Margaret the Queen (63 page)

Almost one hundred attended the council, few in very cheerful or uncritical frame of mind. Scotland's fortunes were at their lowest ebb for years and scapegoats might well be looked for. Prince Duncan was not invited, but came with Cospatrick's Lothian and Borders group nevertheless. Maldred had not expected to see the Queen there, for she had been unwell — indeed while he had been away in Galloway, Magda had been at Dunfermline aiding in nursing Margaret, her verdict being that the Queen was suffering from nothing more nor less than sheer exhaustion and lack of strength, through malnutrition arising from her everlasting fasting, penances and night-long prayings. At this council she had to be helped to her chair beside that of the King by her sons Edward and Ethelred, looking heartbreakingly fragile and wasted.

Malcolm strode in, late, to a flourish of trumpets, but otherwise opened the proceedings at once and without ceremony. He called on Bishop Fothad of St. Andrews, the Chancellor.

That amiable old man uttered a brief prayer for God's blessings on their deliberations, then declared that this high council was called to consider the present unfortunate state of the realm, in respect of the aggressions of the Kings of England and Norway; and to advise the King's Highness as to how best these wrongs could be righted and redressed. Also what steps were necessary to prevent further incursions against them. But before the discussion, there was a matter of procedure. As all present knew, the Earl of Fife was premier earl an
d mormaor of Scotland, and entitl
ed to lead in debate and make the first vote in council. Duncan MacDuff had died, full of years; but unfortunately he had been predeceased by his only son Dufagan (the drunken brawl in which the latter died did not merit mention). Next in line was Dufagan's infant son Constantine. But it was inconvenient and unsuitable that the realm's chief earldom, and support of the crown, should be in the hands of a helpless child. The King's Highness therefore deemed it right and proper to appoint as Earl of Fife, until the child Constantine mac Dufagan came of full age, his own well-beloved and esteemed son, the Prince Ethelred, Abbot of Dunkeld and Primate. This for the information of the council here present.

Eyebrows were raised at this announcement, but none were competent to question the decision of the
Ard Righ
on the matter save one of the other
righ
or mormaors, and these all held their peace. Cospatrick, who might have commented, was not one of the
righ,
his earldoms of Dunbar and March not being mortuaths but minted specially for him, south of Forth. But one voice was upraised, nevertheless, and few there would have asserted that its owner had no interest or right to speak.

"I make protest," Duncan mac Malcolm declared strongly. "As eldest son of the King, I should have all along been Prince of Strathclyde. That has been denied me for no good reason, and given to one of my later half-brothers, Edward. Now another, more junior still, who has already been given Dunkeld and the primacy, receives Fife. If it is to go to any of the King's kin, I say that it should go to me."

There was a murmur of agreement from many, led by the speaker's father-in-law.

"The matter is not for discussion," Malcolm grated. "Proceed to the business of this council, my lord Bishop."

Margaret hung her head, hands clutching each other.

"Yes, Highness," Fothad said hurriedly. "This of the realm. The loss by invasion of Cumbria and the Hebrides. A grievous matter calling for urgent redress. What is to be done, my lords?"

A medley of voices were raised at that general query.

Malcolm smashed a fist on the arm of his chair. "Quiet! This is a council not a cattle-fair! Speak in due order, earls first."

Since Ethelred, now of Fife, was scarcely competent to advise on national security, Angus, the oldest mormaor present, spoke up.

"What is there to do but muster again and march?" he demanded. "Firstly into Northumbria and Cumbria. We can do no other. The greatest army we have ever fielded. And whilst we are at this, be building ships. To win back the Hebrides. We should have done this long since — built a great fleet."

There was some acclaim for this straightforward if simplistic proposal, but there was dissent also. Martacus, Mormaor of Mar — he still refused the title of Earl — voiced it.

"Ships take a long time to build. And require trained masters and crews, especially ships-of-war. It would be years before we could seek to retake the Hebrides. And why should one more invasion of England prove successful? Your Highness has invaded times without number and achieved nothing."

"Save booty and plunder!" Maldred put in — and gained the first laughter of the day, although he had not meant it humorously.

Cospatrick took that up. "The Lord Maldred is right. If there is to be invasion again, then it must be better led and controlled," he asserted. "Always this of burning and raping and looting is the prime concern, not conquest of territory or lasting advantage. I say that we must have better leadership."

There was tense silence at this pronouncement, for all knew that it was the monarch himself who most favoured the looting and rapine.

Maldred, with little to lose in the matter, backed that. "Always our forces, after the first days across Tweed, are more concerned with driving back cattle, captives and gear, than in fighting the enemy. Any new invasion would require to be led otherwise, to achieve any success."

"Hark at my heroic warrior cousins!" the King exclaimed. "The Earl Cospatrick, you will all recollect, has scarcely been prominent in the lead of our arms, these past years! Or ever. Perhaps he will lead the next expedition, Maldred of Atholl aiding him? And see how they fare!"

"I could conceive worse arrangements, with Cumbria to win back."

"Ah, yes — you are touched on the raw wound now, cousin. You would not fight before. But, Cumbria — you would draw the sword for Cumbria!"

There was some exclamation and comment at that, cut into by an upraised voice from the improvised dais — the Queen's voice; and it was surprisingly strong and clear despite her frail appearance.

"My lords — already you talk of war and the sword! Surely we have learned that little advantage lies that way, only bloodshed, death, loss — and Norman success at the end. So it has been each time. In arms and numbers they are stronger than we are — it is as simple as that. Surely the time has come to attempt other persuasion than the sword?"

"In the end it is the sword which decides," her husband said flatly.

She laid a hand on his arm. "In the end it is
God
who decides," she amended. "Let us seek His aid sooner rather than later."

"You
do that," Malcolm told her, grimly. " You are good at praying, lass. We shall say Amen — but call also upon stout hearts, strong arms and cold steel!"

"But not wits?" she asked. "God gave us wits to use, did He not?"

"What mean you?"

"My lords, I am only a weak woman — but it seems to me that this King William can be dealt with better than by using arms weaker than his own. He is not the strong man his father was. He has two brothers, one older than he, who resent his power. He has lost his wisest adviser — my good friend the Archbishop Lanfranc, who has gone to God. And he, William, we hear to be ill. . ."

"All of which says that now is the time to strike!" Malcolm interrupted.

Patiently she shook her head. "Rather that it is the time to use our wits. By his armed attack and occupation of Cumbria, which was never English territory, William has put himself grievously in the wrong. In the sight of all men. Use that, I say. He calls himself Lord Paramount of Scotland. He is not that, all here know — but use it against him. Write to him. Declare that
he
has broken faith. Declare that fealty is a two-edged sword. Your oath of fealty to him requires that he, in turn, supports you, does it not? Does not steal from you, as he has done. Demand redress — or your oath is nullified. And, at the same time, write to the Pope . . ."

"The Pope of Rome! A God's Name — why that?"

"Because the Pope presides over the only court in Christendom superior to William's. Even the Conqueror heeded the Pontiff. Moreover, this Rufus needs the Pope's goodwill. A new Archbishop of Canterbury falls to be appointed. Rufus wishes to have the Norman, Bishop Anselm of Bee, appointed. But we know that Bishop Odo, now in France, seeks the Pope's preferment, supported by the King of France. Probably also by Robert of Normandy. His uncle is the last man William would wish to be Archbishop. So he will not desire to offend the Pope."

"But — why should the Pope heed
me?
He owes me nothing."

"You have done much for Holy Church, my lord King. More than Rufus has ever done. Have you not built the great new minster at Dunfermline? Made grants to St. Andrews? Encouraged and succoured pilgrims? Lanfranc will have kept His Holiness informed of all these . . ."

"Your
work, Margaret — not mine."

"Ours,
my lord. Now is the time to remind Rome." Her voice had weakened with this long speech, and having to raise it to carry against the flapping of the tentage in the breeze of that lofty place. But she summoned a new surge of urgency. "Moreover, you have something to offer. In the very area you make protest over — Strathclyde. The distant and decayed see of Whithorn, which King MacBeth held was Columban and the archdiocese of York claimed belonged to Durham, and therefore Rome. Offer that back. It is not important to you, little to pay in return for Cumbria."

There was a hush as men considered that, its ingenuity, its subtle persuasion, its likely effectiveness. Some, like Maldred, saw it all as one more weakening of the Celtic Church, one more betrayal. Especially, for the King of Scots actually to appeal to Rome. But most, undoubtedly, only saw it as a most telling weapon to be used against William Rufus, and cared little or nothing for the merely spiritual allegiance of a small and remote area of Galloway already under the temporal sway of the Orkney earls.

Cospatrick was the first to speak. "Excellent!" he cried. "Most excellent! The Queen's Highness has the wits of us all! This could trouble Rufus more than any armed invasion. It would, likewise, bring in the Archbishop Thomas of York, and the Bishop of Durham, on the side of reconciliation. And so affect Northumbria also. I say that Her Highness is right. Send the two letters, my lord King. Forthwith. And ensure that each learns what is in the other!"

There were cries of support. Margaret had at least succeeded in driving a wedge between Maldred and Cospatrick.

"It would give us time," Malcolm conceded. "Time for greater, stronger muster."

Another voice was raised, new to most there. The Mormaor Colin of the Mearns was dead and his son Malpender reigned in his stead.

"My lord King, there is more to give you pause, I think, in this of invasion, than merely Rufus of England. My mortuath abuts the Mounth. There is strong word coming from beyond the Mounth, from Druim-Alban, that revolt is seething there. That, after the failure of the Hebridean campaign, many chiefs and lords of the Highland West are murmuring against Your Highness. They say that you deserted them, left them to face Magnus of Norway unsupported, that you are a Lowland king with no concern for the Highlands. They threaten to rise against you
..."

"Fools!" Malcolm cried. "Ingrates! They did little enough to aid against Magnus
. They talk, that is all, these
Highlandmen. They cannot hurt me. Mere idle threats.'*

"Perhaps, Highness. But the word says more than talk. Your own royal brother is concerned — the Prince Donald. The word is that
he
will head the disaffected chiefs in your overthrow. Either of the Highland parts or of all your kingdom. He has always claimed that he should have had the crown, being, being . . ."He left the word "legitimate" to be inserted by his hearers. "If you were to march into England, Highness," Malpender ended, "there could be war at home. Donald Ban might steal your throne."

There was uproar in the council. The King had to beat his chair for quiet.

"Donald is a weakling and no fighter," he declared. "I am in no danger from him."

"Nevertheless, Highness, I would take due heed of this," the Earl Madach of Atholl put in. "I have heard the same word. There is much unrest in the West. Atholl marches with Mamlorn, where Donald Ban lives. There is much coming and going, I hear. And not only from the West but from Moray. Where MacBeth's kin still rule."

Silence followed that. Madach was a solid man and no scaremonger. And any mention of the great northern mortuaths of Moray and Ross, remote but unswervingly hostile to the present regime, was apt to cause something of a blight.

Maldred looked over at Duncan, who had for years been brought up by Donald Ban, and wondered.

"We shall watch my brother Donald, then, as well as the Highland chiefs, never fear," Malcolm assured. "Likewise Moray. But these are as nothing to the English. Bishop Fothad — you will word these letters to be sent, for my signature and seal — no doubt the Queen aiding you. Meanwhile, we shall muster, partial muster. Not at Dunsinane, but here in Lothian. That the news of it reaches William Rufus the more surely. Leaves him in no doubt that we are ready to march — if he fails to respond in fair fashion to my letter. March south, not north against rebels. Aye — and something else for his spies to report. Donald's also, perhaps. I intend to build a mighty fortress here. On this rock of Dunedin. That is in part why I hold this council he
re. The Normans build great castl
es on the Tyne and at Caer-luel, to threaten us, to command the routes into Northumbria and Cumbria. I shall do the same, only a deal better. On this rock shall rise a fortress which will make the Normans' castles seem like bairns* houses! And another on the rock of Stirling. But this one first. Never again shall the English march up through Lothian unthreatened. Forby, others shall take heed also." The King did not actually look at Cospatrick, but few doubted his meaning.