Queen Hereafter (15 page)

Malcolm sighed, and stood. “Lady,” he boomed for all to hear. She took his arm as they walked the length of the hall, and Malcolm waved a hand. “Open the doors! Our new Lady of Scotland, in her great generosity, wishes to welcome everyone on her wedding day!”

“And she will serve them at the same feast,” she said.

“And she will feed them from her own dish and spoon!” he called.

She had not intended that, exactly. But she knew that the king would be quick to find the advantage in any situation. He had the instincts of a pageant performer; a useful quality in a king, she thought.

As Wilfrid walked past her to open the doors, Margaret touched his arm. “Thank you, sir.”

He bowed, a grizzled and somber soldier, and pressed his fist to his chest. “In all things, my lady, you may count me your man,” he murmured.

As one of the housecarls opened the door, Margaret saw Mother Annot and her fisherman husband, along with others, waiting outside. Smiling, Margaret reached out her hands and beckoned them inside. They crowded through the door, glancing about tentatively.

A servant sent by Dame Agnes came forward with a large dish of the beef and turnips, and another brought bowls and a spoon. Whispering to Wilfrid, Margaret sent him back to fetch the pewter bowl and ivory spoon that sat untouched at her place at the table. When he brought them to her, she waited for a servant to fill the bowl with food, and offered it to Mother Annot.

The old woman shook her head in quiet refusal, and pushed a little boy forward. “The child.”

“Lady,” her husband said, his English better than his wife’s, “we did not come here for charity. But the children are hungry, as children will be.”

Margaret nodded, then knelt before the boy standing with Annot. He looked four or five years old, eyes wide, his hair thick and shining over his brow. He hesitated, then took a juicy bit of the beef she offered. Margaret felt grateful for that—if the child had refused her offer, too, she would have felt humiliated indeed.

In English villages and towns, she had seen poor folk readily accept charity, and the Hungarians would have dropped to their knees and praised such a gesture as saintly. Prideful Scots, she was learning, would sooner decline what was desperately needed than allow charity. But the child ate, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, and when a small girl stepped forward, Margaret offered her a spoonful. The girl accepted it with an impish smile, and Margaret laughed with delight. A few other children in the group edged closer, so she fed them, too.

She turned toward Dame Agnes. “Order another trestle table set up for our guests, and see that they are all served supper. Everyone is welcome here,” she told the group.

Mother Annot smiled, and Malcolm spoke a greeting in Gaelic, while a young woman came forward. Draped over her arm was a thick folded cloth in a handsome pattern of crisscrossed stripes of red, green, and yellow.

“Lady, this is for you,” she said, and then spoke in Gaelic. Margaret
smiled, not understanding, but Malcolm translated smoothly and quietly.

“She says she wove the cloth herself and it will make a fine blanket or cloak. It is a gift to honor our wedding and to welcome you as the new queen.”

Thanking her, Margaret took the handsome wool. “I hope to be worthy of such a fine gift.”

“She says that the king does not make mistakes,” Malcolm translated. “And she is right,” he added.

As he escorted her back to their chairs, Margaret hoped even part of that was true.

HER HAIR COMBED OUT
to the sheen of spun gold, Margaret sat against a bank of pillows, wearing only a shift of lightweight linen over her bare skin and racing heart. She had not wanted to think about the wedding night; even her mother had avoided discussing of the role of a dutiful wife. But Kata drew her aside to whisper of secret marital obligations.

“The man mounts, the woman abides, and heaven’s will be done,” she had told Margaret the evening before the wedding. “Marriage is a sacred state. It is not unpleasant,” she added.

Margaret stared. “But—how will I know what is sacred, and what is sin?”

“You will know,” Kata replied. She had been married and widowed years before. “The private concord between husband and wife is one of God’s gifts to mankind. The creating of a child within a marriage is not a sin. Do not fret.”

“What if there is no child?”

Kata had laughed. “Then try again!”

Now the merry crowd still celebrated in the bedchamber, spilling out into the corridor beyond. Malcolm seemed fairly drunk by then, standing just inside the doorway with some of his men, who continually slapped each other on backs and shoulders in felicitation.
Someone was ringing a square bronze bell while a few women circled the room singing behind two young girls who giggled as they scattered juniper and flowers on the floor. Margaret did not understand the Gaelic words or the customs, but she knew they brought blessings of good luck to the marriage, and to the mating about to occur. She clenched her fists.

Dame Agnes handed her a glazed clay cup containing hot wine with a hint of herbs, which tasted strong and sweet. She drank, wishing they would all go away. Then Malcolm, apparently tired of the follies, too, ordered the guests to leave. He shut the door, barred it, blew out the candles, then came toward the bed and began removing his garments, tossing them aside. Margaret looked away in the darkness. When he sat, the feather-stuffed mattress and rope-slung frame sagged under his weight. Yanking the curtains shut, he settled beside Margaret.

Both were silent. After a while, he patted her fisted hand on the bedcovers. Nothing followed, and she scarcely dared breathe—perhaps he was tired enough, drunk enough, for sleep. But then he turned, the bed heaving, his breath smelling of wine. His hand, warm and heavy, found her shoulder, and she quailed, but tried to recall what Kata had said. Her heart pounded like a drum.

But when he began to caress her, she startled only a little—and as the heady wine and herbs took over, she found the drowsiness of the drink and even his touch surprisingly pleasant, even coaxing. She allowed more, then more still, in the silent, dark, curtained haven of the bed. A curious warmth rose in her, strangely similar to moments during prayer, when trust and grace flowed through her heart like honey. Yet this physical encounter felt delicious, too, its very nature secret, forbidden, and enticing.

Easy enough in darkness, she found, to endure, to allow and even enjoy. Despite his brusque manner otherwise, Malcolm proved capable of tenderness, and relished all of it greatly himself, from what she could tell. Caressing, covering, a sudden thrusting that rocked her; she felt like weeping at the astonishing sweetness of it. But she withheld
expression—though being touched so, held so, was unexpectedly comforting. She would have permitted more, feeling curious and aroused, but the encounter was over quickly, and her bridegroom rolled away to subside into snores.

She lay awake in the darkness, breathless and changed in some way she could not define beyond the obvious. Then she remembered to whisper a prayer as the day, the wine, the exhaustion, took her down, too, into sleep.

At first light, she awoke alone, later than was usual for her. Malcolm was gone, having slipped away without disturbing her. She slid from the bed and fell to her knees in prayer, seeking forgiveness for the wantonness of the previous night. Cringing, she knew she ought to burn with shame—and yet part of her did not regret it, felt no remorse for such willingness. Intimate, tender physical love was permitted in marriage—and she had enjoyed it.

Still, she did not look forward to facing others who would surely know what she and Malcolm had done. Dressing herself without calling for a maidservant, she pulled on a finely woven blue woolen gown and tied its side laces over her linen shift. Then she knotted the leather ties on her narrow slippers of green silk, and stood, adjusting her skirts. When a knocking sounded on the door, she drew a breath and glided forward, admitting Lady Agatha, Kata, and Hildy.

“We have come to wrap your head and shoulders in the veil of a married woman, as is always done the morning after a wedding,” her mother explained.

Margaret nodded and stood quietly while Kata combed and braided her hair. Then Lady Agatha brought out a rectangle of pale, lightweight silk, neatly hemmed and embroidered in her finest stitchery, white on white.

Wrapping the fabric over the crown of Margaret’s head and under her chin, Lady Agatha draped the rest over her daughter’s shoulders and pinned it here and there; Margaret’s long golden braids hung past her hips. Then her mother presented her with a belt of enameled disks and silver links. The belt was an elegant fit, low on the
hips, and Margaret took a moment to slide the loops of her small embroidered purse, containing silver scissors, thimbles, and a string of rosary beads, over the handsome girdle.

“There.” Lady Agatha cupped her face. “I am proud of you,” she said. “Queen Margaret. You will be a perfect Lady of Scotland, behaving as an example on earth of the Blessed Mary, Queen of Heaven. It pleases me to be your mother.”

Margaret widened her eyes. Her mother’s praise had always been faint, and now the model Lady Agatha declared for her was nearly unattainable. Yet some powerful, irresistible force within demanded that she match that—she must, in order to atone and do penance for the most secret of all her sins, her father’s death. Her own mother, widowed by that deed, had just shown her the way. Although heaven had diverted her from the religious life she had wanted and had sent her to Scotland, she could seek forgiveness through her work as queen.

“I will do my best, Mama,” she whispered. “I have no choice.”

MALCOLM WENT OUT
often on early patrols or away for days at a time, and Margaret fell into a routine of household duties. Wondering when the king would return, she reminded herself sternly that her husband had many responsibilities and did not mean to deliberately overlook her. But she felt forgotten when she wanted to feel cherished, and told herself it was vanity in her new status. So she made certain to smile whenever she joined her kinswomen and the Saxon and Scottish ladies to sit in a sunny corner of the great hall with their ongoing embroidery work. The women made casual conversation about the weather, their children, the salty porridge, the knotty quality of the thread. Margaret sensed more deference in their responses toward her and more willingness to please her. Their little circle of tentative friendships now began to center on her as their queen. And she was a new bride as well, with the mystique of that still bright upon her, at least in the eyes of others.

Often she looked toward the door or through the window, anxious for Malcolm’s return, eager to see him again, anticipating their time
alone later. The pleasurable mysteries of the nights when they were together haunted her in curious and lovely ways. Surely her feelings were not lustful, she convinced herself; these were natural feelings for a new bride, even an ignored one, even a queen who must be a model of behavior. Still, she blushed to the roots of her hair, hidden beneath the new silken veil, and took care to assign herself extra prayers, like a coolant remedy for fever.

The ladies who gathered around her included Lady Juliana and Lady Edith, Cospatric’s legitimate wife, lately come to Dunfermline as another hostage for her husband’s behavior, along with her youngest son, Dolfin, a sturdy, tempestuous cherub whose young nurse frequently chased him up and down the hall. Ranald’s wife, Gudrun, joined them, too, as did Margaret’s mother and sister and a few of the Scottish ladies whom Margaret did not know very well.

Most days the women drew their stools and benches into a circle with her, their skirts draping on the floor in rainbow folds. Margaret grew to love them all for their protectiveness toward her, and because they never remarked on how often her bridegroom abandoned his bride to find her own way in his household. He would send messages to De Lauder, who would then inform her that, regrettably, the king was once again distracted by matters in his kingdom.

On the nights that Malcolm was not there to retire to bed with her, she sometimes opened the shutter to gaze at the star-sparkled sky. Uncertain where he might be, she hoped he was safe, and wondered if he thought of her. Then she would go to her knees to pray, for she could never sleep without following the track of her prayer beads, like a necklace for her soul.

“
THE WHOLE OF THE HOUSEHOLD
and all of its concerns now lie within your domain as wife and queen,” Dame Agnes told her as Margaret joined the housekeeper and De Lauder in the great hall in the days following the wedding. “You are no longer a guest here, but chatelaine of the king’s households.”

“But you are Dunfermline’s chatelaine, Dame,” she answered.

“I answer to you now, Lady,” Agnes replied. “Whatever you ask is what will be done for this and all the royal households. There are several—Dunfermline, Dun Edin, Scone, and Kincardine are among the king’s favorites.”

Margaret caught her breath. How would she learn all that was expected of her—and however would she communicate her wishes to households that followed foreign customs and spoke the native Gaelic? “I—I will do my best,” she said, feeling a little overwhelmed, even as she smiled.

“My lady,” Robert De Lauder said, “we will take you around the tower and the fortress to consider all the features of your new domain. This way,” he said, gesturing.

As they toured the bailey and exterior buildings, they stopped to greet servants and to discuss the various tasks and needs of the royal household; they spoke with the cook and kitchen servants, the stable grooms and horse master, the falconers, smiths, yard servants, and pages in turn, and then stopped to greet some housecarls training at arms in the lower yard.

Returning to the tower after that, Margaret was greeted by a gathering of grooms and servants, including her own maidservants and ladies. Her kinswomen, the Saxons, and the Benedictines also stood with them to welcome her as queen. No one mentioned that the king was not present. Margaret did her best to appear composed and confident, though she wondered what they thought—and she doubted her own capableness.