abbot of Iona himself. Which was thought-provoking. Then she showed them the underground crypt being excavated beneath the chancel-floor — for this, she declared, was to be the place of royal sepulture hereafter, where, God permitting, she and her husband and their descendants would lie when their due time came.

"Pray that will be far hence indeed!" Magda said hurriedly.

Her husband cleared his throat. "To be sure. But . . . sixty Scots, Pictish and Dalar kings lie buried on lona,. Highness. All of the most ancient line in Christendom. Have you forgot?"

She looked at him, her lovely eyes untroubled. "No, Maldred, I have not forgot," she said. "But there is a time and a tide for all things. For standing still and for moving on. For holding fast and for pointing forward and renewal. I believe that God, in His wisdom, sent that great storm to bring me to this northern land for a purpose. His purpose. In all humility I say it. For myself, I am nothing. Only, I truly believe, the most unworthy and humble instrument of God's purpose here. How else has all fallen out so wonderfully? Perhaps because I bore here the Black Rood, part of Christ's True Cross, to Scotland — who knows? But
...
it is a time for going forward, not for standing still, dear Maldred. Do you not see it?"

He inclined his head, but said nothing.

Sighing, she turned, to lead the way out.

The Queen conducted them then to a small chamber of the abbey itself, with Abbot Ivo in attendance now. And here, the door unlocked, they were all but dazzled, ill-lit as the place was. The room was, in fact, a treasure-house, full of gleaming gold and silver and jewels, of magnificent coloured vestments, of rich tapestries and hangings, of priceless church plenishings. In pride of place was the splendid crucifix Maldred had brought from Archbishop Eldred.

"To furnish the church when it shall be finished," Margaret said, the sight of it all beginning to recover her enthusiasm. "Will it not be glorious? See — these Gospel-books. These I had in my cave — you remember, Maldred?" She produced a quick, almost conspiratorial little smile. "Malcolm had them covered in gold for me. Is he not good?"

"Very kind, yes." Maldred took one of the four beautifully-illuminated if well-thumbed manuscript books, now encased within boards plated with hammered gold and set with rubies and pearls. "Handsome. Costly. Your lady-mother would approve."

Closely she looked at him in that dim light. "Why do you say that?" she demanded.

"I but remember the day, at the Ward of the Stormounth. The day Magda was lost on the Muir of Gormack. When I handed over to you the treasure. From Archbishop Eldred. The Princess Agatha said that you must keep that crucifix. And other things of great worth. Too good, she said, to sell for the poor and your slaves. And you said no, Christ did not require gold and jewels to be held back for Him. But the poor, for whom He gave His life, did. Or words of that sort. I see that you have come round to the way your mother thought."

"No. It is not that, Maldred — why do you ever misjudge what I seek to do? Have me in the wrong? Much I give to the poor. Always they are in my heart and prayers. But God's house must be furnished. Surely of the best that we can give?"

"Must it? Because you build this great church, Highness — must God dwell in it? Does He require men to build Him His house? And fill it with
their
treasures? These may not be
His
treasures
..."

"Hush, Maldred!" Magda exclaimed. "This is no way to speak. And to the Queen."

"No — let him speak," Margaret said. "I must hear him, at least. I must never turn my friends away unheard. Or even my enemies. Say on."

"I am no churchman, Highness. But I have heard my father talk. And others. Abbot Ivo, here, would be the better man to speak. But — is this not one of the great gulfs between your Romish and our Columban Churches? You seek for God oftenest in a
building.
A building made by man. We do not. We seek everywhere that he made — out in His world, under His heaven, in the open, in woods and trees and springs. On hilltops where the ancients worshipped. Are you and yours not in danger of worshipping your great buildings, and the gold and silver within them, instead of the God-Child born in a stable?"

There was silence in that treasure-store for a moment or two, Magda and Abbot Ivo in major discomfort, the other two staring at each other.

"Oh, you are wrong, Maldred, wrong!" the Queen said, at length. "Worship God out in the open, yes — in the woods and hills. When you remember to do so! But surely men should offer to God, in worship, what is precious to them, the finest work of their hands and skills. God gave them these skills, to develop and use in His service. Gold and treasure men seek after — so should they not offer of it to God? Worship should
cost
something, surely? This church we build will stand for untold generations, a witness that we worshipped God, a thing of beauty and peace."

"Could you not say that of the simplest stone-circle up on the moor? Which may last the longer, who knows?"

"These were set up by pagans, to worship the sun. Only that."

"But still for worship. The best they knew. Until Christ's Gospel was brought to them. By simple Columban missionaries, preaching in their stone-circles. By brave words only — no gold-and-jewelled books." Maldred stopped, and shook his head. "I am sorry," he muttered. "I should not have said so much. I know that you are good, better than any of us. And I am not. I should not speak so. But
...
I think that you are mistaken, in some of the things that you do. Here in Scotland. In especial, this of seeking to turn our native Church to Rome."

"But I do not, Maldred. Only to bring it into
harmony
with Rome. And with the rest of Christendom. That surely is not mistaken?"

"This great church you build is to be a Romish one?"

"Yes. But it is only one."

"What of St. Andrews? From what Turgot says, you would turn that into a Roman bishopric. As example for others."

"No. You do not understand. I only seek to improve, to help, to encourage . . ." It was her turn to stop and sigh. "I will never convince you, Maldred, I know — you, who I would wish above others to understand. I am sorry, also." She turned, and moved outside. "Abbot Ivo, I think, even Abbot Dunchad of Iona, do not think so ill of me as you do, Maldred."

"I do not think ill of you, Highness — God knows I do not! Only that in this matter you could be mistaken."

They left it at that. And thankfully Abbot Ivo, non-controversialist, made his escape.

On their way back to the palace, Magda chattering somewhat fervently for her, the Queen presently interrupted.

"You spoke of Turgot, Maldred. Do you know how it goes with him? Where he is now. Since, since . . ."

It had come eventually to King Malcolm's ears that the monk Turgot, whom he had expelled, had in fact gone no further than Melross in the mouth of Lauderdale, and there, with Prior Aldwin, started this new monastery. Whatever his lack of concern about the Romanisation of his realm's Church, the King was sufficiently displeased — and jealous, presumably — to send command for Turgot to be gone, right out of Scotland. Malcolm had had enough of Turgot. Because Melross was in fact Cospatrick's monastery, and that man, in the guise of Brother Eadwulf, was proving to be a very useful tool and source of information, the King had had to dress up his expulsion order in less bald style. He declared that the incumbents of any religious establishment, as of any other in Scotland, must take oath of allegiance to himself, as monarch — or else go. Turgot, a member of the Durham community, could scarcely do that: Aldwin the more so, as Prior. So they had both had to leave the country, a few months ago. The monastery at Melross was consequently reduced to only eight or nine serving-brothers of Scots extraction, under the supervision of the Prior at Ubbanford, across Tweed. It was still, of course, sufficient for Cospatrick's purposes, as excuse and screen.

"He is gone to Bishop Wearmouth, Highness. Near where we first all met. Bishop Walchere has withdrawn him there, with Prior Aldwin. They are to build up that monastery. It has been run from Jarrow, it seems, and had fallen into decline. They are there now
..."

"Wearmouth! That unhappy place! Although, perhaps I should not say that, since God sent me there, to meet Malcolm. And so brought me to Scotland. Poor Turgot. Malcolm bears hardly on him. Is he . . . bitter?"

"I think not. He is a very shrewd and careful cleric, that one."

"He is a good man. A, a stout pillar of God's house!" Her smile was brief. "I grieve that Malcolm distrusts him.

The Queen recognised the situation, and referred no more to it.

Outside the palace a commotion was in progress, evidently marking the return of Prince Edgar from a hawking party on the tidelands of Forth. Margaret revealed no enthusiasm for conversation with her brother, and did not press Magda and Maldred to stay when they made prompt suggestions that they should be on their way to Bothargask — which, with little Marsala to consider, had to be journeyed to in shorter stages. They would rest for the night at the St. Serfs hospice on the shore of Loch Leven. Neither had any desire to renew their acquaintance with the rightful King of England.

As, presently, they rode away from Dunfermline, Magda berated her husband. "That was unkindly done," she accused. "You much hurt Margaret. Since when have you become so strong a churchman? I never noted it previously. You were unkind, and scarcely wise, I think. Since she
is
the Queen."

"Perhaps," he admitted — for he was himself somewhat troubled. "I would not wish to hurt her, or to be unkind. Wisdom does not come into it. But — what I said had to be said. By someone."

"If so, I do not see why it should have to be you. There is a sufficiency of your Columban clerics to say it, is there not? If it is so important."