This is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product

of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2010 by Susan Fraser King

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Crown Publishers, an imprint of the Crown Publishing
Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
www.crownpublishing.com

CROWN and the Crown colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

King, Susan
Queen hereafter : a novel / Susan Fraser King.—1st ed.
p. cm.
1. Queens—Scotland—Fiction. 2. Scotland—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3561.I4833Q 44 2010
813'.54—dc22µµµµ2010012340µ

ISBN 978-0-307-45279-5

Printed in the United States of America

Design by Chris Welch

Map illustration by Richard Thompson

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

First Edition

King_9780307452795_4p_all_r1.j.indd iv 9/23/10 4:57 PM

 Prologue
Eva
anno domini 1074

Bring to me the harp of my king

That on it I may shed my grief
— Irish, thirteenth century

C aught between two willful queens, I am, and should have

taken more care to tread lightly—like crossing a stream over
slippery stones when the current is strong and cold. Now that I have
stumbled deep, who can say whether my two queens will forgive me or
condemn me for what I did at each one’s bidding. No servant, I am free
to do as I please. Margaret and Gruadh disagree.
I am called Eva the Bard, daughter of a short-lived king. I have been
a devoted student of Dermot, once chief bard in Macbeth’s court. He
trained me in the ways of a seanchaidh: a thousand songs, a thousand
tales, a thousand heroes keenly remembered through ancient ways
of diligence, and more. Though I do not know my fate, I know my
calling— to tell the old tales and coax melodies from the harp strings

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 2 ≤ susan fraser king

to soothe or excite the spirit. Some now accuse me of scheming, but

my aim has ever been my craft, and honor. So say I.
The king and queen would order some monk with ink-stained
fingers to record my betrayal on parchment, which would crumble
over time; the lady in the north would order the account destroyed
much sooner. Yet I would compose a song-poem to tell it whole, then
take up my harp and sing it to some, who would teach it to others, so
it would never be lost.
One queen might call it treason, the other tradition. But I might
call it vengeance.
≥

Dunfermline, Scotland
Autumn 1074

a s t h e w o o d e n b e a m that crossed the door of her cell was lifted

and stowed aside, Eva rose to her feet. Cold and damp penetrated her
thin wool tunic as she waited. As the guard opened the door and torch-
light bloomed in the gap, Eva blinked, her eyes used to darkness after
weeks of incarceration.
Still and wary, she heard the rumbling voices of the guard and the
Saxon priest who answered, then mellow, clear notes as a woman spoke.
The guard appeared in the doorway and gestured for Eva to approach.
Defiant, she did not. He stood back.
The woman crossed the threshold, skirts gathered in long, pale fin-
gers as she stepped down to the deeper floor of the dungeon cell. Behind
her, torchlight illuminated the small space. The lady paused, slender
and lovely, with a veil as translucent as a halo, like some saint or angel
bringing relief and blessings to the prisoner.
“My friend,” Margaret said quietly.
“Lady,” Eva replied, watching the Queen of Scots. Daughter of a
king, a bard in her own right, Eva also had a privileged rank— but the
old Scotland was changing, she reminded herself.

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 queen hereafter ≥ 3

Margaret approached, the hem of her blue gown, banded by gold

thread embroidery, sweeping across the straw-covered earthen floor.
Calmly, she clasped her hands before her. Tall and slim, a mother of
three little sons already, the queen looked girlish still. Her face was
lovely on a long neck, eyes blue as her gown, golden hair woven into
two long braids beneath her veil; perfect, ethereal. Margaret’s beauty
was as well known as her charitable nature: Scotland’s young Saxon
queen, at first reviled, now increasingly beloved.
Yet Eva had glimpsed beyond the saintly virtues to the fears and
flaws beneath. She knew that Margaret, who could be genuinely
good of heart, had a core like stubborn rock. Once decided on a mat-
ter, she would not be dissuaded for good or ill.
“Eva, we must talk.” There was steely will beneath the gentle voice.
“Say what you will, then leave.”
“I came to seek your counsel,” Margaret said, while Eva glanced
at her in surprise. “My husband the king bids me advise him on your
fate. He will make the final decision, but he wants the truth of it.”
Dread wrenched within. Eva could not tell all the truth, and give
up one she loved. “What does it matter? Others will twist what I say.
You know that well.”
“I never expected betrayal from you, or hints of witchcraft. I do
not know what to believe. But I must make a recommendation.”
Eva frowned. Though Margaret sometimes thought herself weak
and sinful, she was strong-minded to a fault, and her opinion counted
for much with the king. “The accusations are unfounded. Tell Mal-
colm that I am no witch.”
“And the Lady of the North? What does she have to do with this?”
“Very little.” What she had agreed to do had seemed right at the
time. Now she was entangled in old conflict between Lady Gruadh
in the north, her kinswoman, and King Malcolm. Scotland’s former
queen was wise, though bitter, and Eva would honor what Gruadh
had asked of her.
“That is not so easy to believe. There are punishments established
by the witanagemot for criminals and witches,” Margaret went on.

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 4 ≤ susan fraser king

“Malcolm has asked me to consider those laws.” Her intonation was

flat, cool.
“Saxon law does not apply here,” Eva said. Yet over several years,
Malcolm had instituted several Saxon practices and punishments, and
employed his council like a witan, a group of wise advisors to the
king. Eva had good reason to fear her fate if accused of witchery.
Margaret might be her only hope.
“Recommend that I be judged according to Scottish law, not
Saxon,” Eva said.
“Such crimes merit severe consequences,” the queen responded.
“Glowing iron, boiling water, or worse, fire. My ancestor great King
Alfred helped devise that system of justice. The king could ask for
such trials to find the truth.” She spoke calmly, but the knuckles of
her hands went white. “If you are innocent, as you claim, all will
be well.”
“Why will you not believe me? I have done no wrong to you.”
The queen looked away. Eva sensed her uncertainty; perhaps Mar-
garet wanted to believe her.
“I could pass any test you give me,” Eva said impulsively. Guilty
or innocent, who could survive such ordeals? “You are a believer in
miracles. You will see.”
“Miracles?” Margaret seemed intrigued. “Has your faith improved
in the last weeks?”
“Lady,” Eva said wearily, “we are both in need of miracles,
some days.”
Margaret sighed, and for a moment Eva glimpsed the young woman
she knew, though the longer Margaret was queen, the more she per-
fected a cool, haughty side. “In England, they burn witches. Do not
let it come to that.” She stepped closer. “Pray with greater devotion
and ask forgiveness for your sins, and heaven may grant mercy. Con-
vince the king of your loyalty and he will show earthly mercy. You
are ever stubborn, Eva, but your very soul is in jeopardy now. I will
send a priest to speak with you.”

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 queen hereafter ≥ 5

“Which one?” Eva looked at her defiantly. “One who follows the
will of the Roman Church over the Celtic? Or the one who follows
your will?”
“Tor says naught but good of you,” Margaret chided. “I will send
a confessor to cleanse the wickedness from your heart and set your
foot on a better path.”
“Can wickedness be turned in a savage Scot?” Eva felt bitter. “You
have not succeeded in turning our faces and hearts entirely toward
Rome, though you deserve credit for trying to improve us all.”
“You are much like your kinswoman. I see that now.”
“I consider that high praise.”
“Many would not.” Turning, Margaret moved toward the door,
then paused. “If the priests agree that you did treason and witchcraft,
no one can save you from the fires.”
“It is not the custom in Scotland to burn witches.”
“I am not Scottish,” Margaret said quietly. Gathering her skirts
in her hands, she stepped across the threshold. The guard closed the
door, shutting out the light.
Eva sank to the floor in the darkness and tucked her head in her arms.

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 Chapter One
Margaret
anno domini 1067

The wind sets from the south

Across the land of the Saxons of mighty shields
— Irish, eleventh century

M y lady mother was so sure the English king planned to be

rid of us the moment we set foot on his Saxon shores that
she refused to sail there from Denmark. But we had been journeying
for months after leaving Hungary, the lot of us: Papa, Mama, my sister
and small brother, and a few servants. We were exhausted and sore in
need of a home. Papa said we belonged in England, after all. I heard my
parents arguing it at night.
My father, born a prince of England, had been exiled to the king-
dom of Hungary as a small boy. Lately King Edward, his royal and
childless uncle, had summoned Papa— another Edward— home to
England to restore his birthright and name him heir to the throne.
Mama groused that while our uncle-king had beckoned, he would
not pay our traveling costs, and she feared he might lay claim to the

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 8 ≤ susan fraser king

priceless treasures we hauled about in crates and chests. My mother,

Agatha, was Russian and Hungarian by birth and blood, and little
liked the English. Her warrior husband she excused; he had left
England at a young age.
My father was Saxon royalty of the old Wessex line, and so were
his children, harking back to wise King Alfred, to unready Aethel-
red and stubborn Edmund Ironside, my grandfather. Our brighter
future lay in England. Lady Agatha would be queen there, according
to both Edwards. Dignified if stubborn, she acquiesced.
The year I turned ten, we left Hungary, where my two siblings and
I had been born. Traveling with a Magyar escort over high mountains
into Russia, carrying heavy packed chests in carts the whole way, we
stayed weeks in Kiev with my mother’s kin, then sailed northward to
winter among the Danes, my father’s cousins. That place was dull and
smoky indoors, but splendid outside. I saw how much we resembled
the Danes and the Rus, too, for we were long limbed and golden fair,
with taut cheekbones and sky-colored eyes. Only my sister Cristina
took after the dark and stocky Magyars, the tough bloodline of our
mother’s maternal kin; she had a bold temperament, too, outspoken
where I was acquiescent, hot and impulsive where I was cool and
devout as I tried to emulate my pious mother and grandmother.
We crossed the wide, pitching North Sea, while my mother mur-
mured of impending doom and prayed over her black-beaded rosary.
Despite her worrying, the Danish vessel skimmed the waves like a
winged dragon and brought us swiftly to English shores.
In London town, we were welcomed by lords who spoke the
Saxon language that my father knew and we did not. The king
was away, but we were housed by the Archbishop of Canterbury,
who spoke German, our preferred tongue, with us. We were dined,
entertained, and assessed by a parade of bishops, priests, and notable
lords and ladies; servants, too, I suppose. Assured that he would be
king eventually, my father gently teased his wife that her fears were
unfounded.
A week after our arrival, he fell dead at my feet.

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 queen hereafter ≥ 9

A few of us were walking in the archbishop’s gardens after supper

with some of England’s earls and thanes when my father collapsed
on a path. We could not rouse him. To this day, years on, I can recall
my disbelief and shock, my father’s gray face, my mother’s paleness,
and the scents of calendula and thyme.
Poison was the rumor, denied and dismissed. The king’s physician
said Edward Aetheling had a weak heart, though my father had been
a lion of a warrior, with spare habits and good health. Tainted food
was suggested by others, though no one else had fallen sick that night.
Taint or poison, I alone knew the truth: I had killed him.
At my insistence, he had eaten sweetmeats from a golden tray set
on the table before him. At first he had refused, intent on his discus-
sion with a Saxon bishop. But with girlish silliness, I pushed the tray
toward him, saying he must obey Princess Margaret. Distracted, smil-
ing, he downed the treats in a fistful or two. Within the half hour, he
was dead. Likely there was strong poison in those honeyed almonds
and hazelnuts— and my father would not have eaten them that night
but for my urging.
Mea culpa, mea culpa, but I never confessed my deed to a priest,
only adding to the heinous sin. Fear kept me silent. I wore bruises
into my knees praying self-imposed penances, while my lady mother
approved my pious grieving, mistaking what moved me so. I could
not tell her and hurt her even more.
At court, some whispered of the ambitious men who would have
benefitted from the death of Edward the Exile: Harold Godwinson
was one, brother of the queen and son of an ambitious Saxon earl,
and William of Normandy was another. King Edward, rumor said,
had bargained his crown to both men secretly and then gave the
heir’s right to my father. Whether one of them had ordered Edward
the Exile killed or some other had done it, my own hand had aided
the killer. I shared the sin.
That gnawed at me, crept into my dreams, perched on my shoul-
der like a demon.
Overnight we transformed from exalted royal family to the foreign

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 10 ≤ susan fraser king

wards of a king who took little interest in us yet would not permit
us to return to Hungary. My siblings and I were educated as befitted
our status in that formal, refined court. But we were in effect hostages
housed as king’s wards, our little freedom spent witnessing the hunt,
hawking, or taking the short and frequent journey between the Lon-
don and Winchester palaces. Often my sister and I refused to ride in
the canopied van that carried the women, delighting in a chance for
the saddle. We had been partly raised by Magyar kin, after all.
At five years old, my brother Edgar was named king’s heir in a
ceremony, while the other claimants for the English throne remained
avid and interested. The year I turned twenty and Edgar thirteen,
our aged royal uncle died, leaving Edgar the Aetheling, Harold God-
winson, and William of Normandy each believing in his own right
to be king.
Harold was quickly chosen by the witanagemot and duly crowned.
England needed a warrior-king, not a stripling boy, that year. Had
Harold taken hawk’s wings to soar over the cliffs of England, he
would have seen two threats at once: the Danes sweeping in from the
east and the Normans coming from the south.
Within months, in the autumn of anno domini 1066, the mail-clad
warriors of Normandy slid their boats, silent and lethal, onto our
English shore. Harold died on Hastings field and William took us
for his wards— but as soon as we could get away, my kin and I fled.
≥

And the Aetheling went back again to Scotland.

— Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, entry for 1069

England
Autumn 1069

t h e t h u d o f i r o n - h e e l e d boots in the corridor startled Mar-

garet from sleep. She sat up in the darkness, alarmed, shaking her

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 queen hereafter ≥ 11

sister’s arm until Cristina woke, too. As the door shoved wide, two
men stepped into the room, mail armor glinting in the moonlight that
slipped through a small window. The maidservant, Kata, shrieked,
leaping up from her straw pallet, while Margaret and Cristina stumbled
out of bed, clutching blankets to cover themselves.
Margaret felt a twist of fear— surely these were Normans, she
thought, and rude devils to enter a convent by force and moon’s glow.
“Mes desmoiselles,” one of the men said in French, resting a hand on
his sword pommel, “hurry! Dépêchez-vous!”
Margaret gathered her younger sister close, aware that Nor-
man knights treated even high-ranking Saxon women with brutal
disrespect.
“Hurry!” the knight repeated in French, stepping forward. “We
cannot waste time!”
Flinching, Margaret nonetheless lifted her chin. “Partez ici,” she
replied. “Leave! How do you dare! We are princesses of England.”
“Ready yourselves by order of the king, or we will carry you
out as you are. Bring their belongings— there are valuables here.”
The man motioned to his companion, who snatched a linen sheet
and began to toss their things onto it. Margaret watched in astonish-
ment as he grabbed her Gospel book from the small table, snatched
Cristina’s needlework basket, too, and opened a wooden chest to
dump its contents—garments, veils, stockings, belts, ribbons, and
other items—into the sheet. As he began to tie the clumsy bundle,
Margaret stepped toward him.
“Give me the book,” she said, grabbing the leather-bound manu-
script to tuck it under her arm. The Gospel had been a gift in her
childhood from the English queen, and she would not lose it to a
Norman.
“Diebe und Schweine!” Kata muttered in German, the language
they often spoke among themselves. She grabbed cloaks from wall
pegs and handed them to the princesses, who shrugged into them.
“Thieves and pigs! Will they take what little we have? If we had
stayed in Hungary we would be safe.”

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 12 ≤ susan fraser king

This had been their nurse’s constant refrain ever since they had left
Castle Reka years earlier. “There was rebellion in Hungary, too,”
Cristina snapped.
Margaret shoved bare feet into leather shoes and smoothed her
long, tousled golden braids, and though she wanted to appear calm,
her hands shook. In grim silence, the two knights grasped the girls’
arms to lead them through the door.
“Norman pigs indeed,” Cristina said in German. “What does
King William want with us now? He shut us in here three years ago,
and no word since. But this must be by his orders.”
“I hoped we would take vows here and live in peace,” Margaret
said.
“You can take vows, not me,” Cristina said. “You are suited to
praying and studying. I want my freedom, but not like this!”
Outside in the thin moonlight, Margaret saw men, horses, and a
cart. A few nuns and novices huddled with the abbess, their faces
pale as they watched. Looking at the familiar walls of the abbey,
Margaret began to panic. The shelter of Romsey had seemed so unas-
sailable.
“Monsieur chevalier, where are we going?” Cristina demanded as
they walked to the cart.
“Away from here, and quickly,” the leader answered.
“Why?” Margaret asked. “It is only fair that we know.”
He did not reply as he and another knight lifted the women into
the cart. It was lined with straw, humble fittings for royal women.
The bundle of their things was tossed in after them.
“Even when William’s men brought us here, we were not treated
like this!” Cristina said.
“Hush,” Margaret warned, wary of her sister’s abrasive temper.
She forced a calm expression, determined to show regal dignity
despite her fear. As she looked around, blond braids sliding over her
shoulders, heart pounding, she reminded herself to pray for protec-
tion and forgiveness, too— but she was agitated and on the verge of
losing her own temper.

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 queen hereafter ≥ 13

More than a dozen riders were ready to depart, tough warriors

all, mail armor and weapons gleaming in the moonlight. The cart
carrying the girls lurched forward, and the escort rumbled through
the gates and out into the chill November night. For one panicked
moment, Margaret thought about leaping from the cart and running
back to the sanctuary of the chapel, dragging her sister and maid
with her. Instead, she watched the abbey fade into the distance and
darkness.
Romsey Abbey had been King William’s choice for a prison for the
two Saxon princesses after his Norman armies had taken southern En-
gland. Their younger brother, Edgar, had been hastily crowned king
at thirteen years old by dead King Harold’s witanagemot just after the
invasion, but William had then taken the boy to Normandy as a Saxon
hostage. Lady Agatha, their mother, had been sent to Wilton Abbey,
though she had thought to take much of their family treasure, brought
from Hungary years before, with her to keep it from Norman hands.
Margaret had spent eleven years in King Edward’s pious and glit-
tering court, and she had seen many Normans there. King Edward
had encouraged foreigners, particularly the Norman French, in his
court, flattered by their interest— now, after his death, they were all
paying the price of his gullibility. The royal Saxons had been cap-
tured and confined, and the Saxon people were beaten down but for
those who advanced themselves by backing the invaders.
Shut away at Romsey for the past three years, Margaret had discov-
ered unexpected peace amid turmoil. Turning to the solace of prayers,
theological studies, and the enjoyments of reading and embroidery,
she savored the routine at Romsey. Outside, her sole purpose would
have been as a political bride, a living alliance expected to produce
heirs. But now no man of rank would want her or Cristina. They
were landless, worthless princesses but for their bloodline, thanks to
William of Normandy.
Cristina leaned toward her in the lurching cart. “Why do they
take us away now, tonight? If they had wanted rape and sport,” she
said bluntly, “they would have done it.”

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 14 ≤ susan fraser king

“I do not know. William cannot easily marry off the sisters of a

deposed boy king. But if we had taken vows, he would have no author-
ity over us. We would belong to the Church and would be safe.”
“Safety, peace, saintliness— I vow that is all you want, Margaret!”
“I would consider myself fortunate to find that.”
Huffing impatiently, Cristina turned toward the knight riding
closest to the cart. “You! What is this about? Do you know who we
are?” She spoke in French.
“We do,” the man said, coming closer. He answered in English.
“Of course we know.”
“Then tell us where we are going, and why,” Margaret demanded
in English. Despite years in England, as a child she had spoken Hun-
garian and German and her slight accent revealed her foreign origins:
she sounded like a Byzantine.
“We head for the nearest coast to meet a ship.” When he pushed
back his mail coif to reveal long gray hair and a mustache worn in the
Saxon manner, rather than the clean jaw and shorn, thick-topped hair
preferred by most Normans, Margaret frankly gaped at him.
“You are not Norman,” she said. “What about the others?”
“Saxons all,” he agreed. “We guised as Normans, else the abbess
would have sent word to the sheriff straight away.” He leaned down.
Margaret could smell horse and the tang of metal, and she sensed
urgency in his manner and speech. “I am Wilfrid of Bourne. What
we do this night is rebellion and treason, and you two are part of it
now. Your brother sent us.”
“Edgar! What of him?” Margaret had not heard from her brother
since he had been taken to Normandy. The latest rumors said he had
pledged to William, thus ending hopes of rebellion under the young
Saxon king.
“Edgar sent word to us in Lincoln for help. Others have gone to
Wilton to fetch your lady mother. We are to meet them and then sail
along the coast to meet your brother as well. He plans to take you out
of England. With the Saxon rebellion gathering in the north, you
two are not safe here any longer.”

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 queen hereafter ≥ 15

“But we heard that Edgar is William’s sworn man now,” Marga-

ret said, puzzled. “How do we know you are here by his order rather
than by some Norman trick?” Not all Saxons were loyal to the cause
rallied around her brother, she knew.
“Edgar bids you return this to him yourself.” He unfastened his
cloak pin and handed it to her. She saw that the brooch was a silver
one that Edgar owned and had taken to Normandy; she had pinned
it to his cloak herself in farewell. She sensed that the Saxon knight
was sincere, and besides, she had no choice but to trust him. Margaret
nodded.
“Good,” he said. “We must go swiftly, princess.”
“What word do you have of Edgar’s friends?” Cristina asked.
“What of Morcar of Northumbria and his brother Edwin? And Thor-
gaut the Dane and others?”
“Morcar and Edwin are both with Edgar. Thorgaut was impris-
oned for two years in William’s castle at Lincoln as a king’s hostage
for the good behavior of his kinsmen. He escaped. Tor is my cousin,”
he explained, “as is Hereward the outlaw, who has proven so elu-
sive. The Normans are determined to catch him.”
“We heard about the outlaw at Romsey, too,” Margaret said.
“And Tor? Will he join us?”
“He sailed for Denmark, they say, but after that I do not know his
fate. Hereward is an outright rebel now, with the twelve sheriffs of
Lincoln on his tail. But we will sail north along the coast, and away
from all this,” he added.
So many friends had fled or disappeared in the last three years,
Margaret thought. She and her family had met Tor the Dane at King
Edward’s court years earlier; he had been a fine, intelligent young
housecarl interested in becoming a scholar someday, she recalled.
“What of your kin, Sir Wilfrid? I pray they are safe.”
“My wife and sons were killed when Lincoln was burned,” he
answered briskly. “Driver, move on. Hurry!”
Margaret sighed with regret as the cart rumbled on. In the dark-
ness, a captive of this envoy, she had to trust that Wilfrid and his

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 16 ≤ susan fraser king

men were indeed loyal and that soon she and her sister would reunite
with Edgar and their mother. If her brother truly was in England
actively working toward rebellion, then he had gone against Wil-
liam. Having spent most of his life in England, Edgar was more
Saxon than Hungarian in his upbringing, and though he was not a
seasoned warrior ready to lead a revolt, he could become a leader for
the Saxons one day with the help of others.
Cristina shifted toward the cart’s rim. “Sir Wilfrid,” she called,
waving. “Will we sail to Denmark and go from there to Hungary?
That would be safe and wise, I vow. We have heard awful reports
that William has burned and ravaged York, that the Danes offered
help, came in their ships and then left. We must not sail north!”
Wilfrid slowed his horse to match the pace of the cart. “True, the
north is no place for princesses, with William’s troops burning much
of the region and the Northumbrians rising in rebellion. And now
the Scots have rushed in to avail themselves of booty and slaves.”
“Good Christ and sweet Mary,” Margaret whispered, crossing
herself.
“Aye, do pray,” Wilfrid muttered. “But your brother will not
abandon you here in England. King Malcolm Canmore has offered his
support, and your brother is weighing that.”
“Scots!” Cristina said contemptuously. “And who would save us
from those savages?”
“Edgar means to bargain with Malcolm,” Wilfrid said. “Rest
while we ride, ladies. We will reach the coast by dawn.” He urged
his horse ahead.
Scotland. Margaret sank back as the cart bumped along. While Cris-
tina murmured with Kata, Margaret crossed herself and whispered a
prayer for the safety of their journey, and their lives. But her thoughts
were elsewhere. Now she began to deduce Edgar’s plan, and it gave
her chills.
The Saxons would need help to defend against the Normans, and
the strongest and most immediate aid existed in Scotland. Despite the
pummelings that Malcolm of Scotland, known for his brutish ways,

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 queen hereafter ≥ 17

had given Northumbria over the years, he would not want Normans
near his own borders. He would expect a stiff price for his help, Mar-
garet was certain, though the royal Saxons, beleaguered and impov-
erished by war, had little to bargain in return for assistance from
Scotland’s roughshod king. Yet Edgar would not beg and Malcolm
would not provide for free.
With sinking certainty, Margaret knew why Edgar and his Saxon
comrades wanted the princesses brought north to join them, even in
dangerous circumstances. The Scottish king, it was widely said, was
a widower in need of a wife. And Edgar had sisters of exemplary
blood. A northern king of inferior heritage would find that prospect
even more desirable than a land dowry, or lack of one, since heirs of
that union could claim rights through the mother’s bloodline, too.
She recalled seeing Malcolm once, years earlier, when he had come
south to Winchester Palace to request England’s assistance against
the Scots king, Macbeth. At the time, Malcolm was struggling to
regain his slain father’s throne, and Margaret remembered a huge,
wild-haired man with a rumbling voice, who wore furs and oddly
patterned garments. Canmore had seemed like a rough beast in the
elegant English court, where eloquence, piety, and courtliness were
valued. But Edward had thought Macbeth too canny, and therefore
a threat; so he had given Malcolm troops, funds, and ships against
Macbeth. Margaret remembered the keen excitement in the court at
the news that Malcolm had first killed Macbeth and then that man’s
stepson and successor, a young man with the curious name Lulach, so
that Malcolm had fully won Scotland.
Malcolm had proved canny indeed, soon requesting from Edward
a Saxon bride: Margaret herself, the king’s ward. Lady Agatha had
refused, arguing that her daughter was only twelve, too refined for
Scotland, and meant for a better royal match someday. Malcolm was
nearly thirty, a brute of unimpressive lineage compared to the Sax-
ons’, and he could find himself another wife. So Malcolm had mar-
ried Lulach’s Norse widow, and King Edward had been pleased;
Scotland’s peace with the Vikings would benefit England, too.

King_9780307452795_4p_all_r1.j.indd 17 9/23/10 4:57 PM

 18 ≤ susan fraser king

Now the Saxons needed Malcolm’s help and the Norse queen was
dead— and Margaret realized that her brother might try to bargain
her away to Malcolm, especially since he had applied for her hand
before.
She could not imagine living in a barbaric land, wife to a raiding
warrior who could not be trusted to keep any bargain. The Scottish
king regularly attacked northern England, and she had heard that his
country was a backward place, peopled with superstitious heathens
who spoke a strange language no good Saxon would deign to learn.
At Romsey, she had found peace and respite from danger, pro-
tected from warmongers and sly self-servers. There, she would have
taken vows to expiate sins she otherwise dared not confess. Instead,
she rode in a cart rattling northward toward a fate she dreaded.

King_9780307452795_4p_all_r1.j.indd 18 9/23/10 4:57 PM