Queen Hereafter (4 page)

Now the Saxons needed Malcolm’s help and the Norse queen was dead—and Margaret realized that her brother might try to bargain her away to Malcolm, especially since he had applied for her hand before.

She could not imagine living in a barbaric land, wife to a raiding warrior who could not be trusted to keep any bargain. The Scottish king regularly attacked northern England, and she had heard that his country was a backward place, peopled with superstitious heathens who spoke a strange language no good Saxon would deign to learn.

At Romsey, she had found peace and respite from danger, protected from warmongers and sly self-servers. There, she would have taken vows to expiate sins she otherwise dared not confess. Instead, she rode in a cart rattling northward toward a fate she dreaded.

C
radled in a leather hammock, Margaret grabbed a support rope as another lurching wave brought the ship high, then low again. Beside her, Cristina clung to their mother, both women moaning, while Margaret endured in silence. In a second hammock, Kata sat terrified and wide-eyed beside Hildy, their mother’s sturdy Saxon maid. Even the terrors of the North Sea could not frighten Hildy, Margaret thought with admiration.

“
Cristofori faciem die quacunque tueris
,” Lady Agatha muttered, taking out a silver medal from the purse at her belt, “
illa nempe die morte mala non morieris.
” She displayed the silver face of Saint Christopher to the
other women. “Whosoever regards the face of Christopher shall not die that day an evil death. Remember that in your prayers today.”

Margaret understood that her mother was doing her best in the absence of the Benedictine priest, Otto, who rode aboard a second ship carrying additional men, horses, armor, and cargo. The other longboat pitched in the heavy seas, upright as yet. For two days, fierce winds and rain had lashed the ship, tearing the great sail, but somehow they had stayed their course, thanks not only to skilled sailors but to the intercession of saints such as Christopher, Nicholas, the Irishman Brendan, and the Princess Ursula, who had sailed stormy seas with eleven thousand virgin friends to safety—and eventual martyrdom. The sainted ones would watch over those who traveled on water, keeping them safe—or at least Margaret fervently hoped so as she sent up another prayer to that end.

As for her mother, Margaret had nearly forgotten over the past three years how fretful Lady Agatha could be. Descended on one side from Magyars who had swarmed the Carpathian basin and on the other from Russian royalty, her mother had the strong-boned beauty of her combined heritage, yet by nature Lady Agatha was fearful and bitter more than tough. Just now her frantic prayers added such tension that Margaret furtively wished her mother would offer some real comfort to her family. Cristina, cut of similar cloth, was keen to point out their difficulties rather than be strong against them—and though Margaret doubted her own mettle, she would not bemoan her fate. Somehow she would persevere, emulating the example of saints and martyrs who had endured far worse.

A gust of wind slapped open the leather curtain that provided shelter for the women aboard the longship. Rain and seawater drenched Margaret’s blue gown, red cloak, and red leather shoes, and she wrung out the hems of the ruined silk. After Romsey, she had been thankful to exchange her plain garments for fine ones, though she knew that her love of bright colors and beautiful fabrics was a sinful vanity, a serious flaw in her character. Now she vowed to improve
her lesser qualities if only she and the others could survive this awful voyage safely.

Another heavy tilt of the ship prompted Lady Agatha to pray loudly as she rotated her ebony beads and recited in Latin. Cristina told their mother to hush, bluntly, and was slapped for it.

“I have prayed a year’s worth of penances today,” Cristina said. “Now I pray we reach Scotland soon so we can get another ship to Denmark and go home to Hungary.”

“No one should be on the North Sea this time of year, with the winter storms upon us,” Hildy said. “We should have stayed in England.”

“But Edgar said William’s troops would hunt us there,” Lady Agatha said.

“He and his Saxon lords have betrayed William with their rebellion, and we are all declared outlaws. We have lost everything,” Cristina added bitterly. “Margaret and I are princesses without land and few goods, and little marriage value. What will become of us?”

“We have our royal heritage,” Margaret said. “The rest can be regained.”

“At least the Scottish king offered assistance,” Lady Agatha said. “Perhaps he will give us some of his goods, in addition to what we were able to bring with us.”

“He is a pauper, Mama, so they say. All Scots are savages,” Cristina replied. “And Edgar does what the Saxon lords want, so he will strike any bargain with Malcolm. What of us?”

“Edgar will be a fine king,” Lady Agatha said blithely, as if she had not even heard. “He reminds me of your father.”

Margaret sighed. Her mother was so idealistic where her son was concerned. But the sudden reminder of her father brought her such a heart-tug of guilt and remorse that she could not speak. If only Papa had lived—if only she had not given him the sweetmeats that night …

Feeling sick, she jumped up as the ship tilted again and cold seawater sloshed over her feet. She felt like Jonah inside the whale,
which must have been a putrid place indeed. She had to get away. “I need some air,” she said. “I will go ask how we are faring.”

The ship lurched and she grabbed the curtain while her mother and sister groaned in unison and Kata clung to Hildy. But Margaret was determined to get outside. She, too, felt ill, but she tended to a finicky stomach on the best of days and had fasted to lessen her illness aboard ship. Now, dizzy but well enough, she peered through a gap in the curtain and saw men shouting, rushing about or sitting huddled against the wind and rain, while the captain called to the oarsmen to pull harder, landward.

Land? Beyond the tilting rim of the ship, the gray sea slid beneath heavy clouds, but Margaret could see the faint rim of a shoreline and hills. Had her prayers indeed been granted? She had fingered the strand of prayer beads looped over her belt, counting endless Pater Nosters and Ave Marias upon the small semiprecious stones knotted in tens on silken thread.

Truth be told, her prayers had been fervent despite the weather, for she loathed sea voyaging in any conditions, after the long, exhausting sea journeys in her childhood. Though she had learned to mask her fears with calm, she could not wait to attain land.

Through a haze of rain and sea spray, Margaret walked along the deck toward her brother, who sat with some of the Saxon lords who had fled England with them. The men looked damp and cold, clutching leather cloaks as protection from the elements. Edgar, blond hair straggling, looked young and earnest beside the mature warriors as he listened avidly to their conversation.

She walked carefully on the slippery planking, past oarsmen who pulled hard as the boat cut a swath through surging water. Overhead, the prow was topped by a wooden curl rather than the dragon’s head carried by warships, for the ship was a wide, low merchant knorr. Beyond, steel-gray waves peaked white as she saw the second ship heaving on the seas behind the first.

Edgar stood as she approached and the men made room for her to sit. She greeted each in turn: Morcar, grumbling, red-bearded, bitter
to have been ousted from Northumbria; his capable brother, Edwin, earl of Mercia; Cospatric, the Saxon cousin of Malcolm Canmore; and Walde, a Northumbrian nobleman whose beauty and courtly eloquence were well known and his Saxon loyalty strong; he had William’s favor, and had been offered William’s niece Judith in marriage, as a bid to anchor Northumbrian fealties.

This tough, clever Saxon lot had betrayed tyrannical William, infuriating him. With their Saxon army all but decimated, their Danish support almost gone, they now looked for Malcolm Canmore’s aid in their rebellion. They supported Edgar’s claim to the throne of England, yet Margaret did not entirely trust their influence over her brother, who was too young to lead the rebellion these lords favored. She felt wary on his behalf.

But she smiled as she sat beside Edgar, who drew his leather covering over her head and shoulders. She huddled close, her braids pooling like damp golden ropes in her lap.

“Are we nearing land?” she asked.

“Aye. The oarsmen are heading for it,” Edgar replied. “The storm spun us about and the hull may be damaged, but we have hope now.”

“Thank the saints.” She breathed out in relief.

“We are still in danger of sinking,” Morcar said bluntly. “And we do not know if that land is Scotland or England. Go back to your mother, lady, and pray for our souls.” Morcar was a sour fellow; she had disliked him even in her uncle’s royal court. “We would be better off with the sea monsters than with the Normans.”

“If it is Scotland, luck is with us,” Edwin said quietly. “We will be safe.”

“If we are in Malcolm’s territory, aye,” Cospatric said. “Farther north, the Highland men who dislike their own king also dislike Saxons.”

“Aye, and Malcolm will give us sanctuary … for the right fee.” Morcar looked at Margaret.

“What price would that be, sir?” She looked at him directly, certain she knew what he meant.

“Lady, go back to your mother and your prayers,” Morcar groused.

“Give my sister credit for intelligence, sir,” Edgar said. “She is the best scholar in my family, and I vow she could outreason any clergyman on matters of theology and logic. If we are to negotiate—”

“Some women are cleverer than is good for them,” Morcar snapped.

Margaret shivered in a chill gust, but Morcar’s rudeness made her defiant. She would not leave just yet. “What bargain will you make with Malcolm of Scotland? He expects to meet with Edgar and some rebel lords—but I suspect he will be surprised to see the entire royal Saxon family and their household, all in need of asylum.”

“We will negotiate for the safety and benefit of all,” Edgar said.

“The Scottish king is unpredictable, they say,” she replied. “A savage warlord. We cannot guess what he wants.” If they meant to marry her off, she wanted to hear it said out loud, now. They avoided her gaze, even her brother—did that indicate something significant?

“Your sister knows too much and not enough,” Morcar said. “We will do what is necessary. Go bid the women be ready for whatever comes—the bottom of the sea, or the teeth of Scots.”

UNDER THUNDEROUS SKIES
, the Saxons were taken off the foundering ship within the hour by fishermen who appeared as if sent from heaven, having braved the rocking seas in sleek boats to convey the strangers to land. Their saviors were local Scots, Margaret learned, who spoke the native tongue, a lilting language that Cospatric alone understood.

“These are Fife men, loyal to Malcolm,” he explained, seated in one of the boats with Margaret and several others. “They say their village is not far from one of Malcolm’s royal palaces. They will send word to the king’s men and we will shelter with the fishing families tonight. Soon we will be welcomed by King Malcolm.”

Shivering in her wet things, Margaret was so grateful to be heading toward blessed land that she almost did not care where it was. Tears stung her eyes as men lifted her from the boat and carried her ashore. Sinking to her knees on the pebbled beach beside her kinswomen and others giving thanks, she closed her eyes in silent prayer.

Never again, she decided, did she want to travel by sea, never again did she care to feel the powerful surge of bottomless water beneath her. In that moment, she made a vow—a holy, impulsive, impassioned vow, promising heaven that she would stay away from water. Instead, she promised the saints in fervent silence, she would help anyone willing to voyage by ship, but she would gladly deprive herself of sea travel. That would free her from experiencing such fear and danger again.

As the Scottish fishermen guided the stranded survivors through the rain toward their own homes, Margaret anticipated the heat of a cozy hearth, the feel of dry clothing, and the safety of humble hospitality. She would not think ahead, she told herself, to meeting the Scottish king.

Turning, she saw Edgar offer to one of the fishermen, a tough and elderly man, a purse of coins. The man shook his head in refusal.

“You are welcome to what we have. It does not matter to us where you come from or who you are. Best we do not know, eh?”

A FIRE BLAZED HOT
gold within a ring of stones, the rest of the room in shadow as Margaret and the other women gathered around the low central hearth, grasping blankets around their shoulders. Grateful to be warm and dry, Margaret was glad for the simple shift that she now wore while her wet garments dried by the fire. Her sister and mother had grimaced at the plain clothing they had been lent by the fisherman’s wife who had welcomed them to her family’s cottage; and they did not seem pleased with their quarters, a dank and humble seaside cottage belonging to the woman introduced as Mother Annot and her husband, the elderly fisherman who had guided the stranded voyagers away from the storm-tossed beach.