Margaret the Queen

by Nigel Tranter

Genres: Historical Fiction

Synopsis

First she was Margaret the refugee. A Saxon princess, sister of Edgar
Atheling who, but for William the Conqueror, would have been King of
England. She came to Scotland in 1069.

Beautiful, sympathetic and devout, she was an unlikely consort to the
rough and ready Malcolm King of Scots and slayer of MacBeth, a man who
cared for little other than hunting, drinking and the brutal arts of
war.

Yet, through her gentle strength of character and intelligence, she was
to have a profound and lasting effect on her adopted nation and people
that lasts to this day.

Release date: September 1, 1998

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 356

Sample

THE QUEEN’S BODY was taken from Edinburgh to be buried in Holy Trinity, now Dunfermline Abbey, along with Edward’s. Discounting alleged miracles en route, we can take it that Donald Ban allowed passage. Malcolm’s body was buried by the English at Tynemouth, but in time was disinterred and brought to lie beside Margaret at Dunfermline, the first King of Scots not to have been interred at Iona. William Rufus, although almost certainly implicated in Malcolm’s death, made a show of anger over such an end for a royal personage, and confined Moubray, Earl of Northumbria, to perpetual imprisonment. Cospatrick, for some reason, possibly on the urging of Prior Turgot, was taken to the new cathedral of Durham and buried there.

Edgar did not become King of Scots for over four years. The mormaors, under the Celtic law of tanistry, accepted Donald Ban as rightful monarch. But he only reigned for six months, when his nephew Duncan marched north at the head of a large English army, having sworn fealty to William Rufus for Scotland — an action which was to give rise to much trouble for centuries thereafter — and unseated him. But Duncan reigned for only six more months, when he was slain at Mondynes by Malpender, Mormaor of the Mearns, who supported Donald. Donald then resumed the crown for three years, and seems to have reigned well; when Edgar at last, also with English aid — for the Margaretsons were in exile in England — overthrew his uncle, and ascended the throne; and the long regimes of the Margaretsons commenced. It is to be feared however that his mother would not have approved of Edgar’s revenge, indeed his general behaviour. He had Donald Ban’s eyes put out and sent him to be a scullion in the royal kitchens. When Donald died he was the last Scots king to be buried on Iona.

Edgar died unmarried in 1107 and was succeeded by his next brother, Alexander the First. He seems to have made a better monarch, and continued his mother’s work of Romanising the Columban Church. One of his first acts was to have Prior Turgot installed as Romish Bishop of St. Andrews and Primate, thus ending the hereditary primacy of the Dunkeld line. He reigned for fourteen years, during which his sister Matilda married Henry Beauclerc; who when Rufus died in 1100, became Henry the First of England. Alexander produced no heir, and was succeeded by David the youngest of the Margaretsons — they were never referred to as the Malcolmsons — who occupied the throne for no less than twenty-nine years, a great king by most standards, of whom his mother would have approved. He completed the Romanising of the Scottish Church and added his own Normanising policy in the state. By the end of his reign both the Celtic Church and the Celtic polity were largely a thing of the past, and Scotland had moved from the patriarchal and tribal into the feudal age, with Papacy triumphant. So Margaret won her battle in the end. She was officially canonised in 1250. Bishop Turgot wrote her biography, the earliest such production in Scotland, although it is to a large extent hagiography.

Edmund the black sheep, on Donald Ban’s downfall, found it wise to reform, and entered Holy Church. Ethelred in due course had to give up the earldom of Fife to its true heir; and lost his primacy to Turgot. Oddly he seems to have been more or less converted to the Columban faith, and as his brothers turned towards the Normans, he turned to the Gaels, indeed Gaelicised his name to Eth, or Hugh, and lived in the Highlands, producing a son MacEth who in due course became Earl of Moray and whom some claim as the founder of Clan Mackay.

St. Margaret’s influence on Scotland has been enormous, much greater than that of any other woman, and few men have had as much. Whether the pulling down of the Columban Church was a good thing or a bad, is still a matter for debate. Certainly the non-hierarchal, independent and more homely faith seems more in keeping with the Scots character; also more akin to the Church which arose out of the Reformation and is now the Church of Scotland. But the change-over might well have been inevitable, in the Middle Ages.

It is perhaps of interest that, while a descendant of Malcolm and Margaret still sits on the throne of the United Kingdom, in 1963 a direct descendant of Cospatrick, Alec Cospatrick Douglas-Home, 14th Earl of Home, became Prime Minister thereof. He still lives in the Merse.

In Order of Appearance

MALDRED MAC MELMORE: Second son of the Mormaor or Earl of Atholl.

MALCOLM THE THIRD (CANMORE): King of Scots.

GILLIBRIDE, EARL OF ANGUS: Great Scots noble, former Mormaor.

HUGH O’BEOLAIN, HEREDITARY ABBOT OF APPLECROSS: Great noble.

EDGAR ATHELING: Saxon prince. Grandson of Edmund Ironside and rightful King of England.

PRINCESS AGATHA OF HUNGARY: Mother of above.

MARGARET ATHELING: Sister of Edgar.

CHRISTINA ATHELING: Sister of Edgar.

MAGDALEN OF ETHANFORD: Saxon attendant on the princesses.

INGEBIORG THORFINNSDOTTER: Queen, wife of Malcolm.

DUNCAN MAC MALCOLM: Prince of Strathclyde, elder son of Malcolm.

DONALD BEG MAC MALCOLM: Younger son of Malcolm and Ingebiorg.

DUNCAN MACDUFF, EARL OF FIFE: Great noble. Hereditary Inaugurator.

IVO: Celtic Church Abbot of Dunfermline.

MADACH MAC MELMORE: Eldest son of Earl of Atholl. Brother of Maldred.

COSPATRICK MAC MALDRED: Formerly Earl of Northumbria, cousin of the King.

WALTHEOF MAC MALDRED: Styled Earl of Cumbria. Brother of Cospatrick.

PAUL THORFINNSON, EARL OF ORKNEY: Elder son of Thorfinn Raven Feeder and brother of Queen Ingebiorg.

ERLAND THORFINNSON: Governor of Galloway. Younger brother of above.

GODFREY CROVAN OF ISLAY: Later King of Dublin and Man.

FOTHAD THE SECOND: Celtic Church Bishop of St. Andrews. Chancellor.

TURGOT: A Cluniac monk, from Durham.

WALCHERE, BISHOP OF DURHAM: A Lorrainer.

ELDRED, ARCHBISHOP OF YORK: Saxon prelate.

EDWIN ALFGARSON, EARL OF MERCIA: Saxon leader.

MORKAR ALFGARSON: Brother of above.

THURSTAN, ABBOT OF ELY: Saxon leader.

HEREWARD LEOFRICSON, THE WAKE: Lord of Bourne. Saxon leader.

DUNCHAD, ABBOT OF IONA: Co-Arb or Chief Abbot of the Celtic Church.

WILLIAM OF NORMANDY, KING OF ENGLAND – THE CONQUEROR.

DONALD BAN MAC DUNCAN: Son of Duncan the First. Half-brother of Malcolm.

ALDWIN, PRIOR OF WINCHCOMBE AND JARROW: Saxon.

ROBERT, DUKE OF NORMANDY: Eldest son of the Conqueror.

EDWARD MAC MALCOLM: Eldest son of Malcolm and Margaret.

ETHELRED MAC MALCOLM: Third son of Malcolm and Margaret.

ETHELREDA: Daughter of Cospatrick.

EDGAR MAC MALCOLM: Fourth son of Malcolm and Margaret. Later King.

SIR ROBERT DE MOUBRAY, EARL OF NORTHUMBRIA: Norman noble.

WILLIAM THE SECOND (RUFUS), KING OF ENGLAND: Second son of the Conqueror.

MALDRED, SICKENED AT it all, turned away. He was not a particularly squeamish youth, but on this raid he had already seen enough savagery and sheer brutality to last him for many a day. He did not protest, however, not any more. Malcolm the Third, by-named Canmore, King of Scots, was not the sort of monarch who accepted criticism gladly from any man, or woman, in especial from an eighteen-year-old — even though he was a kinsman, in cousinship.

The distraught woman’s screams would have drowned out any protests, anyway. No sound came from either of the children any more, at least — one, a tiny naked baby which had been still at breast, now lying crumpled some forty feet below the cliff; the other, a yellow-haired two-year-old already beginning to be carried away by the river’s current, where it curved round the cliff-foot — the Wear it was called, apparently. No sounds either now emanated from the two men of the little household back there, lying in their own blood, presumably the woman’s husband and father. They sprawled at the door of their cot-house, the reed-thatched roof of which was blazing fiercely and sending up great murky clouds of smoke, carried on the gusty and chill east wind off the sea to join the vast pall which lay over all that Northumbrian land northwards and westwards, whence the army had come, the product of scores, hundreds of other burning homesteads in their path, all with their quota of slain.

The King was not looking at the hysterical woman, any more than at her late family. He stared seawards, into the south-east wind, pale-blue eyes narrowed, watching the three ships which had just been spotted and pointed out to him, far from clear as they were in the poor visibility and clouds of spindrift of the storm’s aftermath. That they were making, limpingly, for the river-mouth was clear enough however, whatever else was not. There might be more behind, as yet not visible.

King Malcolm turned to the group of his thanes and captains who sat their shaggy garrons behind his own — lords, rather; Malcolm, who had been reared here in Northumbrian England, did not like the old Scots terms, and thanes were now lords, mormaors now earls, after the Saxon-Danish custom.

“What think you?” He spoke jerkily, and in the English tongue, not in his native Gaelic — which for a dozen years now the others all had had to practise. “These ships? Are they in trouble? Are there more?” His eyesight was not of the best. “I can see three only . . .” An explosive curse burst from his lips, and he swung in his saddle to stab a blunt finger towards the screaming woman whose cries were preventing the others from hearing him properly. “Silence me that trull, fools!” he shouted.

One of the dismounted soldiers raised a fist and struck the woman full on the mouth, a great blow which flung her headlong to the ground, there at the edge of the little cliff, her outcry reduced to a snuffling, strangled sobbing.

Malcolm Canmore repeated his questions. He was a stocky, thick-set man of forty-seven, with a head strangely over-large for the rest of him — hence the by-name of Ceann-Mhor or Big Head — a shock of dark, curling unruly hair only partially restrained by the gold circlet around his brows, his down-turning moustaches cruel, to join a beard forked in the Danish style. The gold circlet alone distinguished him as monarch, for he was dressed no more finely than many of his men, and some of his nobles were considerably more grand. His whole appearance indeed seemed to relate him to his mother’s blood rather than his father’s. For, although he was the first-born but illegitimate son of Duncan the First, whom MacBeth had slain, boasting the blood of possibly the oldest line of monarchs in all Christendom, reaching far back into pagan times, his mother had been no more than the miller’s daughter of Forteviot, not Duncan’s queen. Be all that as it might, Malcolm the Third was one of the most successful warriors and shrewd manipulators of his day, even though the notion of mercy, as of gentleness, was not in him.

The consensus of the Scots lords was that the three ships were damaged by the storm and heading into Wearmouth’s bay for shelter. One, a long low galley, Danish by the look of her, of the longship breed, was in front, being rowed in, her great single square sail, tattered in ribbons, streaming in the wind. The two other vessels were larger, but more clumsy, traders, cargo-carriers by the look of them, one with a mast gone. If any had borne the usual markings of flags or painted identities on the sails, these had not survived the storm. The general opinion was that they were not war-inclined.

“There is a fourth ship, Highness,” Maldred mac Melmore of Atholl said, his young eyes keenest. “Some way to the south. See, rounding the headland. The spray hides it somewhat . . .”

“If four, how many more? What is it, boy? A warship or another merchanter?”

“Not a longship or galley. One like these other two . . .”

“Good. Better pickings from traders than from soldiers, I say! We will down to this haven and receive them, I think! Suitably. Bide you here, lad. You have good eyes, at least! If not much else. Watch you for other ships. Bring me word if there are more. And if any are war-galleys.”

The King reined his horse round to move off, and his eyes lighted on the fallen woman again. She lay unmoving, but whether she was conscious or not could not be seen, for her clothing was now thrown up over her head and shoulders, her white lower half laid bare. The man who had struck her was now kneeling over her, busy, another dragging her ragged clothes higher.

“Animals!” Malcolm roared, heels kicking his mount forward at the same time as he whipped out his great two-handed sword from its sheath at his back. Over woman and active, grinning men he rode, slashing downwards with the edge of his blade as he went, beating both the soldiers to the ground in red ruin. “Curs! I said silence her, not breed on her! Colbain — if these two are not dead, hang them. I will be obeyed, to the word.” And he rode on without pause.

This forward section of the Scots punitive force, some twelve hundred mounted men, streamed after him, down towards the harbour and village of Wearmouth in St. Cuthbert’s Land, taking the savaged would-be rapists with them. Rape was no offence in Malcolm’s eyes; indeed it was so commonplace on that expedition as to be wholly unremarkable. But disobedience and undisciplined behaviour in the royal presence were altogether another matter.

Maldred of Atholl was left on the cliff-top beside the burning hovel, with a twitching, moaning woman and two dead cottagers.

He went to her and pulled down her pitiful clothing, very much aware of her rounded white nakedness and the dark triangle at her groin — but aware also of the great bruising on the soft flesh, bruises he guessed had been caused by the hooves of the King’s horse rather than by the rough handling of the soldiers. He sought to comfort the creature, but she was only semi-conscious and beyond his feeble aid. There was nothing that he could do, no shelter even into which he might drag her. Sighing, he left her, and went back to gazing seawards into the chill wind.

Presently he decided that there were no more ships coming. Weakly, uncomfortably, he did not look at the woman again, but went for his garron and rode downhill for the river-mouth.

All four vessels were now in the shelter of the estuary, but standing off a few hundred yards out, as though uncertain of their landfall and reception — as well they might be, with a large armed force drawn up and awaiting them. In England, or most other lands, in the year 1069, it paid to be discreet where numbers of men were in evidence. Perhaps the seafarers contemplated turning and facing the angry, snarling Norse Sea again, rather than risk such a welcome. Yet, seen thus at fairly close quarters, the damage to the ships done by the storm of the last two days was sufficiently evident to make anything such unlikely in the extreme. All four craft were in a sorry state. Even the galley, probably the least affected, was sorely battered, its rearing prow, once bearing a proud eagle’s or dragon’s head, broken off, the decked fighting-platform at the high bows stove-in at one side, and great gaps amongst the rowing benches.

Maldred reined up and dismounted beside his scowling, heavy-shouldered cousin. “No more ships, my lord King,” he reported. “Nor any sign of any enemy force to the south, either. On land.”

Malcolm nodded, unspeaking. He was, on the whole, a silent man.

“These timorous shipmen grow tedious, Highness!” Gillibride, Earl of Angus declared. He was a youngish man, dark, saturnine, slightly-built but of a smouldering fierceness of nature, who had only recently succeeded his father, the old mormaor. “Shall we put out these boats here and hasten them somewhat?” He gestured towards the numerous fishing-cobles drawn up on the shingle of the boatstrand nearby.

“They will not sail away,” the King said briefly. “We have them, and they know it.”

“Why waste men on what will fall to us anyway, with a little patience?” the Abbot of Applecross asked. Knowing Hugh O’Beolain, Maldred did not esteem that to be any gentle reminder of Christian charity towards the unfortunate. All abbots of the Celtic Church were not necessarily that way inclined; the hereditary ones, like this O’Beolain of Applecross, were quite as military as, say, some of the Norman bishops.

Maldred himself spoke up. “They will not know who we are. Any more than we know them. They may be friends, not enemies. If you spread your royal banner, Highness, they might come. Reassured.”

Some of the nobles round the monarch grinned at the notion that sight of the standard of the present King of Scots might reassure anyone as to a kindly reception. But Malcolm himself nodded, and signed to young Cathail mac Lachlan, son of the Earl of Buchan, who shared the duties of royal standard-bearer with Maldred, to unfurl the great blue Boar flag of Scotland which, because of the difficulty of keeping it flying in high winds, had been carried wrapped round its staff.

Whether as a result or not, the galley at least made a move shortly thereafter. Long oars were put out and the vessel headed slowly for the boatstrand. It was, of course, the only one of the four which could make land thus, with its shallow draught and forefoot construction able to run up on to a shelving beach, where the heavier conventional trading-ships required quays and jetties.

The damaged vessel drew in, and some of the Scots moved down to the strand to receive her. A gang-plank was run down from the shattered bows-platform to the shingle, as the galley grounded, and three men came down it, their rich clothing wet and weather-stained. It was to be seen that some of those who stood at the plank’s head to watch were women.

Of the trio, the one in the centre was youngest, thin, almost emaciated, with a slight stoop, very fair hair, and a way of screwing up his eyes as though short-sighted.

“That looks like the flag of Malcolm of Scotland,” he said. He spoke a strangely accented English, with a hesitancy of enunciation which nevertheless did not lack authority. “Is it so?”

“It is,” the Earl of Angus agreed, less than respectfully. “Who are you?”

The other ignored that. “Take me to the King,” he commanded.

Angus grinned. “Beware how you crow here, cockerel!” he jerked, but turned and led the way back to the waiting Scots leadership group at the top of the shingle-bank.

As they came near, Malcolm, staring, drew a quick breath, leaning forward. Clearly he knew now who came.

“These offer no names, Highness,” Angus reported. “And come from beyond this sea, I think.” And to the newcomers, “Down, fools — on your knees! Before the High King of Scots.”

That was ignored likewise. The pale young man spoke. “King Malcolm — we meet again. I thank God that it is you.”

“Edgar!” the King said. “Edgar Atheling!”

Angus stared, and swallowed. He had been telling the man who should have been King of England to get down on his knees. He muttered something, scarcely an apology for it was not in that man’s nature to apologise for anything, but in protest that he had not known. The Saxon paid no attention.

“We saw your host and feared that it might be some of the Norman’s army. From York. From whom we have fled. We are not in your Scotland here, are we?” he asked.

“No — not by a long road! We are ten miles south of Tyne. In Northumbria. But how come you here, man?” Malcolm demanded. “I deemed you in Deira, with Sven of Denmark. You fled, you say?”

“Fled, yes,” Prince Edgar said bitterly. “It was all that was left to us. This William the Norman is the Devil Incarnate.” He had some difficulty with that phrase. “You know that he bought your Earl Cospatrick away from me. With great promises . . .”

“Aye — that is William, fiend take him! And why I am here. To teach my Cousin Cospatrick of Northumbria a lesson, not to sit down with the Norman. But that was weeks past. Where is Sven Estridson and his Danes?”

“William has bribed King Sven also. Sent him great quantities of gold, English gold, my gold! To buy him off. Danegeld again! Sven has sailed back to Denmark, deserting me. Like Cospatrick. I could not face the Norman alone. So must needs flee. We set sail from the Humber. Back to Hungary. Leaving all. But this storm caught us. Three ships are lost, the rest blown here. Near to Tyne, you say?”

Malcolm Canmore failed to express the sympathies which might have been looked for. He was indeed urgently assessing his own position in the light of these tidings. If Sven’s Danish army had sailed for home, and this Edgar’s Saxons had dissolved in flight, then his own situation here, in less than major strength, could be dangerous. William of Normandy, with his great host based on York, was only seventy miles away to the south. Freed of any threat of Saxon-Danish arms, he could strike swiftly north against the raiding Scots expedition. He would be well informed by spies — always William was that.

When the Atheling got no reply, he went on. “These are the lords Alfwin of Elmham and Leleszi of Hungary.” He indicated his two companions. “I have my mother and my sisters on the ship. And others of my company . . .”

Malcolm nodded. “Yes. They may come ashore. We shall spend the night at this Wearmouth. While I send out scouts . . .” He looked away, frowning. Then turned. “Maldred — go bring these ladies to me. My greetings to them. We shall find the best of such hovels as there are, for them.” He returned to Edgar Atheling. “Where was William when you last heard? At York? Or nearer to Humber?”

“We sailed from Ravenspur. The Norman was then said to be at Selby, south of York, burning and slaying . . .”

Maldred hurried down to the beach, and ran up the gang-plank on to the galley’s damaged prow, to bow before the party waiting there. He had eyes only for the four women, however, one of middle years, the other three young, one a girl no older than himself. They all looked storm-beaten and weary, but held themselves proudly, and were, in his enthusiastic eyes at least, beautiful. Especially two of the younger ones. Half-a-dozen men stood with them.

“I am Maldred mac Melmore of Atholl,” he told them respectfully. “The High King Malcolm bids you kind welcome. And asks me to bring you to his presence.”

“Mary Mother of God be praised!” the older lady exclaimed. “So it is the King of Scotland. We scarcely dared hope . . .” She was a handsome, slender woman of almost gypsy-like good looks, but with the lines of sorrow or pain in her features, her appearance no doubt accounted for by her Hungarian blood. “I am Agatha Arpad, daughter of King Stephen of Hungary. And these are my own daughters, the Princesses Margaret and Christina.” She did not name the youngest girl.

He bowed again. “Princesses, I am yours to command. I act standard-bearer to Malcolm mac Duncan, my cousin.” He could not prevent himself putting that in. “Will you come with me?” He had difficulty in keeping his eyes off those younger women.

Two of these, then, were Edgar the Atheling’s sisters, the elder the most lovely creature it had ever been Maldred’s good fortune to set eyes on, of a calm, ethereal beauty, flaxen-haired, violet-blue-eyed, notably well-built, seemingly serene, untroubled, despite her wet hair, soaking clothing and all the ordeal they had undergone, all Saxon in appearance this one, with no hint of her Hungarian ancestry. Her sister, younger, perhaps twenty years of age, was darker, more like her mother, but less assured, attractive also but more aware of her dishevelled state, even shivering a little in the chill wind. The unnamed one, presumably only an attendant, was nevertheless almost as eye-catching as the Princess Margaret, although very different, with red-brown hair, sparkling hazel, eyes and a slender but quite provocative figure. Never, surely, could monastic Wearmouth have witnessed such a visitation as this.

Giving the Princess Agatha his arm down the swaying gang-plank, in some danger of himself falling off — and wishing that it was one of the others, for Maldred was a very normal youth in most matters — he led his bevy of storm-tossed beauty up the beach towards the village, followed by most of the richly-dressed men, and watched by a great many distinctly envious soldiers, not all of whom kept their admiration and feelings silent or even muted. They found the monarch ejecting a couple of Romish priests from the small St. Peter’s church in the village with scant ceremony, and ordering the building to be prepared for his occupation.

Malcolm was no ladies’ man, and greeted the newcomers in fairly off-hand style — they in turn looking askance at what he was doing. But even he at second and third glance, clearly became not a little conscious of the pulchritude and refinement in evidence, more especially of the older daughter Margaret, to whom his fierce gaze kept returning. He adopted a more attentive attitude accordingly, although nothing would make that man courtly or other than unpolished.

“You are wet and cold, ladies,” he paused to say. “But, never fear, we shall soon have you warm and your bellies full. There are but miserable hovels here, but we shall find you the best.” Clearly the church was for himself. But from Malcolm Big Head, who normally never so much as took women’s feelings and susceptibilities into account at all, this was significant indeed.

“We praise Almighty God that He, in His infinite mercy, directed the cruel storm and wind to bring us into your good care and ward, Sire,” the Princess Agatha told him devoutly.

The King grunted non-committally at these sentiments. Moreover, this term sire was a Continental usage being introduced by Norman William, and therefore to be deplored.

But the praise and thanksgiving was quite quickly interrupted when, presently, Malcolm decided on a cot-house for the ladies — scarcely to be compared with the premises he had reserved for himself but reasonably clean and warm, the central-hearth fire of driftwood less smoky than some. Unfortunately its dark interior proved to be encumbered with a bed-ridden old woman in a sort of cupboard recess, unnoticed at first. The King was having her bundled out when there was protest from one of the princesses, Edgar’s elder sister Margaret, the beautiful one.

“No! No — please, Highness!” she cried. “Not that. Do not turn her out, I pray you. Let her stay.” She had a low-pitched, almost throaty voice, pleasant to hear and much less accented than her mother’s — she had spent much of her youth, of course, at her great-uncle Edward the Confessor’s Court in England. “We shall find another house . . .”

“Not so,” the King snapped, unused to his commands being opposed. “The old witch can kennel elsewhere, well enough. Out with her.”

“Sire,” the young woman said, her fine bosom indicating depth of breath and emotion both, “of your royal clemency, do not do it. For sweet Mary’s sake! If lodge in this house we must, let her remain in it. In her own bed. She is old, sick I think. There is room for us all.”

Malcolm stared, as though disbelieving his own ears and eyes.

“Bear with us, Sire,” her mother said. “The dear God would not have us to be unmerciful, selfish. Let her remain.”

The King clenched great fists. “No!” he barked. “Take her away.” His voice quivered. “Do as I say.” As his men hustled the old woman out, he turned to stamp after them. At the door he spoke again, without turning. “Maldred — see to these . . . ladies. Their needs.” Then he was gone.

There was silence in the shadowy, smoke-blackened, earthen-floored chamber — into which muffled sobbing sounded from the younger sister, Christina.

“Restrain yourself, daughter,” the Princess Agatha said tensely. “And you, Margaret. You should know by now that kings are not to be contravened so. The good King Edward spoiled you. We are wholly in this Malcolm’s hands — and he is named a hard man.” She glanced over at Maldred, suddenly realising that he was still in the cottage, and bit her lip.

“Are we not rather in God’s hands, Mother? Has that changed? Has He spared us the storm for us to refuse His mercy to others? Because the King of Scots is heartless, must we, who need mercy ourselves, be so also?”

Christina gulped and snuffled.

Maldred cleared his throat. “Princesses,” he said, “your gear? Clothing, apparel, linen? The King commands me to see to your needs. If you will tell me what I can do . . .?”

“To be sure.” The older woman turned to the young girl, who had stood throughout silent although keenly alert, absorbed in it all. “Bedding, other clothes, we have on the ship. It is dry, I hope. Or drier than these here. Magdalen, take him. Bring what is necessary for the night.”

The young woman nodded, proffered an incipient curtsy, and signed to Maldred to follow her out.

Skirts kilted up, she skipped before him down to the beach, ignoring the soldiers’ pleasantries. She darted a smiling glance back at her companion.

“What name do they give you? Malfred or Malfrith, was it?” she asked.

“No. Those are Saxon names,” he said, a little scornfully. “I am Maldred mac Melmore, of the house of Crinan of Atholl.”

“So? Is that so very grand?”

He frowned. “Not grand, no. But of ancient line. My father, Melmore, is Earl of Atholl and Abbot of Dunkeld.”

“Abbot! A churchman and an earl both? So you are a bastard?”

“I am not!” he cried. “I am lawful second son. In our Church, the Celtic Church, abbots may wed. Not