Queen Hereafter (38 page)

“Ah,” she said, thoughtful. “Thirty, then, every day.”

Still he seemed dissatisfied. “Who will shepherd the imps at the gate?” Wilfrid asked. “Who will watch them and keep them from running, climbing, hurting themselves and others?”

“Godwin,” she said, inspired. “And Gertruda. They each have a sweet way with children.”

“What of the parents and kinfolk of these children? Do we turn them away hungry only to feed their broods?” Wilfrid asked.

“We must have something for them as well, then,” she said. “Parlan, go remind Cook to grind the oats fine and cook them with a little milk. And have him stew apples with cinnamon and nutmeg, for the children may enjoy that. Both dishes should be ready at sunrise each day.”

“As you wish, Lady,” Parlan said, and she could see he was no happier than Wilfrid.

She was determined to have the small children brought in to her each morning after her prayers and before her own breakfast. She had devised a new penance for herself, though she would not reveal that. “I wish to honor the little children more,” she said. “And this is a way.”

“Then spend more time with your own,” Wilfrid said honestly.
“Your little Edward follows you everywhere he can, and Edmund is always happy to see you. And there will be another soon to take up your time and concern.”

She blushed at that. “But it tugs my heartstrings so to see the little ones in need at our gates. They are sometimes too small to eat what is given in alms, and so they do not get much just for themselves.”

“Then invite a symbolic number of children,” he suggested. “Keep the groups small but for holy days and celebrations. Six children,” he suggested.

“Twelve, the number of the apostles.”

“Nine,” Wilfrid countered. “Surely that has some significance.”

“Ah, nine choirs of angels. Perfect,” she said. “And a hundred children on holy days. I will not be gainsaid on that one. See it done,” she added, when he began to protest the larger number.

Looking around, she saw her husband crossing the room then. Malcolm must have heard the commotion and some muttering as Parlan went past him. She explained her plan. “Admirable,” Malcolm said. “But do this only if you promise to eat with them.”

“Just after they do,” she promised, while he pursed his mouth to one side, seeming no more content than her stewards.

Two days later, Margaret emerged from prayers leading her ladies like ducklings, while Eva followed her, head high, looking more a princess by nature than even Cristina. In the great hall, nine children of various ages surrounded Wilfrid and Godwin, until Gertruda shooed them toward a table. Margaret sat down and took the smaller ones into her lap, one at a time, and fed them with a golden spoon dipped into a crystal bowl. The older ones were each given their own spoon and bowl, and as they ate they laughed, beaming like sunshine.

The next day, more children were brought in, and so it continued until feeding the children was routine at Dun Edin, while almsgiving continued at the front gates. Wilfrid and other housecarls easily found little ones to bring to the queen, and word spread that kindness and alms could be found at the king’s residence.

While Margaret’s ladies stitched little shirts and stockings from cloth scraps, Godwin revealed sleight-of-hand tricks with silver pennies to amuse the children gathered in the hall. He even taught Brother Tor, though his solemn attempt at such tricks made Margaret laugh.

Nine children became twelve, twelve became thirty, then fifty, and on All Saints Day on the first of November, one hundred children were led into the great hall. Margaret fed as many as she could manage with her own hands, her own spoon, and she encouraged her own Edward to help, no matter how small he was, along with truculent Duncan and willing Donald.

“Their father will make them warriors,” she told Tor, “but it falls to me to make them merciful princes.”

“As much use as warrior skills, if not more,” he replied.

Her secret ambition was to invite a thousand children to the royal fortress one day, though she suspected that Wilfrid, Tor, and Malcolm would have none of it. The feeling of charity, whether to children or people at the gates, or some other form, was heady—she wanted more of it, could not get enough; it was like water for her thirsty soul.

WINTER SKIMMED BY
like a vague dream, Advent to Lent, days filled with her duties, her prayers, caring for her small sons, seeing to her charity gestures. Exhausted at times, Margaret pushed on as the liturgical calendar came round to Septuagesima and the beginning of the Lenten season and the advent of her own devoted fasting. Diligent about cleansing any existing sin, she also tried to consider her condition, allowing herself a little porridge, a withered apple from storage, or a little broth each day.

Malcolm told Parlan to obtain some wheat somewhere to make risen bread for the queen, and though trading ships from England came to Leith less often, Parlan managed to make wheaten bread loaves, though from the crude dark grain mixed with rye that monks favored. Malcolm
himself sliced and buttered it thick and handed it to her at the table. She dared not refuse.

Eva played harp for her when she took to her bed now and then, and one day, head spinning, Margaret saw a tiny being seated on a stool; it smiled and told her to eat and worry no more. Then a second shadow that she thought was surely angelic, for it was quiet but stern, told her that pain defeated sin and not to listen to temptation. She felt faint, and did not know which vision to obey.

One evening Eva brought her a warm, thick liquid concoction she had made from oats, warm milk, spices, and the Scots drink called
uisge beatha
, strong spirits made from fermented barley. Eva stayed until the queen swallowed much of it, and Margaret slept deep that night, even through her prayer hours. Still, she became bird-thin and as pale as linen—yet she felt clean, pure, ethereal.

One day Brother Tor took her aside. “You have fasted sufficiently,” he said. “Now go to broths and fruit, and then eat something substantial each day, every day. Until the birth, do not go to chapel during the night, and do not return to fasting. Praying in your little chapel or by your bed is more than enough proof of your devotion.”

“You sound like a physician, not a priest,” she said.

“I am a physician for your soul,” he answered. “Margaret, please do as I ask.”

Looking up, she saw in that solemn blue gaze a tender concern, and when he touched her shoulder briefly, the gesture of a counseling priest, she felt such comfort that her knees oddly weakened. She leaned toward him, sensing that he understood, knew, accepted her for all her flaws.

“Brother Tor,” she said, “sometimes I want to fast until all the sin is burned clean from me. Once I begin, it becomes like a fever demon and I must continue even against my will.”

“You have such a pure soul,” he whispered. “There is no need to clarify yourself, especially now.”

She nodded, and then fled, blushing hot, feeling the correction
more than the praise. His good opinion of her was so important—too important, she told herself, and mentally assigned herself three additional Pater Nosters to recite that evening, for she had let pride best her again.

A few days later, Malcolm brought her a bowl of soup with his own hands and sat by her bed while she ate a little. When she set it aside, he handed her a parcel wrapped in cloth and string. Peeling away the cloth, she saw a book—quite a magnificent one, bound not in leather as were most of her books, but with boards encased in engraved silver studded with a border of small jewels and a golden cross fastened at its center. Gasping with delight, thrilled with its beauty as well as Malcolm’s surprising thoughtfulness, she carefully opened the tiny brass locks attached to the leather buckles that fastened the covers tightly shut. Inside, another cover was of new, fragrant leather lined in thick white satin, and she saw that the pages were separated by individual squares of white silk. Turning a few pages, she caught her breath in astonishment.

“But—this is my own copy of the Gospels! The book that went missing! How did you—”

“A little thievery of my own,” he said. “I took the book one day after you set it down. We had been reading, you and I, and you were very patient with me.” He smiled a little. “The leather cover was so worn, it was splitting apart. I thought a new cover would please you. A goldsmith in the town did the work, and finished it just this week.”

“Thank you,” she said, tears stinging her eyes. “I do not deserve such a fine gift.”

“Of course you do.” He sounded almost annoyed. “Do not say otherwise. I hope you will continue to teach me to read these words as well as you can.”

She turned a page. “
Incipit evangelium …
Now you read the rest. It is your book, too, now.”

“This is the Gospel … according to, uh, Mark,” he read. “Look at that fancy fellow, with his red beard and quill like a sword,” he
said of the painting that faced the opening page. “And that foolish little chair, as if he is sitting on top of a building.”

“He is. That is the very Church itself. Now read this bit.” She pointed.

“
Ecce mitto angelum …
” he began, tracing the words with a fingertip.

A SOFT KNOCK
at the door woke Eva in the middle of the night, and Matilda got up to open it. “The queen wants you,” she whispered. “She waits outside.”

“To chapel again?” Eva groaned but rose from bed, dressed, and twisted her hair into a long rope, tying it with a ribbon as she went to the door.

Margaret waited in the corridor, wearing a black hooded cloak so voluminous that at first Eva did not recognize her in the shadowed passageway. She held a flickering oil lamp of brass in one hand and a similar cloak draped over her arm, which she offered to Eva in silence. Puzzled, Eva slid the cloak over her shoulders, wondering at the queen’s secretive mood. The entire household knew about the queen’s eccentric habit of praying and strolling about at all hours. Yawning, she followed Margaret down the steps and around the side of the main keep.

“But the chapel is that way,” Eva said.

“Hush!” Margaret took her arm and pulled her across the shadowed, moonlit bailey.

The air was so cold that Eva’s breath frosted in a cloud. She followed Margaret, who led her to the building that housed the garrison and the dungeons.

“Why are we going—” Eva began. Margaret touched a hand to her arm.

“The guards are not here just now,” she replied in a whisper. “Malcolm has kept them up late, meeting with his advisors and most of the housecarls over some talk of securing the fortress against
invasion from the south. Even the dungeon guards were summoned there. They will not be gone long. And I have the key.” She opened her palm to show a glint of iron.

“What is this about?” Eva asked.

Margaret seemed curiously excited, her eyes sparkling in the moonlight as if she had a fever. “I want to free the prisoners.”

“
What?
”

“Hush! Follow me.” She proceeded down a few steps to the corridor leading the dungeon. The flame of the oil lamp formed a small pool of light just ahead of them as they went.

“This is foolish,” Eva hissed as the queen drew her forward. “Who are these men, and what are their offenses? You should not be going near them on your own.”

“Four Saxons and two Normans, all taken captive in England,” Margaret answered. “Malcolm says he is only holding them for ransom. They have committed no crimes and their families and properties are in harm’s way in the south. But so far William has given no reply to the ransom request, and their Saxon kin have no fortunes left to buy their freedom.”

“This is not your concern, truly.”

“Can I ignore good men lingering in prison in my own household? Malcolm admits they are honorable men, and this is only a custom of war—but it seems sinfully wrong to keep them here and away from their families. You keep watch while I let them out,” Margaret said.

She led the way along the dark channel and went to the first cell, where she spoke to the men inside in French, which Eva understood only slightly. Then came answering murmurs, and the chink and clank of key and lock. The door creaked open and two tall, shadowy figures emerged.

The queen moved to the next cell, and again Eva heard her speak low, again in French. As the door opened, four men emerged this time. Eva heard rapidly murmured English then.

“Hurry,” Margaret said, “you must all flee. There is little time before the guards return.”

“Lady, you have taken a great risk,” someone said. “We thank you.”

Margaret’s hood slipped back as she looked up, her golden hair, without a veil, flowing free. She looked young, vibrant, and calm as she turned toward Eva with a smile. Exhilaration shone in her like a light.

“You are enjoying this,” Eva said. “I think you love the adventure even more than you love the justice of this.”

“Of course not.” But Margaret looked pleased. “Quickly, we must reach the gate before these men are seen. Come ahead,” she said, as the prisoners followed them.

“Wait!” Eva stretched up an arm, seeing some long cloaks hanging on wall pegs near the outer end of the corridor. One of the men reached over her head to take the cloaks down.