If the truth were known, in spite of the bluster Malcolm tried to show as a twenty-three-year-old, the thought of seeing Edgar’s mother intimidated him. The fact that she was multilingual, refined, a princess of three dynasties, and spoke with a Hungarian accent all produced an air of mystery in the young man’s eyes. When she spoke, he felt the combined royal houses of the world commanding the obedience of all who heard her voice. In Agatha, princess of Hungary, was personified the ancient, dynastic power of the Continent . . . and the mysterious east.
The Scottish King reined in his roan at water’s edge. His reminiscences immediately vanished. The band of horsemen slowed behind him in a flurry of dust and hooves.
Edgar’s boat was held by his groom. The second floated at the shoreline, four sailors holding the ends of their slack oars and three ladies sitting inside, impatient to set their feet on solid land. A burly-looking fellow stood, then jumped ashore, holding the bow of the small boat with a thick line of hemp rope.
The lead horseman glanced briefly over the party of newcomers, and an awkward silence followed. He instantly recognized the aging Hungarian princess. The years had done nothing to diminish her elegant stature, the air of royalty emanating from her presence. The look on her face, as she gazed toward him, was at first warm but quickly gave way to impatience and displeasure.
“How long will you force us to sit here waiting, Malcolm?” she said in an exasperated tone. “Dismount that horse and help my daughters and me ashore!”
Again Malcolm’s men sat in stunned silence to hear the rude familiarity with which these people spoke to their King. Did they not know that one look of command from his eye could mean instant death? How long would he endure such debasing treatment, allowing himself to be ordered about—by a woman?
Only a moment did the silence last. At the sound of her voice, the great brute of a Scottish King was an awestruck young man again, and she was the princess from the great east who commanded obedience.
Like a compliant child, the King dismounted, handed his reins to one of his attendants, and approached the boat, to the astonishment of his men. He splashed into the water to knee depth, then gently offered his hand.
In the small boat, the three women stood. He did not recognize the other two.
Demurely the one nearest took his hand, then glanced into his face.
“Malcolm,” said Princess Agatha behind him, “you remember my daughter, Margaret.”
The light, white hand touched his huge, dirty rough fingers. A tingle of current surged through Malcolm’s arm. He took the soft tiny thing, then his great palm closed gently around it. Now the huge man let his gaze wander up the arm attached to the hand.
He beheld a face staring down into his with a look of innocence such as he had never seen. His whole kingly being was instantly swallowed into it.
The two pale eyes, dark-lashed and slightly narrow, held him in a spell that caused time and surroundings to evaporate. He knew only that face, and the haunting eyes and delicate mouth which gave it life. His earlier, ill-fated marriage to the Norwegian Ingibjorg, now dead, had not once caused such feelings to swell inside him. His heart began to pound wildly. He feared his men would hear it and know how this creature had undone him.
In the second or two of that touch and the glance of those eyes, Malcolm Canmore, King of Scotland, was smitten more deeply than had a sword been run through his heart.
He pulled the dainty thing gently toward him. With childlike trust she yielded to his touch. He let go the wondrous hand, placed his two giant paws on either side of her waist, while she rested a steadying hand upon his shoulder—ah, what delight the feathery touch!—and with a single motion pulled her over the edge of the boat and through the air, landing her lightly on the bank.
A smile now broke from the heavenly lips.
“Thank you, Malcolm,” uttered a light, sweet voice.
In three words, and the trailing smile that remained, a kingdom was conquered.
Five
Agatha, princess of Hungary, found refuge in the castle of Dunfermline, but she also found the King of the Scots a more bestial man than the invading Conqueror she and her family had fled England to avoid.
Her memory of Malcolm was nothing like the reality of seeing him as a grown man in his own rustic surroundings. She had always known him as crass and uncouth, though she had not been able to resist the attempt to civilize him. Perhaps more English culture had rubbed off on him when he was in the south than she had realized at the time. If so, he had certainly regressed upon returning to this backward environment.
And the land of Scotland was indeed backward in her eyes, filthy and inhabited by barbarians and savages.
She was eager to continue the voyage to Hungary at the soonest possible opportunity!
That her eldest daughter—a gentle, refined, and devout young woman who was making preparations for a life of devotion to the church—actually found the heathen Celtic warrior interesting was beyond the powers of Agatha’s comprehension. In her opinion Malcolm was nothing but a crude brute, every inch the giant hulking savage he looked.
But Margaret had always seen life in her own unique way. As a child, she was sensitive and compassionate—eager to rescue hungry sparrows, to see the beauty in mangy stray pups. As she grew, her reclamation projects extended to a variety of unfortunates—orphans, beggars, anyone in need who crossed her path. Even now, upon arriving in the north, she immediately set out finding people to help. Yet Agatha knew her gentle, loving daughter could be headstrong as well as compassionate, and she doubted there was much she could do to persuade Edgar’s sister to see the vulgar Scottish King as he really was. She knew of his reputation after he had left the refinement of their court, that he had gone back to Scotland bent upon murdering Macbeth—and had done so. She would have no daughter of hers involved with such a man.
“It is obvious Malcolm is infatuated with her,” remarked Agatha to her lady’s maid one day, not especially because she trusted the woman as a confidante, but because she was simply unable to contain her frustration.
“Yes, my lady.”
“Obvious, that is, to everyone but the girl herself!”
“Does my lady Margaret still plan to take the veil, my lady?” asked the maid.
“Yes, and becoming a nun will be our salvation from this Scottish King!” said Agatha. “At first I wondered at the decision. But now nothing could suit me better!”
A brief silence filled the room. The maid busied herself with the dress they were fitting.
“Margaret is so innocent,” said Princess Agatha after a moment. “She doesn’t even seem to notice how changed Malcolm becomes whenever she is around. The monster becomes a puppy dog—but he is still a monster. Is my own daughter so naive at twenty-two that she does not recognize what a churlish lout the fellow is?”
Six
Agatha and her family did not set out as soon as she would have liked for Hungary. Repairs to their vessel dragged on, and the delay increased. Within a year, Edgar was making plans for a return, not to Hungary at all, but to England.
William had encountered more resistance than anticipated, and Edgar was now involved in a planned rebellion against the Norman King. He was determined to return to Wessex and retake Alfred the Great’s throne. Mother and sisters would accompany him. The repaired and re-outfitted ship was to sail with the morning’s tide.
The spring evening was warm, though a chill approached. The King and the young woman who had been guest at Dunfermline for almost a year strolled alone out from the castle toward a favorite haunt, a small dense wood beside a rocky burn which flowed down into Loch Fitty. Margaret wore a long robe of white and purple—mostly silk, with brightly colored embroidery along the hem and sleeves—her long, wavy auburn hair spilling over her shoulders. Never, thought Malcolm, had he seen her more lovely. The King—bare-kneed, with red kilt and cape, green tunic partially covered with coat of mail, soft leather boots tied up over his calves, and wild beard—
walked at her side. He looked a giant beside the lithe form of the English princess. He kept his huge hulking strides in check, as a powerful workhorse beside a newborn colt.
She carried a psalter. A massive sword hung at his side. The devout young woman and the warrior were as different as any two individuals could be. Yet as they went, it was the great hulking King who appeared tentative of step and timid of speech, while the graceful form beside him carried herself with poise, dignity, and self-assurance.
Reaching the burn, they took seats on two of the many large rocks which lay scattered about. The gnarled trunks of several massive old trees grew out of the ground behind them, reaching upward and overspreading the peaceful place with their hundred woody arms and fingers. The two sat quietly for a few minutes, listening to the gentle trickling of the water through its rocky course.
At last the King broke the silence. “Must you go tomorrow?” he said.
“You know Edgar sails at sunrise,” replied Margaret.
“Yes, but . . . but must you accompany him?”
“He may be the King of England within a month. He must have his family near.”
“If the rebellion is successful, you could join him later,” persisted Malcolm. “I do not like to see you in danger. You could remain here, in safety, until—”
“Malcolm,” laughed Margaret, “you know I cannot do that. Mother would not hear of it.”
Malcolm sighed.
“Your mother is not fond of me,” he said nodding. “But she hardly needs to protect you from me.”
“She thinks it her duty.”
“I weary of her watching my every move with a scowl.”
“I know, Malcolm,” smiled Margaret. “But she does think you rough.”
“You are a grown woman and may come and go as you choose.”
“She insists I sail with them. I must respect her wishes.”
Another silence fell. Again it was the King who broke it.
“Do you?” he said.
“Do I what?”
“Do you think I’m too rough?” said Malcolm.
Margaret laughed the merriest laugh Malcolm had ever heard.
“Not to me,” she replied. “Though sometimes, I must admit, I shudder a bit when you talk to your men.”
He did not answer, nor did she seem to require it. After a moment, Margaret opened her book and read the first psalm aloud. Malcolm listened quietly, gazing down at the book as the melodious voice entered into one ear in harmonious accompaniment to the sounds of the stream in the other.
“I hoped you would stay,” said Malcolm at length.
Margaret sighed. “I thought perhaps I might remain. There is so much to be done, and I will miss the children—did I tell you that three of them are already reading the psalm I just finished, in Latin?”
Malcolm nodded. Something other than orphans was on his mind.
“I have such hopes that they will all read soon—oh, I will miss them! Malcolm, you have not forgotten your promise that you will make sure someone looks after the French lessons?”
Again Malcolm nodded, which movement of the neck was accompanied by a few barely discernible grunts indicating the affirmative.
“Is . . . is that all you will miss?” he said tentatively.
“Oh no—it is so wonderful and peaceful here. I shall miss the country and the castle . . . everything.”
“Is that all?”
“Of course I shall miss our rides together.”
Malcolm nodded. “Nothing more?”
A brief awkward silence intervened. Suddenly Margaret realized his meaning. Her face reddened, and she glanced down shyly.
“Oh, Malcolm,” she exclaimed after recovering herself, “you are as stray and forlorn as an orphan child!”
A great roar of laughter erupted from the mouth of the King of the Scots.
“Do not worry,” said Margaret, joining him in laughter. “I shall be back. I shall have to return, to see to my children . . . and you among them!”
“I am glad to hear you say it! But I shall miss you every day you are away.”
Again a silence fell. This time it lasted longer, and Malcolm feared he had offended her.
“You must not miss me too much, Malcolm,” said Margaret at length.
“Why?”
“Because if you miss me too much,” answered Margaret, “it will mean my mother is right, and then I shall have to stay away forever.”
“But . . . but why?”
“Malcolm, do you not yet understand? My heart belongs to another—I have given myself to the church.”
The silence which now followed was awkward. Soon they rose and returned to the castle. Had she been anyone else, the King would have been furious at having his wishes so thoroughly denied. But he could not be angry with Margaret. She was too good to be angry with.
By noon the next day, Dunfermline was empty and quiet. Its temporary English residents were already within sight of the Isle of May and making for the south ahead of the sea winds.
Seven
No one had seen the King like this since Lady Margaret had arrived the previous summer.
Malcolm Canmore was his old self again—storming about in one rage after another. He was worse than his old self! The calm that had come over him from her presence was gone. The old fury of his tempestuous nature had returned in full force.
Malcolm knew well enough what everyone in his court said—that he was a crazed fool, whom a woman had turned into a docile child one minute and a maniac the next.
What did it matter what people said? He was beside himself—he knew it as well as they! Everything they said was true. She had undone him!
His marriage to Ingibjorg had been one of convenience and politics. He had never known what love could be until the moment Margaret placed her hand on his shoulder and allowed him to lift her lovely foot onto Scotland’s soil.
Now she had sailed south . . . and was gone!
What if she does not return? Malcolm asked himself a dozen times a day. What if they succeeded in ousting William the Conqueror? What if Edgar becomes King of England and his sister remains in the south?
If that happened, Malcolm thought, he would have no alternative but to invade England and conquer the whole country for himself! If such measures were required to make her his Queen, he would do it!
The fact that she was still set upon becoming a nun . . . well, he would have to somehow talk her out of it. He would command her obedience! Who was she to refuse him?
He spun about and paced again across the large floor. What was he thinking? Compared to the rest of the world, Margaret was a saint. She was no woman anyone could command—not him, not her mother . . . no one but God.
She would never agree to marry him. Malcolm knew he could not force love from her heart. And he would not attempt it.
She was Margaret. She would be ruled by no man.
In the meantime, he could not remain cooped up in this castle pining away. He needed something to do!
At the same time, in England, Margaret, daughter of Agatha and princess of England, found her thoughts occupied with the north country she had left behind, especially the orphans, the children she was teaching to read, and the women of the court who knew so little of spiritual things. There was so much she had wanted to teach them while she was there. And the church in Scotland was so primitive and disorganized. Its abbots and bishops were a disgrace—their rituals imbued with pagan practices. If only there were some way she could help.
But besides all this, to Margaret’s surprise, she found that whenever she recalled the wild but peaceful hills and moors of the north, images of King Malcolm also intruded into her thoughts. At first she merely wondered whether he would make good on his promise about the children and their studies. But gradually the memory of his face, his laughter, and his robust enthusiasm rose above thoughts of French lessons and Scottish bishops.
Back in Scotland, a large band of riders clattered off the barge which ha
d taken them across the Forth from Dunfermline to the opposite shore. They rode through Dunedin, then galloped south toward Northumbria. They were led by a large man who bore himself with an aspect of command and authority, and whose only distraction in a time of lonely heartache was to turn his attention to plunder.
Every knight had a sword at his side, and in their eyes was not the look of peace.
Eight
The short-lived rebellion against William the Conqueror was quickly rebuffed. The throne of William I of Normandy was at last secure. The kings of Wessex would not lead England’s future, but rather the dynasty from the Continent. Edgar the Ætheling would never become King.
Now again did the family of Agatha, princess of Hungary, set out for the north. This time, however, Scotland was their intended destination.
As they sailed, an uncharacteristic anxiety began to be visible in the older of Edgar’s two sisters. None knew its cause. No one had observed her like this before. It might be seasickness, some thought, though the Channel was much calmer than before.
Her mother began to worry. She had an uncomfortable suspicion as to the cause of Margaret’s peculiar moods of alternating gaiety and melancholy. But she held her peace and hoped she was wrong.
In her stateroom, Margaret stared out the small round window at the gray-green waters of the sea. She could barely make out the shoreline of Northumbria as they passed along. This would be their last night on board. Tomorrow they would reach Dunfermline!
Though she was doing her best to quell her rising anticipation, she still felt herself aquiver with it.
The stray puppy that had been hanging around the castle kitchen came unexpectedly to her mind. She had fed it scraps, and it had attached itself to her. Margaret wondered if it would remember her now. In her mind’s eye she stooped down to pet its furry back, smiling as she envisioned the wet tongue licking her hand and the high-pitched yelp of greeting to an old friend.
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