Queen Hereafter (12 page)

He nodded slowly. “You think about more than broidery and prayer, it seems.”

She thought he mocked her. “I have been given an education equal to any prince’s due to my rank. I was tutored in Greek and Hebrew, in the works of the holy fathers, in the stories of the Greek wars. You generously offered to loan me some of your books, sir,” she added. “I would like that. My mind is keen, and I wonder about many things, such as matters of kingship.”

“Read whatever you like of my books. I have studied the treatises on laws and some others, but there are some on theology that you might find interesting. Robert the Norman has the cupboard key. As for the leaders of the world—my deeds are no worse than King William’s, and possibly better. Is there more you wish to say, Lady Margaret?” He seemed impatient to go.

“I only wish to say that if you can help the Saxon cause, and support Edgar, then please do so sincerely. I believe you are an honorable man.”

“Do you?” He inclined his head. “My thanks. Whatever I do, I discuss with my war council. Though I believe you could outreason some of that lot,” he added.

She lifted her chin. “One other thing, sire. Whether or not you uphold Edgar’s cause, it may be best for my kinswomen and I to return home. These are my own thoughts. I do not speak for Edgar.”

“You have no home,” he pointed out. “England is not safe and
your lands are forfeit there, and Hungary is very far away. I hear the warriors there are almost as savage as the Scots,” he said wryly.

“The Magyars are tough as any. Sire, I am not concerned for myself, but for my kin. My mother wishes to return to Hungary where her uncle, good King Stephen, God rest his soul, is likely to be declared a saint. My lady mother could help further his beatification if she could return there. It is a very good cause,” she defended as he glowered, brows drawn.

“A saint’s cause can be furthered anywhere, given ink and parchment, the price of a messenger, and rank important enough for Rome to notice. As for saints, we have those in Scotland, too. We are Christian, though it may surprise you, with your Roman rules.”

“The Scottish Church is worthy, though very different from that of Rome, I have noticed.”

“All prayers go heavenward.” He pointed his finger straight up. “What difference the feathers that lift the wings?”

“Prayers in accordance with the true Church will get there faster,” she countered.

“Gaelic rolls smooth off the tongue like the kiss of the wind,” he said. “Perhaps God enjoys hearing that instead of martial Latin all the while.”

Intrigued, not expecting a poetic thought from him, she tilted her head. “
Loquerisne Latine?
” Did he speak Latin? She was curious to know.

“
Non modo Latine, sed Anglice, Gallice et alias
,” he answered. Not only Latin, but English, French, Gaelic and others. “Norse, too,” he said. “Are you surprised?”

“You were raised as a prince, so a command of languages is expected,” she said coolly.

He huffed. “Even from the savage King of Scots?”

She did not falter. “Scotland is a worthy place. I rather like it.”

“Yet many Saxons think us all ignorant rascals. My lady, you are safe here, whether or not you believe it. But heed some advice, if you will.”

“Sire.” She waited, hands folded. Heart pounding, too, for he was formidable to face when he was angered, as he seemed to be now.

“Let your brother decide for himself what to do. He will be a better man for it.”

“I am only concerned for the welfare of all my family,” she said, flustered.

“He wants your happiness, yet he must defend his rights in England. He is young and earnest, without father or mentor but for a few exiled Saxon lords who have their own grudges. I would keep one or two of those and toss the rest,” he muttered. “A goal of rebellion must be shared by all, or it will not succeed.”

She had not expected sympathy, and it reassured her. “So you are sincere in your desire to help my brother?”

“God knows the lad needs help. It is a wonder he does not embroider, as flummoxed as he is by womenfolk.”

Her cheeks burned to be so chastised. “So you truly think this rebellion has merit?”

“The Saxons could gain back some of their losses, but your Edgar is no match for King William. That one is for me to take on. Good day, lady.” Heel grinding gravel, he walked away.

Margaret fisted her hands, watching his back. Right or not, the Scottish king had been rude again, with a brusqueness that seemed part of his nature. But she had been impulsive and outspoken herself. What if the king decided that he need not support the ungrateful Saxons after all? He could throw them out of Scotland entirely. If her family was banished again with nowhere to go, and if the Saxon campaign failed due to loss of Scottish support, the fault would be her own.

Picking up her skirts, admonishing herself for speaking her mind, she entered the cool, dim church. An hour of prayer and meditation would soothe her agitation, but would not erase the blunder she had made.

“
INCIPIT EVANGELIUM SECUNDUM IOHANNES,”
Margaret read from a page in her Gospel book that began the words of St. John. “
In principio erat Verbum et Verbum erta apud Deum …
”

“In the beginning was the Word,” Cristina repeated, drawing threads through linen as she listened. “Go on.
Hoc erat in principio …
”

Margaret continued, the afternoon sunlight glinting on the gold-inked letters of the opening phrases. The illustration showed an evangelist with red-gold hair and beard, seated in a grand chair; his blue and green robes draped in folds as he raised one knee, with one foot placed on a stool. Holding a feathered quill in his right hand, he paused in thought, a book propped open on his knee. Overhead a golden arch hung with curtains formed an elegant inner frame for the picture.

The little Gospel book was her most treasured and favorite volume, a collection of evangelical excerpts presented to her by England’s Queen Edith on the day Margaret had turned twelve. Her own mother did not acknowledge the anniversary of her September birth, beyond admonishing her to pray to her name saint, Margaret of Antioch, and to Queen Helena, whose feast day it was.

Small and portable, the book was easy to carry with her, tucked into the pocket of a cloak. The Gospel, simple yet beautifully made, had four illustrated pages, one for each evangelist, painted in soft, bright colors and gold ink; the text was carefully lettered in sienna with large initials and some phrases in gold or red. Although it was not nearly as elaborate as other manuscripts she had seen, including her mother’s copy of the Apocalypse texts, Margaret’s elegant little Gospel was dear to her, with its leather cover so worn that it curled at the corners.

“
Et lux in tenebris lucet
,” she continued, “
et tenebrae eam non comprehenderunt.
”

“And the light shone in the darkness,” Cristina said, “and—” She paused as a knock sounded at the door. Finola, who had been sitting sewing in a corner, got up to open it.

Edgar entered with Lady Agatha, and Margaret felt a strange, dreadful turning in her stomach to see a twin grimness in their similar features. She set aside the book and stood. “What is it?”

“Margaret,” her brother said, “I was summoned by King Malcolm to discuss an important matter this morning.” He paused and glanced
at his mother, then at Margaret. “He has made an offer for your hand in marriage.”

She stepped back, heart pounding. “What!” She sounded like a dimwit, though she was not surprised—she had been expecting this for weeks. “Surely you told him I do not want to marry, that I intend to take sacred vows in a convent as soon as the chance comes.”

“I refused on your behalf,” Edgar said. “It is customary to refuse at first, after all. We do not want to seem overeager.”

“You will appear more virtuous by refusing at first,” Lady Agatha said, “and therefore you will seem even more desirable a wife.”

“But my refusal is sincere. I am not playing coy.”

“This marriage alliance is imperative,” her mother said. Edgar nodded somber agreement.

“The king and I are not suited by temperament,” Margaret said.

“That is of no concern,” Lady Agatha said, gesturing in dismissal. “As my eldest daughter and the sister to a rightful king, you must consider your family’s welfare over your own selfish wishes.”

“But I truly feel called to do the good work of a nun,” Margaret said quietly, hurt by her mother’s harshness.

“The marriage would help all of us, and England, too,” Edgar said. “Malcolm is a powerful ally. He would grant us even more support—troops, coin, and the continued strength of a cunning warrior-king to help me reclaim my kingdom.”

“Surely he knows that I possess neither land nor dowry,” Margaret said bluntly.

“You have a fine dowry, as we saved what we could from William’s greed,” Lady Agatha said. “He forfeited our English lands, but we have treasures of gold and silver, including the blessed black cross brought by Saint Helena to Hungary, which any king would—”

“Malcolm rarely goes to church,” Margaret said. “He does not care about that cross.”

“Margaret gets the black rood?” Cristina asked. “What about my dowry?”

Lady Agatha ignored her. “The Scottish king needs a wife. He is a widower with two sons.”

“What sons? I have not heard of any,” Margaret said. “Why were they not mentioned?”

“They are the young sons of Queen Ingebjorg, fostered elsewhere,” Edgar replied. “Malcolm wants more heirs, and Scotland needs a queen. He is satisfied that you are suited to both roles.”

“He knows little of me,” Margaret said indignantly. The king had young children? She felt a heart-tug thinking of motherless princes whose father did not even mention them to his guests, let alone a prospective bride.

“He says you and he had a conversation just a few days ago,” Edgar replied.

“We did not talk of sons,” she snapped, remembering that he had mentioned her unmarried state. “Let him find a more willing bride. I will not be a sacrificial lamb for the Saxon cause.”

“Margaret,” Edgar began.

“Nor can we trust a man who is a brute raider,” she went on fiercely.

“He seems smitten with you, and determined. I hoped for this marriage offer. And I thought you would be pleased to have so enchanted a king,” Edgar said.

“Enchantment is heresy. Witchcraft,” she pointed out.

“The marriage has already been agreed upon,” Lady Agatha said.

“You promised this before coming here to me?” Her limbs began to tremble, and she squared her shoulders and fisted her hands in anger. “You knew that I intend myself for the Church. You knew I did not want to marry—you did not discuss this with me but left me to guess!”

“A nun’s veil will do naught for the Saxons,” Edgar said. “A queen’s crown will help them.”

Margaret stepped back, skirts and legs meeting the cushioned bench where she had been peacefully reading only minutes before.
She felt frantic, now that the reality of what she had feared had arrived. “Malcolm has proven himself a savage, attacking our own people. Why should we negotiate anything with him?”

“We need this,” Edgar said wearily.

Lady Agatha moved closer. “Margaret, if you wish to do good works, do them as wife and queen. Cristina, as younger daughter, will serve as our family’s tithe to God and the Church.”

“Me!” Cristina said indignantly.

“Margaret’s marriage will ensure protection for the family. You can devote yourself to prayers for all our sakes,” Lady Agatha answered.

Cristina dropped her mouth open in protest. “Margaret wants to be the one to pray for our sins!”

“It is done,” Lady Agatha said firmly. “The marriage will take place soon, by Malcolm’s wish.”

Margaret lifted her chin. “Then let it be a forced ceremony.” She turned away. “Leave me be.”

“Margaret,” Edgar said quietly, “remember—without this marriage alliance, we will spend our lives in exile, either here or elsewhere.”

“Our father lived in exile all his life,” she pointed out. “And he did well in Hungary.”

“He longed for home always,” Lady Agatha said. “That is why he came to England.”

And he would still be alive if not for me
, Margaret thought, but she could never say that aloud to anyone, ever.

Yet she understood what Edgar meant—her family would suffer, indeed she would, too, with a life of uncertainty, danger, and exile, if she did not agree.

“Let the marriage proceed,” she whispered. “Now leave me.” Once they had departed the room, she dropped to her knees and folded her hands, breath whispering over fingertips as she pleaded for an answer. Heaven had never answered her directly during prayer, but she often knew what was right by the next day.

But now she had agreed. She might long for a life of peaceful
prayer and a precious chance to cleanse her soul of its sins and faults. Instead, she would be a queen.

IN THE HOUR BEFORE
dawn, unable to sleep, Margaret rose from bed and dressed hurriedly in a lightweight cloak of mulberry wool over a linen shift, leaving her hair unbraided and uncombed. Pushing feet into kid slippers, she meant to go briefly to the little temporary chapel downstairs to pray in solitude. Sleep eluded her, for she was thinking again how soon she would become a queen, a wife, a different woman than she was now.

When she went through the curtained doorway of the small anteroom off the great hall, she was startled to see Edgar there. He was not alone, for two other men were with him: a stranger she did not know—a large man, grizzled and burly—and the king himself, in candlelight and shadows in a corner of the snug little room.

“Forgive me.” She paused, stepped back, began to turn.

“Margaret, wait,” Edgar said. “It is fortunate that you are here. You will want to meet the abbot of Abernethy, who arrived last night. Sir, my sister, the Lady Margaret.”

“Princess.” The stranger came forward. He wore a scarred leather hauberk, sewn with protective iron rings, over a shabby tunic and boots. He looked like a rough warrior more than a cleric, and he glared at her like a field general.