Margaret the Queen

by Nigel Tranter

  "And the news that brought you here?"

  "War, man — war. Fetch Malcolm, and you will hear it. But only Malcolm, mind you."

  "I tell you, he is in a drunken sleep. At table ..."

  "Then wake him. I have not followed him half across Scotland to wait while he snores! And he is never witless with drink — you know that. Fetch him, cousin."

  So Maldred went back to the hall. In fact, the King was not difficult to rouse, only vicious towards the rouser. He snarled his resentment.

  "It is Cospatrick, Highness," Maldred whispered. "With news. Most secret."

  "Eh? Cospatrick? That snake! Here? What does he want? Never trust that man." Thickly he spoke, glaring.

  "News, sir. Of war, he said. He has risked much, to come thus far. To tell you."

  "Not for love of me — damn him! Bring him, then." The monarch stared heavily round at the hall's noisy confusion.

  "He says no, sir. He would be seen and known. He must remain secret. He asks that you come."

  Grumbling, Malcolm rose unsteadily and lurched after Maldred. Few there were in a state to notice his departure.

  In the yard outside the three cousins eyed each other in the warm evening light of June. Malcolm and Cospatrick had not set eyes on each other for years.

  "Save us — is this how you look, these days!" the King greeted, his speech a little slurred but his glance keen enough. "An old man, getting!"

  "I could say the same, Malcolm! Since I am the younger by eighteen years, am I not? I make you sixty-four."

  "Well, man — well? You have not come here to tell me my age?"

  "Nor, it seems, to receive warm greeting! After all these years."

  "Why should you expect that? You were never my friend, only my uncle's son."

  "Yet I have served you well, Malcolm. Better than many close to you."

  "For your own purposes. As no doubt tonight. What is it? What is your news this time?"

  "Sufficient. The days of peace are over — such as they have been. England prepares for war, major war. This may be our opportunity."

  "Our opportunity? Whose? Mine — or yours?"

  "Both, I hope. I still seek to win back Northumbria. And you, to put Scotland's border at the Tees, do you not?"

  "That tale again! A dream, man. I would have thought that you would have wits enough to perceive it, by now. I do not trust you, Cospatrick — but I have never doubted your wits!"

  "I am overwhelmed, sir! As to dreaming, hear this. William is preparing for the greatest threat to his England since he conquered it nineteen years ago. King Knud Svenson of Denmark is claiming the English throne, as great-nephew of Canute. He has assembled a great fleet. Olaf the Farmer of Norway is to join him. Count Robert of Flanders also, whose sister is Knud's queen. And with him Duke Robert of Normandy, still smarting from his father's ire. And, to be sure, Philip of France who is always at war with William. Others, it may be — but these I name are sure. A great assault, on four fronts at least."

  Even Malcolm was impressed. He tugged at his forked beard. "When?"

  "This summer."

  "By the Fiend — why have I not heard of this? Before now? Why have these others not approached me? To join in. . ."

  "Perhaps because they esteem your oath of allegiance to William more highly than you do! His enemies being your enemies?" Cospatrick held up his hand as the King's features contorted with quick rage. "No, no — I but jest, cousin. I have heard that the true reason is otherwise. That Olaf of Norway's terms for joining Knud are that afterwards he has a free hand to move his army and ships against your Hebrides. He wants them as part of his realm. The Orcades also. He esteems the Orkney earls as weak — as they are — and covets their territories, with their Norse folk. So you are not to be approached."

  "How a God's Name did you learn this, man? If it is truth."

  "I have my sources, cousin — as you should know. But mainly I have friends in the earldom of Northumbria still. And in the bishopric of Durham. You know that there is another new earl? De Coucy lost William's confidence after the Walchere business, and resigned. Robert de Moubray, the new man, is bold enough, but indiscreet in his cups. He talks much. I have friends in his household. Likewise the new bishop, William de St. Calais, more soldier than priest, talks likewise. They are cronies, these two. Our friend Aldwin is now Prior of Durham — and loves the Normans no more than he did."

  " You accept all this talk as truth?"

  "I do. It is confirmed from other sources. Moreover, William's own actions sufficiently support it all. For England is thrown into turmoil. It is scarcely believable. William has ordered the complete emptying of the coast lands of England facing Denmark and Norway, for twenty miles inland. All to be laid waste, towns and villages and farmsteads flattened, to give no sustenance to invaders, hundreds of miles of ruin — worse, far worse, than anything he has ordained before. Most of the remaining Saxon lords are imprisoned. And he is bringing great armies of mercenaries over from Brittany and Poitou, fetching back hosts from Ireland ..."

  "Curse him — he does not sound like a man on his sick-bed!"

  "Not he. Have you not heard? Before all this of invasion, he was laying waste and emptying a hundred square miles of Hampshire, on his own doorstep at Winchester, to make a new hunting forest! Every house levelled, every man, woman and child driven out — even the monasteries. Does that sound like a bed-ridden cripple?"

  "It sounds like the Devil Incarnate!" Maldred said.

  "It sounds like William the Bastard!" Malcolm amended grimly. "So — what now? If William makes his preparations, so must I."

  "I believed that you would so wish, cousin — and so came. Time may be short."

  "If I muster my armies. Ready to march south across Tweed, for Tyne and Tees. Whenever we hear word of the Danes and Norsemen landing — what of this Moubray?"

  "Moubray will be mustered and waiting, undoubtedly. But waiting for the Norsemen, not for you! Facing the sea, not looking behind him. If you marched inland, down Rede and Wansbeck and Coquet, you would take him in the rear. And I, and Dolfin, would bring our Cumbrians. Once at the Tees, I say, whoever was winning, Knud or William, would be glad to treat with us, to have us on their side. Or not against them. We could demand our own terms."

  "Aye. It could be, it could be so. How say you, Maldred?"

  The younger man pursed his lips. "It smacks of a jackal's game. But . . . dealing with the Norman wolves, even jackals may justify themselves!"

  "That is as high praise as we will gain from Maldred mac Melmore!" Cospatrick said. "My price is Northumbria and Cumbria both, my lord King!"

  Malcolm eyed them both consideringly. "I am blessed with kindly kin!" he observed bleakly.

  "You could have worse, cousin. You will muster, then?"

  "Aye. Tomorrow I shall begin. Turn back from this folly. It will be better work than this of Margaret's, all but kissing the arses of my subjects! And you, man — what of you?"

  "I shall be on my humble way by sun-up. I think that you, Maldred, should return to Dunbar tomorrow, likewise. To make plans, with me, for raising Lothian and the Borderland. But only plans meantime — only a few to know. Or the word of it will get cross to Northumbria, and Moubray may be warned."

  In the morning, when the King and most of his nobles turned back for Dunfermline, there was no sign of the wandering friar. Margaret elected to carry on with part at least of her progress, possibly even slightly relieved at her husband's absence, intent especially on visiting St. Andrews and forwarding her missionary efforts there. Magda remained with her, Maldred accompanying them as far as the East Neuk of Fife, where, under Kincraig Point, was the little port which was the base of the Earl of Fife's ferry across the Scots Sea to his lands in Lothian. With the King's authority, Maldred got the skipper to make a special journey, and so saved most of three days' riding.

  23

  THE SUMMER PASSED in a strange admixture of impatience and thankfulness, for most people in Scotland
at least — impatience at nothing happening when all was prepared for momentous doings; and thankfulness that the hay harvest was in, then the oats harvest, then that the reeds could be cut for thatching and the peats dug for drying for winter's fires. The mustered armies kept releasing men to go home for short periods for these activities, but to be ready for instant recall. But those who remained assembled grew bored and out-of-hand, their leaders resentful. By late August morale was at a low ebb everywhere — and nowhere more so than in the Borderland, where armed raiding was endemic, all were geared for it, and yet these months it was strictly prohibited. Maldred was hard put to it to maintain the Dunbar and March force in any sort of fighting trim.

  Cospatrick had an army of Cumbrians waiting at Caer-luel, under his son Dolfin, presumably equally unruly. This was facing northwards, towards Galloway, so that news of it should not alarm the present Earl of Northumbria, himself mustered at points in a very long line between Tees and Aln, facing the Norse Sea.

  Decision, when it did come, was totally unexpected. It was that William the Norman's luck held. Knud of Denmark, prime instigator of the entire campaign, with his claim to be Canute's lawful successor on the English throne, was dead, murdered by his own people. Unseasonable storms had delayed him, week after week. Then there had been mutinies amongst his assembled armies and fleets. These he had put down savagely, whereupon revolt erupted amongst the Danish population, hitherto unheard-of. Knud had been overwhelmed and slain. The whole invasion project collapsed, lacking his drive, and with Olaf of Norway's interest really confined to the Hebrides and Orkney. So England remained unassailed — save by William's own terrible defensive measures.

  Malcolm's disgust had to be seen to be believed. But his wife at least was thankful and joyful.

  But the Queen's gratitude at the unexpected ebbing of the tide of war was all too soon replaced by general apprehension, in Scotland, as to what William would do now. He had a huge army gathered and waiting, and no invasion to face. He was not the man to overlook what had been threatened, to sit back grateful that nothing had come of it. His health was reported to be improved — although he was said to have grown very fat with the prolonged physical inactivity. He was unlikely to seek to punish the Danes and Norwegians by counter-invasion — he had not the sea-going fleets necessary. Which left the Low Countries, France and Scotland as targets for his ire and vengeance. He would know perfectly well that Malcolm had been waiting, mustered, for months, for the invasion to start; and though there was no proof that the Scots had intended to stab at him in his extremity — it might have been conceivable that Malcolm was ready rather to come to the Norman's aid, under the terms of his allegiance — William was scarcely so foolish as to believe that.

  A punitive expedition, therefore, might well appeal to William at this juncture. So the Scots experienced another spell of waiting, anxiously.

  The fact that the winter of 1085-86 passed without hostilities did not disperse the apprehensions of the fearful, for William might be awaiting the spring campaigning season and better conditions. Malcolm had all his earls and thanes readied once again for swift muster.

  And then, at last, there was hard news. As usual, it was Cospatrick who was first with the information, received through his listening-post at Durham. William had reverted to his oldest and most deep enmity, his life-long quarrel with Philip of France, and had in fact sailed with his armies for Normandy. Before departing he had set his house in order, appointing strong men in all key positions, indeed deposing the Bishops of London, Norfolk and Chester and replacing them by three of his own warlike personal chaplains — and taking Odo and William Rufus with him across the Channel, his brother for transfer to a Normandy prison, his second son because he preferred to keep him under his own eye. Presumably he trusted his youngest son, Henry Beauclerc, for he left him in nominal charge in England.

  So the Scots could breathe freely again. As well as this welcome news for the King, Maldred had tidings for the Queen also. The Prior Aldwin had died and her friend Turgot was now promoted Prior of Durham in his place.

  At Dunfermline Maldred was surprised to find young Prince Edmund, the second son, mastering the palace. It seemed that the King was at Dunsinane — which was still the military centre of the kingdom — on some matter connected with his armed forces, which remained his prime interest in life; and his favourite son Edward was with him. Margaret was at the Ward of the Stormounth, comparatively nearby, with her younger children. Maldred was still more surprised at the scene he was ushered into, on arrival, by the palace chamberlain, that May evening. Edmund, now aged fourteen, was seated, or sprawled, in the King's chair at the high table in the great hall, drunk most evidently, with two serving wenches actually sitting on either side of him, both half-undressed, one indeed naked to the waist, giggling and skirling, whilst the prince fondled her prominent breasts. Such few young courtiers as were present were either asleep or similarly employed. Maldred retired, without announcing himself, to eat in the kitchen. What Margaret would have thought of this, if she had known, could be left to the imagination.

  There was no sign of the prince when Maldred left in the morning for Dunsinane.

  Malcolm, practising cavalry tactics in the Norman style with some of his commanders on the grassy plateau of St. Martins, was well pleased with Maldred's news, needless to say. But he was not the man to display any relief. His reaction was not that peace might now be expected to subsist for some time but rather that he was free to indulge in other warfare of his own choosing.

  Maldred forbore to mention young Edmund's behaviour at Dunfermline.

  It was only about ten miles to the Ward from Dunsinane, northwards, and Maldred rode on thither after only a brief halt, finding nothing urgendy to detain him, certainly no pressing suggestion from his royal cousin that he should stay. Prince Edward, however, with whom a quiet but genuine mutual appreciation and friendliness had grown up, chose to accompany him.

  They reached the Ward in the evening, only to find the Queen absent, and the five youngest children, the girls Matilda and Mary and the boys Edgar, Alexander and David, left in the care of the chamberlain and ladies. It seemed that, with Ethelred — whom she had collected from his favourite haunt on the monastic island of Loch Leven — Margaret had gone on some sort of jaunt round the refuges and retreats of sundry anchorites and religious hermits. Just why was not clear, but Edward declared that it sounded like Ethelred's instigation, for he seemed to think highly of such odd folk — in fact had been heard to announce that he would have liked to be one such himself. The hoots of laughter from his young brothers at this assertion made it evident that the family, at this stage, thought Ethelred very much of a curiosity.

  Maldred, with memories of the hermit Keledei of St. Ethernan's Well in the Braes of Lornty, not far away, wondered at it all, but agreed that they should go to try to find the Queen, in the morning.

  It was not difficult to trace Margaret's progress. She had headed eastwards, for Blair-in-Gowrie and thence down into central Strathmore, to make her first call at the cell of an anchorite who kept St. Cumin's Well deep in a woodland glade in the Bendochy area where the Rivers Isla and Ericht joined. Most of these solitaries established themselves as the custodians of springs and wells, usually linked with the name of some early saint or missionary, the alleged healing qualities of which brought sufferers and pilgrims, whose votive offerings supported the simple needs of the hermit. The fact that these were almost always sited in remote and awkward places ensured that the keeper's solitude was not inundated with floods of visitors and his chosen ascetic living-style nullified by overmuch in the way of contributions. The individual at Bendochy, extraordinarily young-looking for such a vocation and more cheerful than might have been expected, told them that the Queen had indeed been there, bless her, the previous day, with the young Primate, and had been going on, he understood, to visit Abbot Colban who occupied an islet in Forfar Loch.

  So they proceeded down Strathmore a further te
n or so miles, to that quite large sheet of water, not far from one of Malcolm's castles and the township which clustered round it. But if this anchorite had chosen a fairly populous area for his retreat, he made up for it by electing to occupy a tiny crannog, or artificial islet, at the west end of the loch, constructed of stones, timber and sods, with a turf hut to shelter both himself and his goat, for milk, his only companion. A bronze bell hanging on a tripod at the loch-shore was the means by which he could be summoned — and summoned he had to be, since he could be reached only by the coracle which he kept out at his raft-like island. He was noted for as often as not refusing to come for visitors. Needless to say there was no well at this artificial structure, and such suppliants as sought to approach him did so only for his blessing — which, however, was considered to be particularly efficacious, for Colban was an exceedingly holy veteran, having previously been Abbot of the important Abbey of St. Peter at Restenneth, on the other side of Forfar, and had retired here to end his days thus. How he lived on this raft, surviving on goat's milk and the large pike for which the loch was famed and which were alleged to jump out of the water for his sustenance — only faith could tell.

  On this occasion the callers had to ring the bell several times before there was any reaction; and they would not have troubled to wait — for most obviously the Queen was not here — had it not been that Colban might be able to tell them where she had intended to head next. Eventually the old man emerged from his rickety hovel, bent and tottering, all straggling white hair and beard, to paddle his frail craft across to them in zigzag, splashy style. In no welcoming mood he told them to be about their business, as he did not feel like interceding for anyone that day. But he was brought to admit that the Englishwoman had been out there to see him the previous afternoon, and indeed stayed some time with him in discussion, which although perhaps verging on the impertinent was also remarkable in a woman — although full of heretical notions, to be sure, presumably Romish. To continue her education he had directed her onwards to a fellow loch-dweller, also from Restenneth, one Gillemor, an expert on the doctrine of the Holy Trinity, who dwelt on a sedge-island in Rescobie Loch, a mile or two beyond the Abbey of Restenneth, further east. The holy man, having thus delivered himself, glared round them, flicked a finger at them — clearly not a benediction but a command to be off — and staggered back to his coracle, to push off, his stick-like arms seeming incapable of propelling even such a cockle-shell. That the Queen had apparently trusted herself to his doubtful navigation and been transported out to the crannog and goat in his floating basket, spoke worlds for her courage and determination.