Margaret the Queen (7 page)

He found the Atheling family together in one bedchamber, with Magdalen and the Benedictine Oswald, clustered at the window, the wooden shuttering open. He cleared his throat.

"Princesses — the Queen awaits you. Abbot Ivo also. All is ready."

Prince Edgar answered him. "Then proceed. We can watch from here. If so we decide."

Maldred stared. "But. . . but you are expected. To take part. All attend Christ's Holy Mass. This is Sunday."

"We are well aware what day it is," the Princess Agatha said. "When the uproar outside is quietened, we shall celebrate Mass here. With Father Oswald. In decent reverence."

"But
...
all expect you. To attend. All guests. It is the custom. Her Highness stands waiting
..."

"Then convey our regrets that she has been delayed, young man. We worship God . . . otherwise."

"Maldred — ask that we may be excused," Margaret added, less rigidly. "Say to Her Highness that, not knowing the order and service, we should but confuse all."

Abruptly Maldred hurried away to inform the Queen.

Ingebiorg Thorfinnsdotter was scarcely religiously inclined, as a rule, having been brought up in an establishment which had other priorities — even though, before his death, Thorflnn Raven Feeder had indeed built a stone church in Orkney, the first such there, in which to await the resurrection of his body, as a sort of insurance. But she was the Viking Earl's true daughter deep down, however quiet her ways, and in certain matters could play the queen with any. Listening to the young man, she set her lips tightly, small chin jutting. When he had finished, she sent the chamberlain out to inform Abbot Ivo that they would be a short while yet, and turning, hitched her skirts to climb the stair in no uncertain fashion, Maldred at her heels.

She halted in the Athelings' doorway, eyeing them. "I give you good morning," she said. "This is God's Day. And this is a Christian house. All dwelling in it start this day, one in seven, thus. Attending the Mass of our Good Lord, men, women and children . . ."

"Even the dogs, it seems!" Edgar interrupted.

"We partake of Mass
every
morning, Highness," the Princess Agatha said. "In rather different fashion."

"Perhaps. But you are guests in this house and this land. And guests have their duties, as have hosts."

"Our first duty is surely to Almighty God! We cannot worship Him uncouthly, as though at a, a fair!"

"Lady Queen — we are grateful indeed for your hospitality and shelter," Margaret put in earnestly. "But we pray you, do not ask this of us. If it had not been Mass, if it had been some other worship, we might have attended. But it is a sin against the Holy Ghost to participate and partake of the Mass, unbelieving. Holy Church binds us in this."

"Holy Church? Holy Church is one and indivisible. Only man makes divisions. Is that not so, Sir Priest?"

Father Oswald looked unhappy. "There is one Church, yes — Holy, Catholic and Apostolic But the keys thereof were given by our Blessed Lord to Saint Peter. And his successor, the Holy Father in Rome, lays down due and proper order
..."

"Do not preach to me, sir, of what is due and proper! I was reared in the Romish faith. In Orkney. But when I wed, it was due and proper that I adhered to the Church of my husband's people, that of Columba. You are now being cherished and protected — of your own will, not mine — in a realm of that Church. It is the bounden duty of every householder in that realm to ensure that all under his or her roof, or in their care, attend this Mass at the commencement of the Lord's Day. I abide by that duty, in my husband's absence."

"You will not force us to partake damnation to our eternal souls, Highness?" Margaret declared, and it was in reality no question.

Ingebiorg perceived a will as strong as her own. "Do not partake, then," she said. "But attend. Down there. All others must. That is my royal command." Turning her back on them all, she strode for the stairway.

Maldred waited for the others to follow, however reluctantly — and waited also to ensure that they did. The girl Magdalen whispered to him, as they brought up the rear behind the Benedictine monk.

"I pray that your Queen knows what she fights in Margaret Atheling! The others she may beat, I think. But Margaret will win — you heed my words. She always does."

The royal party emerged from the hall-house to join the throng surrounding the monkish group. The chatter and laughter died away, all, including the clergy, turning to consider the newcomers with undisguised interest. Abbot Ivo bowed to the Queen, smiling, and again to the Athelings. They took up their position at the foot of the tower, left clear. All remained standing.

The Abbot raised his bachuil, or crozier, a simple ash-plant about four feet long, with an elaborately decorated crook in silver and enamels, his assistant rang a rectangular-shaped bronze bell, rather like a large cowbell, and the service commenced.

It went briskly, starting with a chanted recital of the Apostles' Creed, all joining in enthusiastically. A prayer followed, also chanted, with a shouted response. Then a psalm which all seemed to know, a reading from a well-thumbed scriptural scroll, and a rousing hymn with a repeated rhythmic chorus, obviously much enjoyed. It was all in the Gaelic, of course, and unintelligible to the visitors, who might thus be excused for not joining in. King Malcolm, in his determination to substitute what was known as the Inglis for the old language, had not yet managed to wean the Church from its traditional tongue. Abbot Ivo, however, made a gesture, in the short homily which followed, by repeating in English a welcoming reference to the refugees from the Duke of Normandy's usurpation in England, and a good-going denunciation of the tyrant's savageries — at which all cheered strongly, save for the victims, who looked uncomfortable.

Another prayer heralded the Eucharist. All turned to face the east. A lusty ringing of the hollow-sounding saint's bell, before and after the Consecration of the bread and wine, led to the congregation shouting grateful approval. The administration followed at once, all still standing, children as well as adults being given a broken fragment of the loaves and a sip of the wine from spoons even more battered, from much use, than the one on the altar. The Queen was not served first, but actually near the end, for the administration started at the eastern side of the circle and worked round clockwise, like the sun, and the royal party stood at the tower-foot, to the north. When Abbot Ivo offered the Elements to the Athelings, and they were refused with head-shakes, he looked surprised, but smiled acceptingly and passed on. Father Oswald placed a hand before his eyes, at this stage, so that he did not have to look at the offending substances. Margaret and Magdalen at least smiled their rejection.

When all others had partaken, a final vigorous hymn, with a refrain that set feet tapping, even stamping, followed by the Benediction, crozier held high, completed the essentially simple service which, despite the large number receiving Communion, had not lasted more than twenty minutes.

Thereafter all broke up and became a cheerful social gathering, easy, noisy, unaffected, the children, released from what had been only moderate restraint, making up for lost time, the Keledei mixing casually with the crowd, the Queen and her attendants likewise. Princess Agatha hurried indoors at once, followed by Edgar and Christina and the monk, but Margaret remained and went over to look at the altar, left unattended, Magdalen with her.

Maldred came to them. "Was that so ill, then?" he asked. "So, so uncouth, was it? Barbarous?"

"It was . . . interesting," Margaret said.

"I enjoyed the singing," Magdalen added. "Although I did not understand the words."

"Did it injure you to attend? And could it have harmed you to partake?"

The princess chose her words. "Knowing it to be in error, mistaken, yes, Maldred. When one is aware of the truth, to practise other is sin. It was all sincere, honest, yes. But nevertheless, in error. Those who, in honesty, believe in it will no doubt escape punishment. But for those informed in the truth
..."

"Error! Mistaken! What is in error here? How can you, princess though you may be, declare what is truth and what is error? Against the teachings of abbots and priests and the ancient saints of God?" he exclaimed.

"There have been saints and saints!" she said. "Heresies can grow, even amongst the elect. The holy Augustine proved that, and purged Mother Church. And more lately the Blessed Benedict. The Devil will insert heresy amongst the unwary whenever he can
..."

"Are you naming us heretics now? In your English pride!"

"Would you have me to shut my eyes to error? When it is so manifest? I who am grand-daughter of Saint Stephen and grand-niece of Edward the Confessor? Maldred, I do not
blame
you, any of you, since you know no better. But that service we watched was in error from start to finish. It was not held in a consecrated building. It was attended by all and sundry, without any due preparation. There was no confession of sins, so far as I could understand, and so no absolution. So all partaking were still in their sins."

"Save us — but is the partaking not itself to wipe away our sins?"

"Not if it is taken unprepared and unworthily. As it was. Even the children received the sacrament, knowing nothing of what they did, poor little creatures. It was not, to be sure, the
true
sacrament of the Body and Blood of Christ, so we must believe that they will not be harmed
..."

"Saints in Heaven — may God forgive your arrogance!"

"God indeed forgive me my unwitting sins. In this we agree. But God
has
given us wits. To use. To discern His truths. And to discern error, with His teachings in Christ. And it required little wit to discern on what that ritual was grounded. Not so much on the blessed Last Supper of Our Lord as on ancient pagan sun-worship!"

He stared at her. Even Magdalen looked wondering.

"Can you not see it? The circle, out in the open air. This graven stone in the midst. The turning east, to the sunrise. The administration as following round the hours of the sun's course. The shouting, the standing. Look at this stone, covered with strange animals. What of Christ is there in that? And these crosses, more like flowers, or sun's rays. Recollect that great stone at which we rested, walking here from the ship. This is just such another. Here is the shadow of sun-worship, idolatry!"

"Dear God!" the young man said.

"Can you deny it, Maldred — now that it is shown to you?"

He was no theologian and no more versed in matters religious than most youths of his age. But he had certain basic loyalties, a respect for ancient tradition and his race, some pride — and a resentment at being catechised by mere girls.

"My father — who is abbot you will mind, as well as earl — told me once that the old saints who brought the gospel here from Ireland, the Brethren of Columba, used of purpose to preach at the stone-circles and standing-stones. They used them, set up Christ's Cross within them. Carved crosses on the stones. Built their cashels and churches there. And why not? That was where the folk had always worshipped. They taught them the true worship — but used what the folk knew to do it. Taught the true meaning of what they had groped for. In the sun and the seasons, the stones, the running water, the sowing and the harvest." He shook his head. "They, the old saints, were less proud than you, I think!"

Margaret took a deep breath, eyeing him steadily. "I pray always to be saved from the sin of spiritual pride. For it is damnable," she said. "But in this I believe that you are wrong. Wholly wrong." And she moved off, back to the hall-house.

"You are a very rash young man, Maldred Abbot's Son!" Magdalen told him. "But you will learn, in time."

"Is all the learning to be on my part? None on yours? None on hers?"

"Oh, I am learning a lot!" she assured, as she left him.

Later, there was further controversy when, after the Athelings had held their own Mass, Maldred went to them and informed that he was going to the Abbey of Culross on an errand for the Queen. It was on the firth about six miles away to the west and he wondered whether any of the visitors would like to accompany him, to see something of the country and people? The prince and his mother showed no interest, but Margaret thanked him for the thought. She asked, however, if she might know the reason for the errand.

"The Keledei at Culross are the best beekeepers in the land," he told her. "They keep the Queen's bees for her. And make the palace candles with their wax. Her Highness requires a new supply of candles. I go for them, rather than a servant, for my younger brother, Kerald, is training there to be a monk. Or, at least, one day to be abbot." He grinned. "He should be more learned in matters of the Church than I am. Perhaps he can convince ' you that we are not such pagan idolators as you think!"