Margaret the Queen

by Nigel Tranter

  "Maldred — you?"

  "None. We gave it all away yesterday."

  She paused in her bandaging, tipping lips with pink tongue. Then she nodded, to herself. "Brother Oswald," she said. "Two gold pieces from the satchel you carry."

  The Benedictine all but choked. "Princess! Highness — no! That, that is not for giving away. That is Maundy Money. Especial gold. Not for, not for. . ."

  "But two pieces, Oswald."

  "It is being taken to the Bishop of St. Andrews. Left over from the King's distribution. To be kept until next Maundy Thursday. You cannot give it to these, these . . . people."

  "These coins you carry, Oswald, were minted especially, yes. From gold taken from Northumbrian churches. Crucifixes, pattens and the like. By my husband. Melted down. I say that this is none so ill a use for some of it."

  "But it has been especially blest. The Bishop? And the King? He gave it to me to carry. Trusting me, the only churchman in his train."

  "Which was fortunate. I shall speak to the King. And to Bishop Fothad. It was, after all, my suggestion that this Maundy Money should be minted and distributed. Two pieces, Oswald."

  Unhappily the monk opened his satchel slung from a shoulder, extracted a leather bag and picked out from it two shiny coins. They were very small and roughly stamped as with a seal, but gleamed authentically yellow gold.

  "Give them to the good Abbot. That will more than pay for your provision, will it not, my friend?"

  Cormac took the money almost gingerly, turning the pieces this way and that. Almost certainly he had never handled a gold piece before. Even silver coins were seldom seen in a Celtic cashel.

  "You are very good, Highness. Most kind . . ."

  "Then see that the kindness extends to all these, sir, this feast-day. Food for empty bellies. So long as the money lasts. I shall remember you and your monastery in my prayers. And seek news as to how you fare. See you, of your goodness, to this boy hereafter. These sores require dressing daily." She rose, the lad released at last. "Now, if you will give us your blessing, Father Abbot? I, and all here, I fear, need it!"

  Only the Benedictine did not bow the head for that sudden and hurried benediction, he undoubtedly considering non-Romish blessings as invalid if not positively blasphemous. Margaret possibly felt a little the same way, but recognised the uses of tact to sweeten determination. They mounted and rode on.

  Needless to say they never caught up with MacDuff, much less the King; and it was almost dark when eventually they crossed the wide Muir of Muckross to enter the curious community of Kilrymont or St. Andrews, weary and hungry, having eaten nothing substantial since setting out from Balgonie in the morning — such minor provision as had been carried, gone with Malcolm's party. By that time, the little bag of Maundy Money was barely half-full, for they had come across other scenes and situations which wrung the Queen's heart; and having once made a start upon the gold pieces, she was not to be restrained. Gold, to be sure, was of no use to common poor folk, however needy. So she had exchanged some of the pieces at the hospices of Blebo and Strathkinness, for lesser coins, not without some difficulty and even suspicion on the part of the clergy. She paid for more food distributions, handed out largesse and ransomed more slaves. When Maldred, and even Magda, suggested that this might be over-doing it and that there might well be major trouble with the King hereafter, Margaret quietly assured them that this was how it must be. She must start as she intended to carry on. When she had agreed to wed Malcolm, at his continual urging, she had told him that she would marry not only the man but the realm; that she had no desire to interfere in his rule and governance but that the people, the ordinary folk, the poor and needy, would be her especial care. Malcolm perforce had accepted that. He must learn that she had meant what she said.

  None of her party, even Maldred, had ever before been at St. Andrews. Arriving in semi-darkness, they gained but little notion of the town, save that it was extensive and very evidently on the rocky edge of the sea. It was a strange place altogether, in name and character as in the comparative isolation and remoteness of its situation, stuck out near the very tip of the thrusting horn of Fife. Its name apparently was not really St. Andrews at all, but Kilrymont-in-Muckross, and the saint's appellation referred only to the bishopric. Yet the Bishop's own church was not called that but St. Mary's on the Rock; and the large abbey was named after St. Regulus or Rule, not Andrew. There were no fewer than seven churches here, although some were very small and none stone-built — save for the tall tower of St. Regulus, built as a place of defence rather than worship. Not one was dedicated to St. Andrew.

  They found their way to Bishop Fothad's house without difficulty, even in the gloom, for it was much the biggest building in the town, a fine hall-house in gardens and orchards, at the neck of a rocky little headland on which stood St. Mary's. It was in fact bigger and finer than Malcolm's palace at Dunfermline, the Ard Episcops, or King's Bishops, obviously taking their position seriously. The newcomers discovered that Malcolm, with the Bishop as Chancellor, was now in conference in the main hall. So they settled down to eat in the lesser hall. And while they ate, Margaret asked the Abbot Nechtan of St. Regulus to explain the peculiar situation of this church-city, which she had never fully understood, which was not the Primate's seat, nor yet the true centre of authority, these being at Dunkeld and Iona respectively.

  According to Abbot Nechtan it had all started when Bishop Regulus of Patras, in Greece, was driven ashore here after his long voyage, bringing with him three fingers, part of an arm, the knee-cap and one tooth of the blessed St. Andrew, Simon Peter's brother. He had been fleeing from the invading Emperor Constantine and brought the precious relics with him, warned in a dream that wherever his vessel was forced ashore, there should he set up a church and shrine to contain them. Hence St. Regulus Abbey. In due course the name of St. Andrew had become as much used as Kilrymont. Himself, he would have preferred his abbey to be called St. Andrews instead of St. Regulus, who was after all the lesser saint. But the King's Bishops had adopted the style of St. Andrews for themselves, ten of them before this Fothad the Second.

  Margaret, sensing a certain hostility creeping into the Abbot's voice and recognising possible rivalry, with abbots being in some ways superior to bishops in this Columban Church, steered the subject elsewhere. When did this happen, she wondered? According to her understanding of history, Constantine the Great reigned in the late third and early fourth centuries. She had not heard that Christianity even came to Scotland as early as that. Or was it another Constantine?

  The Abbot coughed and declared that it was most certainly Constantine the Great. They were greatly favoured, here in Fife, in the blessed light of the Gospel reaching this hallowed spot before all others.

  Maldred opened his mouth to speak — for this was not the story his father, the Primate, told — but closed it again when a younger keen-eyed Keledei further down the table, who had been introduced to them as the priest of St. Peter's here, raised his voice.

  "Your Highness's doubts are well founded," he said, clearly. "For all this is but an old contrived tale. There was no St. Regulus. Or if there was, he did not come to Kilrymont. That story was concocted three centuries ago, about the year of our Lord 750, in order to make the bishopric of St. Andrews seem to pre-date the blessed Columba's coming to Iona. And so to deny Iona's superiority."

  Maldred broke into the Abbot Nechtan's angry intake of breath. "That is how my father explained the matter to me," he agreed.

  "Wrong!" the Abbot cried. "All wrong. Lies! Do not heed them, Highness."

  "The good Abbot cannot dispute the facts of history," the Keledei insisted. "The Emperor Constantine lived in the fourth century. This Regulus is said to have come to Scotland, or Pictland, in the reign of Hungus, or Angus mac Fergus, King of Picts. And he reigned in the eighth century! The large lands around Kilrymont owned by the Abbey were gifted by Hungus. Each year the Abbot thanks God for his gifts."

  Nechtan puffed and
waved a dismissive hand.

  Margaret looked from one to another thoughtfully. "And the relics?"

  "Sadly they have been amissing for long," the Abbot said. "Some evil men stole them. Probably Norsemen, Vikings. They made many raids on this coast."

  It was the Keledei's turn to snort.

  "And St. Regulus himself? Surely it is possible to learn just when he lived? If he was indeed Bishop of Patras."

  "He came in the year 347, Highness," the Abbot declared flatly.

  "Then, unless he was over four hundred years old, he never met Hungus, and you have been praising God for the wrong king and your lands!" the younger man asserted. "I say that St. Regulus of Patras never came here. But in the sixth century the Irish missionary St. Caineath did. From Iona, one of the Brethren of Columba. And he founded the first church here, and dedicated it to his old abbot in Ireland, St. Riagull of Muckinsh. That is where the name Rule comes from, not Regulus. The names are spoken much alike, Riagull and Rule — but never Regulus."

  "From all such scoffers and unbelievers, God in His mercy deliver us!" the Abbot announced piously. "You disgrace your Order and calling, young man."

  "I was taught by the Keledei to seek and discern truth . . ."

  "This matter much interests me," the Queen said soothingly, and looked kindly on them both. "I am sorry to hear that the blessed Andrew's relics are lost. . ."

  Further discussion was cut short by the noisy entry of the King and his companions, conference adjourned. Malcolm appeared to be in a good humour, so presumably the decisions had gone as he desired. It had been a debate to try to thrash out the conflicting interests of the bishopric, the earldom of Fife and the Crown, in this East Neuk of Fife. That the King had agreed to come here at all, to hear it, instead of summoning all concerned to Dunfermline, said a lot for the famous boar-hunting facilities of this area — the name Muckross of course, meant the promontory of the boar, and these scrub-covered moorlands had always been notable for the creatures. In the morning, Malcolm would be able to indulge in what had really brought him here, his favourite activity after raiding.

  He greeted his wife with a sort of grim joviality, ponderously pretending to be surprised to see her having got this far, with so much to delay her, and wondering how much more of her wardrobe she had parted with on the way.

  Margaret kissed his cheek and assured him that she had profitably drawn not a few of his subjects closer to his person and Crown that day.

  The Benedictine chaplain looked agitated.

  Malcolm sat down, calling for drink. Bishop Fothad came, as host, to greet the Queen. He seemed less cheerful than either the King or MacDuff, so it might be inferred that he had come least well out of the conference.

  "How good to see you, my very good friend — whom I have not seen to thank sufficiently since you wed us," Margaret said. "I do thank you. And much admire your house. I could wish that we had as good at Dunfermline."

  The Bishop looked somewhat wary at that, despite the warm tone. "It is none so fine a place — but all at your service and disposal, Highness."

  "How kind! We have already dined well of your excellent provision. We must consider well how best to show our approval and appreciation, Bishop."

  Fothad's look changed from the wary to the sceptical, but he murmured civilities.

  "Do I take it, my friend, that your talking today has not been entirely to your advantage?"

  "In some respects, perhaps not, lady."

  At her other side, Malcolm hooted. "What Fothad lost as Bishop he gained as Chancellor, it might be said! Should churchmen be so concerned with lands and worldly gear?"

  "We require goods in order that we may do good with them, Highness."

  "Well said, Bishop! So say I," Margaret supported. "That is the only destination for Holy Church's worldly riches." She looked down the table at the Benedictine. "Oswald — bring Bishop Fothad what remains of the Maundy gold. I distributed some small portion of it on our way here, Bishop, to your monasteries and hospices and poor sorry folk. But there is still some left."

  At her left Malcolm gulped over his ale. "You did what?" he demanded.

  "Used some of the gold pieces you minted, my lord, for their proper purpose — God's work and the relief of need."

  "You did? That gold was mine. Stamped with my seal."

  "To be sure. So I esteemed. And gave it the more gladly. That my husband's name should be the more blessed, also. Better than it lying in some coffer here waiting until next Eastertide, is it not? Bishop Fothad would have preferred so to use it, anyway — would you not, my friend?"

  Fothad began to speak, then thought better of it. He turned to take the leather bag Oswald was holding out, weighed it in his hand, pursed his lips, and laying it unopened on the table, said nothing.

  "I am very happy," the Queen informed them. "So much Christian charity and caring. I was saying, my lord Malcolm, that we must take thought how to assist the good Bishop in his important work, in the Church and realm both. Much could be done, I am certain."

  Neither of her neighbours made encouraging noises.

  "I think that I see opportunity," she went on, undeterred. "I have been talking with the excellent Abbot of St. Regulus, and the young priest there, whose name I have not heard. From them I learned much. Which could, I think, be important. It seems that there are grave doubts as to the beginnings of this St. Andrews bishopric, doubts of age and founding. Which can only be to the detriment of its authority."

  "Ha!" Fothad exclaimed. "So you have been listening to our Brother Ciaran, Highness? That young man is very earnest, godly — but perhaps suffers, like many of our Keledei Order, from presumption of the mind. Overmuch learning, it may be, and too liule simple faith."

  "Could it be that, Bishop? Perhaps. But he appears to know his history. And it is in the history, is it not, that your St. Andrews is . . . doubtful? And it seems, from the Lord Maldred here, that the Primate his father agrees with the young man's doubts."

  Maldred, across the table, was no more eager to be brought into whatever Margaret was up to than was Fothad to welcome him.

  "My uncle Melmore is an ass!" the King observed, yawning. "He lives in books and papers — I swear he eats them! I never trust such folk. The past is the past — leave it so."

  "It is the future I am more concerned with here, my lord," his bride suggested, with due modesty. "Does there not appear to be a notable gap in this Church in your realm? Between authorities — Iona, Dunkeld and this St. Andrews. Is there not — or do I mistake, in my ignorance? With Iona claiming the supremacy. As perhaps is right and proper. But Iona is far away, in the distant Hebrides, and authority should surely be where the people are? Lest error grows."

  She had at least Fothad's attention now. Malcolm refilled his beaker from a flagon.

  "The Bishop here is also Chancellor," she went on. "He knows what is necessary for the Church's better witness and service, as well as for the realm's good. In such way as the Abbot of Iona cannot know, on his island in the sea. Would it not be wise, therefore, to seek to increase the authority and influence of St. Andrews in matters spiritual? To no hurt of Iona."

  "How could this be achieved, Highness?" the Bishop asked.

  "What are you at?" Malcolm said, more blundy.

  "It came to me while we were discussing the matter of the missing relics of St. Andrew. That they are missing is a weakness, none can deny. And since we shall not find them now, it might be wise to forget them. And to erect some different shrine of veneration. Which could turn all eyes to St. Andrews."

  "All eyes? And shrines!" the King asked, grinning.

  "In time, yes. For men and women all, at some time, require to think on things eternal. If only when in trouble, or death approaches. Let them turn their eyes, then, to St. Andrews here. Rather than to far-away Iona which they do not know and will never see."

  "There is much wisdom in what Her Highness says," Fothad acceded. "But how is such advantage to be achieved?"


  "Replace the emptied shrine of St. Andrew," she replied. "Since we have no sufficiently important other relics that I know of, build not on such but on faith itself. The simple, essential, every-day faith of ordinary men and women. At Corn Ceres there was a lesson taught us. Wells. There they cherish five wells, no less. Healing wells, each for its own ill. You must have wells here at St. Andrews? And who is, above all saints, beloved of ordinary folk? Not Andrew. Not even the blessed Peter his brother. But Mary, the Mother of God Himself. Replace Andrew with Mary, then, my friend. Your own bishop's church here is St. Mary's on the Rock, I am told? Make it what St. Regulus has ceased to be, a place of pilgrimage, to which all eyes turn. Many more will turn to the Blessed Virgin than ever would to poor Andrew and his sad cross, however deserving. Women in especial. You need no bones and teeth, relics, for the Virgin Mary. Only a shrine, a stable, a manger. Beside a well."

  "Yes. Yes — it could be. I see it. But ... it would be difficult to establish. The pilgrimages. For folk to come, to make the journey. If it was to be, shall we say efficacious, many must come. From near and far."

  "To be sure. I would help," she told him simply. "I would rejoice to do so. For I venerate the Mother of God with all my heart. Almost I intended . . ." She let that go. "I will make the pilgrimage. Each year. And bring many with me. Perhaps even my lord the King will accompany mc, on occasion?" She did not wait for Malcolm's reaction. "There ought, surely, to be a shrine for Mary, here in Scotland? An especial shrine."