Margaret the Queen

by Nigel Tranter

  They expected that Margaret would have spent the night at the royal castle of Forfar, however crude a place; but found that she had passed there and on to Restenneth Abbey itself — where certainly she would have been more comfortable, although that was unlikely to have been her reason. They learned there that the monks had had an edifying evening with her, and were much impressed with her knowledge and authority, like no woman they had ever known. But more to the point, they were told that after calling at Rescobie Loch, she had intended to proceed on to Aberlemno, to the north some miles where, in a cave on the escarpment of Finavon Hill, beneath the ancient Pictish fort there, a renowned seer roosted, famed for his second-sight and prophecies. It was a difficult place of access however, involving a steep climb, and the Queen, on seeing it, might decide to pass it by. Maldred privately considered that this was improbable.

  In the circumstances the travellers felt that they could omit visiting the authority on the Holy Trinity since, as they passed Rescobie Loch they could see that no company was present, either on the shore or on any of the many islets of tall sedge-grass — one of which presumably hid the Keledei Gillemor, of whom there was no sign. They pressed on, turning northwards now into the rougher rising ground of an isolated hilly area rising like a leviathan out of the green centre of Strathmore.

  They discovered, as they picked their way, that this Aberlemno vicinity was indeed awkward to reach, a quite high hanging valley between two parallel rocky ridges, modest by comparison with the mighty Highland mountains which flanked the strath on the north side, but craggy and sufficiently difficult country, with much fallen stone to negotiate. Towards the east end of this secluded valley, a particularly steep and frowning escarpment arose on the north side, crowned by the broken, grass-grown ramparts of a large fort. And at the foot of this, at the track-side, were congregated a group of men, two women and about a dozen horses. They had run their quarry to earth, it seemed — although earth was perhaps scarcely applicable here, with all eyes trained upwards.

  The party at the foot of the hill informed the newcomers that the Queen had climbed the slope to interview another of these peculiar hermits, in a cave up there, and had been gone for some time. They did not comment on what they thought of such behaviour, perhaps in view of Prince Edward's presence, but their attitude was fairly evident nevertheless. Maldred and the prince dismounted and started to climb the rocky, scree-lined hillside.

  A stiff clamber of about two hundred and fifty feet brought them, panting, to where a single guard stood beside a thrusting buttress of rock just below the crest of the escarpment. Saluting the prince, he pointed to a mere slit in the rock-face, tucked in at the far side of the buttress, by no means obvious as a cave-entrance. But once through this narrow aperture, quite a cavern opened out — how large it was impossible to assess in the prevailing gloom. Not much light filtered in from the aperture, and this was only modestly reinforced by a single guttering lamp set on a shelf of rock. There was a strong smell of unwashed humanity.

  They heard Margaret greeting them in pleased surprise before they actually saw her, the Queen's vision having become accustomed to the gloom within whilst theirs had not. She came to kiss them both, murmuring welcome. Then, putting her finger to her lips, she took each by an arm and steered them back whence they had come, into the sunlight, blinking in its brightness. Behind her came young Ethelred, complaining in a penetrating whisper that this might spoil all.

  After a brief questioning as to how the newcomers came to be there, the Queen explained the position at the cave. The Keledei Drostan here, was a noted prophet, soothsayer and godly thinker. Many had advised her to seek his advice on certain matters. But it seemed that he could not prophesy or declaim as it were to order — as was understandable — and for the moment he was awaiting inspiration of the Holy Spirit, in private prayer, deeper within his cave. How long he would be, and whether utterance would be vouchsafed, remained to be seen. They must patiently await God's decision and will.

  Maldred stared. "But, Highness — why this? You, who are ever so assured? In matters of religion. So critical of our Columban Church. Seeking the words and guidance of this man! I would have thought that you would consider him heretic and necromancer, if not worse!"

  "He is a most saintly man of God, my lord Maldred," the boy Ethelred asserted earnesdy. "You must not call him necromancer or the like. It is God the Holy Ghost who speaks from his lips. Everyone knows that."

  "If he claims to speak in the name of Christ Jesus, then surely we must believe him honest, at least — or would not God strike him down for his wicked temerity?" Margaret asked. "We must be humble, heed God's word from every source — or at least listen and seek to test it, in patient duty. And I am none so assured as you think, Maldred, God knows. I have so much to learn, so much to be forgiven..."

  "Mother! None in this world has less to be forgiven than you, I swear!" Edward put in, stoutly. "Do not speak so.

  "You do not know, son — you do not know. I have much on my conscience. Many questions in my own sinful mind which I require to have resolved if I am to have peace. Who knows, this Drostan may be used to guide me."

  "He will, he will," Ethelred declared. "Abbot Ronan at Loch Leven says that he is a saint, nearer to Heaven than any in the land. I tell you . . ."

  He paused, as movement behind them turned their attention. There, in the crevice that was the cave's entrance, stood the hermit. If the Abbot Colban, of Forfar Loch, had been an unchancy sight, this man was more so. Very tall but stooping, emaciated, his was the wreck of a once powerful frame, strong features now cadaverous, hair and beard tangled, eyes strangely blank in the sunlight, opaque, almost as though blind, person clad in a filthy, ragged habit which had once been monastic, tied round his middle with a rope. Nevertheless there was something undeniably authoritative and commanding about this scarecrow.

  The Queen spontaneously extended her hand. "Ah, my friend — do you seek us? To have us come within, again?"

  The anchorite did not seem to hear her, gazing past her, past them all. The sunlight did not appear to affect those strange eyes. Silent, he stood for long moments. Then his lips began to move, to work — but no sound came at first. Until abruptly he raised a hand high, finger pointing skywards, and words commenced, single, halting words at first, which gradually ran together and became a stream, a powerful tide of sound. But words such as Maldred for one had never heard before, sonorous, fluent now, almost musical. Margaret and the boys, assuming it to be some form of the Gaelic, glanced at Maldred — but it had no least resemblance to Gaelic. On and on this unintelligible but weirdly moving declamation went; and once started, however odd the tongue, Drostan was never at a loss for word or sequence. Whatever language he spoke, he at least sounded as familiar in it as in his own. His hearers stood as though transfixed, wondering.

  For how long this continued before they became aware of a change, they could not have declared, so preoccupied were they all. But presendy they began to realise that there were occasional words coming into it that they recognised and understood, incorporated in the rest, not interrupting the flow. Steadily the proportion of these increased, so that gradually the monologue grew more and more intelligible. But if this was less bewildering for the listeners, it was no more comforting. For it was a denunciation that they were hearing, a powerful indictment, with the word woe reiterated — woe to this blood-guilty generation, woe unto the faithless and the heedless, woe to the perverters of God's holy word, woe upon woe.

  The strength and stern anger of this frail old man's delivery were almost as extraordinary and unnerving as what he said.

  There was a pause. None presumed to speak, not even the Queen. For the hermit's hand was still upraised commandingly, weary as that old arm must have been. Then the arm came down some way, for the finger to point directly at Margaret. And the speaking resumed. But now it was different in tenor, specific not general, and addressed personally to, or at, the Queen.

  "Woman," Dro
stan said, "beware! Beware, I say. You have been given much, permitted much, forgiven much. From you much is required. If you prove a stone for stumbling in the path of God's people, great will be the price you will pay. Grieve not the Holy Spirit, as you have done, in stiff-necked pride. Humble you! The heart is warm, yes — but the mind is cold. Let that proud mind rule and you perish. And those you love perish with you. Before you! You have it in you to do great good. But also great hurt. You worship much and often. See to it that it is Almighty God whom you worship and not yourself and the idols set up by your proud mind. Beware, I say. God can use you in His purpose, mightily. But you have it in you to hinder that purpose. Already you have caused others to falter and stumble, in your prideful haste. You have aided more, yes, and God is merciful. Be you merciful, woman — or you shall weep over the price others will pay for your lack."

  There was a silence, broken only by the sob in Margaret's throat.

  "Heed these words that I speak," the man went on, his eyes seeming to look through her, "and generations unborn shall bless you. Spurn them, and blessing shall turn to cursing. Already some price falls to be paid. It shall be paid by those near and dear to you. God is not mocked. But He is gracious and full of compassion. Repent you and cast off your pride of mind and spirit and the Almighty will be with you always, on your right hand and on your left. Be the handmaid of the Lord, that He may bless you in all that you do. As I, now, in His name bless you."

  The raised hand sketched the Sign of the Cross, and he pronounced the Benediction. "Go in peace," he ended, and turning, re-entered his cave without another word.

  For a while they all stood there silent, appalled, Maldred shaking his head helplessly, the boys gazing at their mother, the guard scratching his head in embarrassment, Margaret herself, head down, shaken with a great shuddering, tears running down her lovely cheeks.

  Edward of Strathclyde found his voice first. "The man is evil!" he cried. "Evil — possessed of the Devil! My father will have his tongue out for that! How dared he! How dared he!"

  Ethelred said nothing.

  Maldred cleared his throat. "Margaret — Highness — do not grieve so sorely. Do not take it so hard. Such people are . . . strange. Wild in their talk, as in their visage. Scarcely of this world. He but berates you for your usage of his Church, the Columban Church. Heed that, yes — but do not take the rest so sore."

  She shook her head, wordless.

  "He ended by blessing you, Mother," Ethelred reminded. "He did say to go in peace."

  "Peace . . . !" In an agonised cry that word burst from the Queen's lips. Turning from them, she started off, stumbling down the steep hillside.

  They hurried after, Maldred taking her arm — and undoubtedly she would have fallen otherwise. She answered no words to their efforts at comfort. But by the time they reached the foot, she had mastered herself sufficiently not to appear broken before the waiting courtiers — although they eyed her curiously, at her set-faced, curt command to turn and head back for the Ward of the Stormounth forthwith.

  By mutual if unspoken consent her sons and Maldred allowed the Queen to ride ahead of all, for some time. Eventually, after a mile or two, the boys did move up, to flank her; and presently Maldred reined nearer also. After what she had listened to, it might well seem irrelevant to speak of the lifting of the threat of war and of Turgot's promotion at Durham, but it might help to lift her mind from contemplation of Drostan's words.

  She listened to him, gazing directly ahead of her, and when he had finished said evenly that it was good, satisfactory. That was all.

  Unhappily, he rode on. At length he said, "Margaret — hear me, I ask you. This is less ill than you deem it. You must look at it clearly. The man may be crazed, bereft, or even an imposter. I do not know. But even if he is not, he need not be speaking God's words. Who is he to speak you so, when none of his betters, Dunchad, Fothad, abbots and bishops, have elected to do so . . . ?"

  But it was of no use. The Queen merely shook her head and answered his representations with monosyllables, if at all. Margaret Atheling, for once, appeared to have had her strength, assurance and convictions shattered. Whether it was the denunciation of her spiritual pride, an awareness of which had always been with her, or the speaking in tongues which had penetrated her armour; or whether some inner doubts and sense of guilt had been building up, growing, and these were now reinforced, the woman was as one stricken.

  When Maldred took his departure next day, to return to Dunbar, he left her little the more happy.

  24

  SCOTLAND, LIKE ALL of Christendom, rang and reverberated with the tidings, the flood of news and reports, assumptions and conjectures. It did not require Cospatrick to come as special informant, for every churchman, traveller, packman and wandering minstrel was full of it all. William the Conqueror was dead and nothing would ever be the same again.

  For thirty years the Bastard of Normandy had been like some monstrous shadow over Northern Europe, his military effectiveness so terrible, his harshness and savageries so vast in scale, his ambitions so boundless, that men could scarcely realise that the shadow could be lifted. His death was difficult enough to accept, the manner of it almost inconceivable and the consequences complex and bewildering. How much of it all was to be believed was a matter for individual judgement; but certainly the main and apparently undisputed facts were sufficiendy extraordinary.

  Pieced together, and discarding the wilder stories, Maldred was inclined to accept the following sequence. In the spring of 1087, the year after his return to France, William had got so far in his campaign against Philip that he was besieging Mantes, only thirty-five miles northwest of Paris. There, having taken the city, he was entering the burning town, when his horse reared on treading on a burning ember, and threw the King. So fat and heavy had he become, these last years, that his fall was tremendous and internal bleeding resulted. He was unconscious for some time, and on recovering his wits, was in great pain. The pommel of his saddle, on falling, had dug into his loins. He decided that he was dying. He ordered that he be carried to his own city of Rouen, in Normandy, to the monastery of St. Gervais. Convinced that he had not long, like many another before him, he found need to consider his past and provide for the future. He decided, belatedly, to forgive all his enemies, and gave orders for all whom he had imprisoned and who had not already died in durance, to be released — and that meant thousands, in cells and castles all over his territories, including his brother Odo, sundry Saxon earls, bishops and lords and innumerable French, Norman and Flemish victims. Political hostages were likewise to be freed, including Prince Duncan of Scotland. All this ordered, he had appeared to await his end more content with his chances.

  However, others were less evidently content to await the end in pious hope, with an empire to be disposed of, especially his sons, as time went on. William Rufus had been kept with him throughout the campaign. Henry came over from England. Robert, still estranged, was not sent for, to Flanders. Other kin and great lords flocked to Rouen. There was a great manoeuvring for position and importuning the too-slowly-departing Conqueror, who lingered for six weeks. At first William was in no hurry to divide up the spoils of his career; but pressed continually to do so, and in much pain, as he began to sink, he eventually acceded. Forgiveness did not go quite so far as to overlook his firstborn's frequent hostility. Duke of Normandy he had made him, and Duke of Normandy he should remain. William Rufus was to get the English throne. Henry, surprisingly, got no title or rule, but five thousand pounds weight of silver and the advice to be patient — presumably referring to his brother Rufus's unwed state. Other and lesser provisions were made, some to awkward kin who had been in prison for as much as twenty years.

  And then came the scarcely believable. Having heard the testamentary arrangements, made in bedside council, everyone of any prominence and importance promptly hurried off, leaving the stricken monarch to his own dying, William Rufus leading the way in a dash for England and his crown before
Odo or Robert or even Henry might grab it first. Henry was not far behind, and bishops, earls and lords raced to establish themselves wherever their best advantage was deemed to lie, in such fluid situation. No one of any authority and standing remained with the helpless William; and perceiving the way things went, the lesser men and officers, even the house-servants, engaged in a free-for-all to grab whatever they could of the royal possessions which were to hand, stripping all. When at length the Scourge of Christendom breathed his last, on the fifth day before the Ides of September, his naked body was promptly tossed to the floor so that the silken and furred bedclothes could be filched, and would have lain there quarrelled over only by the dogs had not a poor but loyal knight taken upon himself the duty and cost of a funeral. William fitz Robert fitz Richard fitz Richard fitz William fitz Rolf the Ganger, Viking, aged sixty-one, was trundled eighty miles in a farm-cart to Caen, to be interred in the knight's family burial-ground. Even there protest was made, a local Norman baron claiming the body as his, until certain debts were repayed.