Queen Hereafter (25 page)

Grateful to see Edgar safe, for any journey south was inherently dangerous now, Margaret embraced him. “You have been gone but two months,” she said, “yet you seem taller!”

“And you are lighter of your burden,” he noted with a smile. “Congratulations. I am eager to see my nephew—but Dame Agnes told me right off he was sleeping and I must wait.” He grinned, his jaw bearded with gold, the angles of his face harder, losing the softer contours of youth. He was grimy with travel, garments rumpled, but he looked handsome, growing into a mature man, Margaret thought proudly.

“Margaret—Cristina, there is news,” he said, kissing his other sister, too. “I rode into Northumbria to meet with some Saxon landholders
there, and back again. Took us weeks, and what adventures! Later for that. I met an old friend along the way.” His eyes sparkled.

“Sir, did you see my father?” Juliana asked, stepping forward.

He shook his head. “We heard news of him. He and Walde have been meeting with William in York, and seem tight. But I hope they know that they cannot trust him—he will ask more of them than they can ever guess, and they will regret giving their obeisance, even to retain their English properties. Nay, I did not meet with them—but I found another old friend.” He turned, beckoned. “Brother,” he said. “You remember my sisters.”

“Of course!” The taller of the two monks came forward. Margaret narrowed her eyes, curious, trying to remember him. Up close he looked gaunt, his ice blue eyes shadowed beneath, his cheeks pale. He was a golden man in a way, with pale lashes and brows, and his tonsure was ringed by thick, smooth golden hair. Even his thin, whiskered cheeks sparkled with a fine, pale beard. His features were long, as the man was long and lanky. In one hand he gripped a gnarled stick, and he leaned on it, limping, as he came toward them. Otherwise he had a strong build and appeared rather younger, close up, than he had first seemed.

“Queen Margaret,” he said quietly. “Princess Cristina. How good to see you again.”

Beside her, Cristina gasped and laid a hand to her ample bosom. Then Margaret startled. He was thin and much changed but she knew him. “Tor!” she said. “Thorgaut the Dane!”

He smiled. “I am glad to see God has kept you both well.”

“Tor!” Cristina rushed toward him. “You were a king’s guard when last we saw you!” She smiled, extended her hands, took his though he had not offered them readily. “And now you are … a monk!”

“It is good to see you, princess.” He laughed a little—Margaret remembered then that Cristina had always been able to draw a laugh out of somber Tor, even when he was a king’s guard—and then he turned to Margaret. “And you, Lady. We heard news of your arrival
here, and your marriage. And now a little son. My sincere congratulations.” He bowed his head.

“Thank you. How good that you are here.” She was so moved to see an old friend safe, but she could not display her feelings as Cristina could. Not only was she queen, but her own reserved nature held her back. Let Cristina effuse in welcome, she thought, watching Tor flush as Cristina clasped his hands. He might prefer that to a queen’s necessary coolness.

She smiled, waiting while he spoke to her sister. Years ago, Tor had been one of King Edward’s housecarls, assigned to guard the Aethelings and to train young Edgar in arms. He had become a friend to all of them, guarding them on every outing, spending time in their quarters, sharing suppers and chess games with them. Several years older, he had been a good friend to both Edgar and Margaret. She would never have admitted it aloud, but as a young girl she had been infatuated with the handsome young guard. Now her cheeks grew hot as she remembered how dreamily she would stare after him, grasping for reasons to speak to him. Margaret felt relieved, now, that he had never learned her feelings.

“The last news we had of you was that you had escaped Lincoln for Denmark,” she said then.

“We were told you fled your prison in Lincoln’s castle,” Cristina said. “I feared for your life once I heard that. I could hardly sleep at night for worrying. Oh, it is so good to see you!”

Margaret wondered at her sister’s display but said nothing. She only continued to smile, folding her hands, though her heart beat like a bird’s wings within her chest. Despite the tonsure and the gauntness that aged him, despite the pall of somberness around him, Tor was handsome still, a strong and vital man with a deep and rich voice that could thrum through her.

But she could not think of him in that way, for she was a queen, a wife, a mother, now. And he had declared himself a man of God and of peace. He was to be admired and revered.

“I left Lincoln and sailed for Denmark, and returned to England again. The rest is done, and in the past.” Tor did not seem inclined to add details, but Edgar turned and clapped the monk’s shoulder in an easy manner.

“Left Lincoln!” Edgar said. “Tor escaped a Norman dungeon with his guards on his heels all the way to the coast. It is quite the tale, if he will tell the whole of it.”

Tor’s cheeks stained pink. “I did what anyone would have done given the chance when they let me out briefly. I walked away when the guards were not looking.”

“He hit them over the head while they played dice,” the other monk said, coming forward. “He scaled a stone wall and stole a horse to ride to the coast, with the guards after him. My lady queen,” he said, bowing his head. “Princess, and ladies,” he went on, acknowledging the others. “I am Brother Aldwyn, if you please, of Durham priory.”

“Welcome, Brother,” Margaret said. “Please sit. Do not let us keep you from your meal. You must be tired after your journey.” Before she sat with them, Margaret waved away the servant and poured fresh ale for her brother and the other men in more formal welcome.

“Tell us how you came to be a Benedictine,” Cristina said.

“Had I not been captured in Lincoln, I might have remained a knight and so would have come north with your family,” he said. “But life took me along an unexpected path. When I was a boy, years before I entered King Edward’s service, my family had intended me for the Church, and so I was educated in a monastery. Some boys want more adventure, so I left and came to court. But once I came to Durham after Denmark, I rediscovered my monastic calling.” He shrugged. “The Lord sent me there.”

“So you felt spiritually guided?” Margaret was fascinated. Secretly she longed for the sort of holy calling that came to mystics and monastics more than queens.

“I came to Durham by accident, Lady. As I returned from Denmark,
our ship was wrecked along the coast. I was the only survivor. The monks of Durham took me in, and I recovered in their care.”

“We are so glad you are safe!” Margaret said. “We were shipwrecked as well, and so came to Scotland.”

“The North Sea can be treacherous,” he replied. “Yet we are guided by such turns of fate. I have found a purposeful existence now, for which I give thanks each day.”

Margaret caught her breath, for Tor had echoed her own thoughts and feelings. She, too, wanted greater peace, and despite all in her life now, she still felt as if there was some larger purpose for her. She wondered if it would present itself as it had for Tor. Still, she reminded herself, she had a son now, and motherhood was purpose enough for the time being.

“I have found a calling,” he continued. “Otherwise there is little left for me in England. My family and friends are gone or scattered. I would have joined the rebellion with my kinsmen, but I cannot fight now.” He gestured toward his leg. “I was injured in the shipwreck. But perhaps all this was part of a larger plan. I tell myself that I was brought to Durham for a greater reason.”

Margaret sat forward. “What reason is that?”

“I do not know. One day I hope it will become clear.”

She nodded. “We all have a greater purpose in life, Brother, but few know what that is.”

“Very true, Lady.” He watched her, somber. “But I believe you have found your way.”

“I try to do my best in all things,” she murmured.

“What news of your cousin Hereward, Brother Tor?” Cristina asked, interrupting them.

“He still drives the Normans mad, from what I hear. I pray for his safety every day.”

“Now that you have found us, Tor,” Cristina said, “you must remain with us. We could certainly use another Benedictine confessor in our household.”

“Thank you, but that is not possible.” He shook his head. “Brother Aldwyn and I must return soon. The abbot at Durham sent us north to do some work at Melrose near the border. The ruined abbey there once housed Saint Cuthbert himself, who later came to Durham as abbot, and became our dedicatory saint. It was in Melrose that we met Prince Edgar and his party.”

“Interesting! What work are you doing in Melrose?” Margaret asked.

“We are supervising the restoration of the old Benedictine houses at Melrose and Jarrow. Although they are in Scotland, they still belong to the diocese of York. Long ago they were flourishing priories, but fell into ruin when conflict ran high between the Saxons and the Scots.”

“Lately several more brothers have settled at Melrose,” Aldwyn said. “Now we number fourteen. We will maintain a farm there, and Brother Tor has set up a scriptorium as well. He has a gift for copying manuscripts and for original writing, too. He is composing a biography of Saint Cuthbert, among other projects.”

“A scribe, as well as an author and historian! That is excellent. I am very fond of books, too.” Pleased to find yet another trait in common with Brother Tor, Margaret resisted an urge to touch his arm where he sat beside her. “I would like to talk more of books and learning with you, if you could only stay longer.”

“We must return, Lady. The abbot of Durham awaits our report on what we have accomplished these past months. But we came north with Prince Edgar for a brief visit, hoping for an audience with King Malcolm on certain matters that may interest him. We could stay a day or two, if we are welcome.”

“Certainly,” Margaret said eagerly. “And you are welcome here any time.” She remembered an easy friendship with Tor years back, yet now he seemed cool and remote, perhaps due to his status as a monk. Or did her status as queen cause the distance between them? Surely it could not be her marriage. Tor had never thought of her in that way, for she had been a young girl when she had secretly doted on him—and now he was a monk.

“Brother Tor, we will make sure you meet with the king before you go,” Edgar said then.

“My husband rode out for a judgment court, but he will be back by evening,” Margaret explained.

“I see,” Tor said. Then, while the others chuckled over something Brother Aldwyn was saying, he leaned slightly toward Margaret. “May I say, Lady Margaret, that it is good to see you again. Queenship and motherhood suit you, and you have done well. God was wise indeed to send you to Scotland.”

Margaret felt her cheeks heat again, but she knew that Tor was right. She was in Scotland for reasons beyond her grasp, and she must accept that. “I would like to think that someday I might find peace and purpose here, where I have been set, just as you did.”

“You have found it,” he said quietly.

“Sometimes I feel … as if I must seek more. I have achieved little so far.” She glanced away, aware that something was amiss within. Only she knew her sins, the flaws in her character that she could never expunge and could not easily confess. If Tor was her confessor, she thought then, she might feel free to speak of those feelings someday. He was a friend, even after so long.

“You are graced with so much now. Perhaps God is done testing your spirit, after the last few years,” he replied.

“Brother, I long to be challenged,” she whispered. “I yearn to be tested and proven.”

He leaned closer. “If you feel so, then prove yourself through good works and devotion as queen and mother and as a pious woman. Let that ease whatever troubles you.”

She paused. “Brother Tor, would you … confess me and hear my sins?” She said it impulsively, with a surge of hope, and a twinge low in her body that felt, for a moment, like the deepest excitement of lovemaking—she caught her breath against it. But she wanted to confide in this man, who would sincerely understand the bliss and forgiveness she sought in prayer and had not yet found completely.

“Margaret, I am not your confessor,” he whispered.

“But I wish you were,” she whispered breathlessly, blushing hot. Her confessors were Father Otto, Brother Micheil, even Bishop Fothad when he visited the king, but she could not open her private heart to them. Somehow she felt Tor could fully accept her thoughts as well as her sins.

“It is not my calling,” he said, and his eyes, so pale a blue, sparked brilliantly. “Though for your sake I, too, could wish it.”

“
MELROSE! THAT PLACE
was abandoned a century ago at least,” Malcolm said. He leaned forward at the table during supper, hand gripping a small knife, point upward. He spoke sharply, though he addressed the two monks who were his guests. “I was not told of that decision—and that place is in
my
territory.” He pounded his fist in emphasis. “What the devil are you doing down there, Brothers?”