Chapter One

Autumn 1069

Storm clouds gathered above the trio of ships, which limped along in the crashing waves and high winds of the North Sea. Princess Margaret turned her gaze towards the horizon. The serene look on her face belied her determination to brave the elements. She braced herself when she saw the oncoming darkened clouds blotting out the sunshine. They seemed to smirk with the menace of a demon. Waves slapped against the ship, playing with it as a child would with a toy boat.

Margaret fumbled with the catch of a box and took out the one possession she would never part with: her holy cross, which was about the length of her palm. It was constructed from the purest gold, with intricate workmanship and inlaid with precious stones. On it was an ivory figure of Jesus outlined with decorations of gold. This precious item was said to contain a piece of the true cross of Christ. She brushed aside an escaped wisp of her long, braided hair and took a deep breath. She positioned herself against the railing, to gain enough balance, so she could hold the cross in both hands. She raised it to the leaden skies.

 ‘Almighty God, please save us.’ Her plea was lost to the wind, which by now raged and tore, ravaging the longboat’s sails piece by piece. The sky lit up with streaks of lightning. Waves rolled in and sucked at them, steadily filling their vessel with water. The merciless sea tossed the ships about. A gust of salty wind stole her breath. Beaten by the savage wind, she put the cross back in its casket and turned back to descend the wooden steps into the crowded cabin. The cloying smell of vomit hit Margaret. She noticed her mother, Princess Agatha, sitting on a bench, holding her head in her hands. The tension in the air was tangible. The priest, Brother Turgot, who accompanied them, knelt on the bench in prayer.

Her younger sister Cristina sat beside her, holding a bucket. She stared ahead. Her face had taken on a greenish tint. A sudden swelling wave made the ship rock. She steadied herself and pressed a hand hard on her stomach to curb her nausea. She took a ragged strip of linen and soaked it in a bowl of water, then wrung it out and placed it on her mother’s forehead.

 ‘There, Mama, is that better?’ she asked, with concern in her vivid blue eyes.

 ‘We’re all going to die,’ Agatha wailed. Her handsome face was taut with nerves and she looked gaunt.

 ‘We are in the hands of God now,’ Margaret said. The ice-cold water rose to their ankles.

 ‘I have never felt so wretched since your father died.’ Agatha dabbed her forehead with a linen kerchief. Water sloshed at their feet as the ship moved to and from. Margaret wrung out the hem of her dress, took two ends and tied them together. She lost her balance as the ship moved again and she nearly fell against a fellow passenger, John de Berkeley. He grabbed her by the elbow to steady her and smiled. ‘Are you all right, your Highness?’

Margaret took a deep gulping breath. ‘Yes, thank you. I’m just a bit off balance.

John let go of her elbow and smiled down at her. He pushed his dark blond hair away from his face and wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead. ‘This must be the rockiest journey I’ve ever made.’

 ‘It is, and it’s a journey I never wish to repeat, dear John. But it’s a necessary one and I can’t thank you enough for suggesting we get away from William the Norman.’

 ‘It’s auspicious that I overheard the conversation between his nobles, including my own father Roger. I had to warn Edgar of the vile plot William had in mind. Your brother is not safe, but he has an ally in King Malcolm.’

 ‘What does the future hold for you? Will you go back to the south or settle north?’

A frown appeared as he stared at the huge waves threatening to overwhelm their ship. ‘I’m not sure yet. It might not be safe for me to do so, once they find out it was my plan for Edgar and his family to flee here.’

They could hear the eerie sound of the ship’s creaking wood. The noise of splintering before an almighty thud reverberated through the vessel. They ducked instinctively.

Agatha screamed. Margaret rushed over to her and put her arm around her shaking body.

 ‘The mast is down,’ a sailor cried out.

Agatha crossed herself and sent up a prayer in Hungarian, her lips blue with cold. Their maid Griselda, put a stole around her shoulders.

A fish, thrown on deck, washed into the cabin, and wriggled on the dry patch created by the sloping ship. It gasped for air. When the ship straightened up again, it slid back into the water. It swam around in frantic wild-eyed desperation.

Margaret scooped it up in a bucket and tipped it back into the sea. She watched it swim off.

 ‘Pass me the bucket, Margaret. I feel my stomach is going to turn again,’ Cristina wailed. Prince Edgar, Margaret’s younger brother and heir to the English throne, entered the cabin. He had retched over the side of the ship a few times. The lad, only seventeen, looked desolate. He stood in the corner, with a brooding look on his face. He watched Cristina being sick into her bucket. He turned away with a grimace of disgust on his face. ‘No, not again.’

 ‘Are you all right, Cristina?’ Margaret stroked her back.

 ‘Just leave me to die.’ Cristina said in a low whisper. ‘I feel miserable.’

 ‘It can’t be that far now; we’ll soon be safe.’

A sailor cried out: ‘Land ahoy!’

 ‘Thank God,’ Margaret whispered. A weak smile lifted her features.

The perilous journey took another hour of tossing and being flung about without warning. The wind died down. They docked safely at the jetty at Monkwearmouth. It was a dismal-looking place with sparse buildings at the edge of the water. The ship’s wood creaked and groaned, as though in agony. There was a jolt as it reached the stone edge of the quay. The sailors flung ropes and pulled the ship to shore. The captain of the ship barked orders at the sailors to lay the wooden gangplank.

There was quite a lot of damage to their ship. The other two ships weren’t as badly affected. Aided by Cristina, Agatha staggered onto the gangplank, followed by Margaret and Edgar. A seagull screeched dramatically.

 ‘Oh, my dress is ruined, look at it,’ Agatha moaned. She lifted the hem, its embroidered edging was torn and discoloured by the seawater.

 ‘We’re alive, mother.’ Cristina remarked, with more than a hint of sarcasm in her voice. ‘Griselda can mend your dress.’

 ‘Yes, but what will become of us?’ She stared into the distance, onto the bleak landscape.

 ‘That is up to God.’

 ‘True,’ she agreed, then muttered in Hungarian.

Margaret grew weary, too. Her shoes squelched with seawater and her plaits were wet from the spray of water. The ship’s crew were exhausted after hours of bailing out water. The tirade of nature had taken its toll on them. The acrid smell of smoke filled their nostrils. Plumes of smoke were visible above the town, which lay in ruins. ‘What on earth has happened here?’ Margaret said.

 ‘Stay here, I will find out,’ Edgar told them, looking nervous. He gestured for his servant to go with him. He blinked rapidly and walked in the town’s direction.

The rest of them went to sit down on a quayside bench, and on the grass. Edgar returned a while later, accompanied by two men: one tall and broad, wearing a hauberk of chainmail and the other plainly dressed. The tall man tore off his helmet and thrust it into the hands of his attendant. Judging by the attendant’s jumpiness, he was a man of importance. Edgar and the man stopped and fell into an animated conversation.

 ‘Who’s that with Edgar?’ Margaret asked, peering at the man as they came closer. His bearded face was smudged with soot and his dark curly hair was tangled and dusty. His forehead was bleeding.

 ‘Mercy me, it’s Malcolm III, King of the Scots,’ Agatha exclaimed. ‘I haven’t seen him for many a year.’

 ‘Máel Coluim mac Donnchada?’ Margaret said softly.

Her mother cast a quizzical gaze.

 ‘That is his Gaelic name, it means Malcolm MacDuncan,’ she explained.

The King’s attendant dabbed a cloth at the bleeding wound on his forehead. ‘Don’t fuss, it’s just a wee scratch,’ he grumbled, dismissing him with a wave of his hand. ‘Can’t you see I’m in discourse?’ He turned back to Edgar, laying his arm across his shoulder.

 ‘But Sire, you are bleeding. Your wound needs dressing,’ his attendant said.

 ‘Later,’ he barked. The man retreated, with a jerky movement, as though Malcolm had bitten him.

Malcolm touched his forehead with the back of his hand and wiped the blood away, as it was heading for his eye.

The men walked towards the womenfolk resting on a bench. The other ships docked and decanted all their passengers. A collection of people with various shades of sickness emerged. They tottered around, glad to be ashore. Among them were several nobles from England, Flanders, France, and Hungary, who had also fled from the Normans.

Margaret got a clearer view of the King. He was tall, well-built and had a head of curling dark hair, which, standing with his back against the sun, had a copper sheen. Then she noticed the red stains on his chainmail. It made her flinch. He stood there, looking like a blood-stained savage, with the sweat of his efforts still on his brow. He twisted his battle axe in calloused hands streaked with dirt. She found the sight of him disturbing and repellent. And yet -, his clear grey-blue eyes were so compelling, delving into her psyche. He eyed her with unashamed appraisal. She looked into his eyes, meeting his gaze. They’d met several years ago, at Edward’s court, where she had spent eleven years. Now he was older and exuded a superior masculinity. There were fine lines around his eyes. He had a downward turning moustache, and his strong jaw was covered with a beard, tinged with red and forked in the fashionable Danish style. His gaze softened when he saw her. ‘Margaret, the last time I saw you, you were but a scrawny little thing, now look at you,’ he said in wonder. ‘You’re a … a woman.’

 ‘Yes, I hope so,’ she quipped, with a wry tug at her lips. He gave her a broad smile. She got a jolt at her heartstrings when she recognized the boy in him, the young man she had spent time with as a child. She had often ridden out with him, racing their horses. They had played chess and he had teased her about her piety.

 ‘It’s a long while since we were at Edward’s Court, both refugees,’ Malcolm said.

 ‘Yes, indeed. The King was good to us to take us in and harbour us after the unfortunate death of my father.’

 ‘Yes, your father would have been King of England now.’ He turned to her brother Edgar. ‘Yes, and now the crown belongs to Edgar. He just needs to wrest it from the head of the Duke of Normandy. I will never accept him as King.’

Edgar shivered. ‘I can’t do it on my own. I need help and thought you might be able to advise me.’

 ‘Is that what brings you here to this barren land?’

Edgar had kept in touch with King Malcolm and the latter had taken a shine to him. He felt a protective streak towards the young man, as he remembered that he had once needed protecting, too. Edgar’s great uncle Edward the Confessor had given him and his family protection, so he felt duty bound to do the same for him and his family. Their father, also known as Edward the Exile, had died not long after setting foot in England. Word had it he’d been poisoned. He was in line for the throne.

 ‘We were told to flee from William,’ Margaret said, ‘Edgar is in danger. John de Berkeley overheard a conversation between William and his aides. They were plotting against him. We were going to flee to Hungary, but John thought Edgar should fight for his crown. He heard you were in Northumbria and thought we should come here to seek your help.’

 ‘I am very happy to help a maiden in distress,’ he quipped. ‘And her entourage it seems,’ he added with a wry smile.

 ‘John de Berkeley you say?’ He questioned, rubbing his chin.

 ‘Yes, his family is originally from France. They were called de Berchelai,’ Margaret said.

 ‘His father Roger came over with Duke William and was granted lands in Gloucestershire and the title Berkeley of that ilk,’ Edgar added.

 ‘Here he comes now,’ Margaret turned to watch John’s tall figure approach.

John bowed his head to the King. ‘Majesty.’

 ‘De Berkeley, I understand.’ He proffered his hand. ‘You did well, my good fellow, to advise Edgar and his ladies to come here and seek my aid,’ he said, grasping his hand in a firm handshake.

 ‘Thank you, Sire. I was worried some terrible fate would befall them if they had stayed there. I wouldn’t trust that usurper William one bit.’ His kind blue eyes regarded the King in earnest. He had a calm demeanour.

 ‘No, you are so right saying that. He’s a scoundrel and a thief.’

 ‘So, who else is in your company?’ The King looked over John’s shoulder.

 ‘There’s Edwin, Earl of Mercia, Bartholf de Leslyn and some Flemish nobles, who came over with William, but fell out of favour with him.’

There was a clattering of the mast of the second ship falling to the deck. It had not withstood the storm’s wrath either. Margaret jumped with fright.

 ‘Are you all right, lass?’ He offered her his arm to steady herself. She declined with a small shake of the head and a small smile. ‘It looks like that ship will need some repair too.’ Malcolm said. His eyes came to rest on Margaret, who was still shaking. She became aware of her wet clothes as his eyes skimmed over her with interest. ‘You look frozen. Let’s get you into some warm clothing before you perish.’ His voice was warm.

Margaret blushed. ‘Thank you.’ She felt his eyes appraise her figure. They re-joined the rest of the group.

 ‘Agatha, my dear. Greetings to you. It’s been a long time.’

Agatha bowed her head to him. ‘Your Majesty.’ 

He turned to face her daughter. ‘Cristina, you look pale.’ 

Cristina was petite and resembled her mother, with the look of her Hungarian ancestry. Her eyes were dark and expressive, and her hair was auburn. ‘I am well, thank you, Sire.’

Agatha said: ‘It’s been a long and perilous journey. She was feeling unwell.’

 ‘You poor girl.’ His eyebrows knitted.

The colour returned to Cristina’s face. ‘I will be fine now. I’ve never been a good sea traveller.’

The King turned to the company. ‘You can all bed down for the night in my lodgings. This is no place for women.’ With the back of his hand, he wiped his forehead, inadvertently smearing it with more blood.

On the way into the town, they saw the shocking state of the place, the burnt buildings. Victims of the battle were lying on the ground, bleeding. Margaret stopped to tend to a wounded man. ‘Don’t waste your time on him. He‘ll be dead afore the hour’s done,’ the King said. Shocked, she looked at him and bit her lip. The look in his eyes conveyed that he instantly regretted his harsh words, seeing the effect they’d had on Margaret. 

 ‘Brother Turgot,’ she called out, with a little sideways glance at Malcolm, ‘please come over here? This man needs your prayers.’

The monk hurried over, knelt beside the man, and administered the last rites. Visibly shaken, Margaret looked around her. ‘What in God’s name has happened here?’ There were grain stores and barns on fire. A herd of displaced farm animals ran wild. Their eyes were wide and fearful.

 ‘God had nothing to do with it,’ Malcolm said casually. ‘It was Duke William’s soldiers who caused this. It was another of his harrying campaigns to bring the North to heel. He will stop at nothing until he gets what he wants. His men have destroyed lives, livestock and set the grain stores alight.’

 ‘What an evil deed,’ Cristina said, shocked.

 ‘They have even destroyed farming tools and salted the fields, so nothing will grow for years. If anyone does survive, they won’t last the winter without food.’ Malcolm shook his head.

 ‘That is terrible. Such brutality. Can you not stop him?’ Tears stood in Margaret’s eyes.

The urgent sound of horses’ hooves cut into their conversation. Two knights approached on horseback. ‘There is more unrest, Highness. Three of William’s men are still in the vicinity.’

Malcolm tore his gaze away from Margaret and turned to face Edgar. ‘Come lad, we have work to do.’

 ‘Me?’ Edgar recoiled. His eyes widened in surprise.

 ‘Aye… you. Now, don’t be lily-livered. Here, you can use my other sword. I trust you can use it?’ He thrust it at Edgar, and he caught it, with a look of panic on his face. He unsheathed the sword and regarded it. Its shiny metal reflected in the sunlight, with traces of blood still on it. Edgar blanched.

 ‘Yes, I can, but…’ Edgar hesitated, blinking rapidly. ‘I was taught all the skills required for fighting but have never been in a real skirmish. I was just a figurehead at the revolt against William the Norman.’ There was an edge of panic in his voice. 

 ‘Come, stay close to me and I’ll teach you how to vanquish those rebels and we’ll be back in time for dinner,’ Malcolm said, with a chuckle.

 ‘Be careful, brother,’ Margaret said, kissing him on the cheek. Agatha and Cristina embraced him while Malcolm tapped his foot impatiently.

 ‘God be with you, son, and with the King,’ Agatha added as an afterthought.

The women watched them get on their horses and ride off. Agatha looked ashen. ‘If anything happens to my son, I will hold Malcolm responsible. It’s sad enough I have already lost my husband.’

The steward took them to a nearby manor house, which was empty.

 ‘Where is everybody? Is there no-one to welcome us?’ Agatha enquired.

 ‘No, they are all still fighting the rebels,’ the steward replied. He blinked several times. ‘My son, too.’

 ‘We’ll say a prayer for his safe return, too,’ Margaret said. She laid a hand on his shoulder. 

They got into dry clothes and hung their sodden ones on a rack to dry near the braziers. The trio of women sank to their knees and fervently prayed for Edgar’s and Malcolm’s safe return. Cristina nervously fingered her rosary, her lips moving in prayer.

Margaret got to her feet. ‘Come, Cristina, let’s tend to the wounded. Mother, you rest now. Edgar is in safe hands. Malcolm won’t let those rebels harm him. Steward, have you any linen we can tear to strips?’

The two women did what they could to help the victims. They comforted the survivors and tried to reunite children with their mothers. They got a few young lads, who’d returned from the battle to lay out the dead bodies in rows. It grew dark. Exhausted, they returned to the manor. It was eerily quiet and even the birds had stopped singing.

 ‘No news of Edgar?’ Agatha rushed to meet them at the door.

 ‘No, mother.’ Margaret sank onto a bench.

A maid heated a cauldron of water for them to wash with. Cristina wept, as she took off her sark.          ‘Never have I seen such carnage. How can anyone inflict such acts on other humans?’

Margaret shook her head. ‘It’s inconceivable. God help the survivors. Their homes have been destroyed and their crops ruined. What will become of them?’

A few hours later, the sound of horses’ hooves heralded the men’s return. Agatha shrieked in delight to witness her son walking towards her in one piece. ‘Thank God you are back.’ She stroked his hair and hugged him tightly.

Edgar’s face crumpled. He uttered: ‘Oh mother, I haven’t the stomach for this. It was awful.’ Agatha embraced him.

 ‘You’re shaking, son.’ She peered into his face. ‘What have they done to you?’

Edgar slumped into a seat and wrapped his arms around himself. ‘There’s no turning back now. One of William’s men recognised me. He got away. They know I have taken sides with Malcolm, so we’ll never be safe in England again.’ He sat defeated with his shoulders hunched.

Malcolm slapped him on the back. ‘Come on lad, don’t be weak. Now buck up. You’ve had a taste of what’s coming if you ever want to be King.’

Edgar regained his composure. He straightened up said: ‘I’d like to see Duke William’s face when he finds out we are not back in Hungary.’ He snorted.

 ‘And under his arch enemy’s protection,’ Margaret added.

This comment amused the King. He let out a hearty laugh. ‘You are so right about that, Margaret.’

He turned to speak to a steward.

 ‘It is good of Malcolm to help us,’ Agatha agreed. ‘He’s a good man, if a little rough around the edges. I wouldn’t wish to be his enemy,’ she whispered when he was out of earshot.

When he returned, Cristina faced him and said: ‘Would you like me to dress that wound for you, Highness?’

Distracted, he touched his forehead and regarded the blood on his fingers. ‘Oh. No matter, it’s nothing but a scratch.’ But seeing Cristina’s expectant face, he gave in. ‘Oh, very well.’ He sat down at the bench. Cristina opened her pouch. She always carried some herbal salve and strips of linen. She loved every moment of his proximity. He looked disinterested as she happily chatted away, mopping his wound carefully.

They had sent some of Malcolm’s servants back to the ship to collect some of their belongings needed for an overnight stay. They settled down by the welcoming heat of a blazing fire at rough-hewn trestles in the great hall, holding wooden cups with warm milk to fortify themselves. The walls were adorned with swords and well-worn tapestries. Agatha sneezed and gave a shiver.

 ‘Mother, you’ve caught a chill.’ Margaret wrapped a blanket around her shoulders.

 ‘Are you surprised after all we’ve been through?’ she said, with a shrug.

Sometime later, a steward blew a bullhorn to announce dinner. They took their places at the table. Malcolm instructed his staff to make sure that the illustrious Margaret sat opposite him. Edgar and his mother flanked him. The rest of the guests were at the other side of the trestles, next to his men.

Margaret noted that some of them, apart from Sir Robert de Lauder, had not even bothered to wash their hands before dinner. She shuddered when she thought maybe some blood of their victims might still be on them. The King looked as though he’d stuck his head in a bowl of water, then shaken it off. Some tendrils of his hair were still wet and left water stains on his tunic.

They were served a simple meal of mutton stew in wooden bowls, accompanied by plain round loaves of bread. There was a bowl of roast chicken pieces, too. A servant ladled the stew into the King’s plate first, then the royal guests. By the time they’d all been served, Malcolm had already started to eat. Spearing a chunk of meat with his eating knife, he transported it to his mouth. Watching the King eat, Turgot gave a little cough.

 ‘Let us say a prayer of thanks to God, for what we are about to receive, and thank Him for our safe landing here.’ Turgot intoned. They all inclined their heads to pray with him. Malcolm stopped chewing and watched the company for a moment. He gave a wry smile, wiped a dribble of gravy from his mouth with the back of his hand and followed their example. Halfway through the Latin prayer he cast a surreptitious glance at Margaret, whose serenity in prayer struck him. Awed by her beauty, he thought she looked like one of the saints depicted in Edward the Confessor’s prayer books he’d known as a child. They stopped praying and lifted their heads. Malcolm realised that, despite his excellent knowledge of Latin; he had not taken in a word Turgot had said. He was too entranced with Margaret. He watched her when she opened her eyes and saw the last traces of her enchantment with God still sparkling in them. They tucked into their meals.

Agatha noticed his fascinated stare and said: ‘Are you not hungry, Sire?’

 ‘Hmmm?’ Nudged out of his reverie, he regained his composure and said: ‘Oh, I beg your pardon, Agatha. My thoughts were elsewhere.’ He gave her a charming smile. ‘Would you like some ale, my lady?’

 ‘Just a little if you please,’ she said primly, trying to hide her distaste for it. She’d noticed earlier that there was no wine on the table, but she was thirsty. She took a sip of the foaming ale and tried to hide her grimaced reaction to it.

 ‘I regret our supplies of wine are finished, and I did not know I’d be entertaining such illustrious company here,’ Malcolm said.

Margaret took a drink, too and said: ‘The ale is good, Highness.’ He cast a grateful look.

 ‘Yes, lovely’, Cristina agreed, not wanting to be left out of his favour. 

Malcolm turned his attention to the rest of the company. Margaret introduced him to Bartolf de Leslyn, son of Walter. ‘He has been most useful and resourceful to our family for years.’

Malcolm nodded at him. ‘I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.’

Margaret held out her hand to the person seated beside Bartolf. ‘You’ve met John de Berkeley earlier.’

 ‘Yes, the fellow who brought you here.’ Malcolm gave him a big smile.

 ‘Edwin, Earl of Mercia,’ she went on, introducing the men.

 ‘Welcome to our shores.’ He clapped his hands together in a jovial gesture.

A server stood beside him with a dish of chicken. Malcolm tore a piece of bread of the loaf in front of him and cleaned his bowl. He gestured for the man to give him some chicken. As he chewed, a piece of meat got stuck in his teeth. He took his knife to dislodge it.

Agatha winced and looked away.

The King talked with his mouth full and tore the chicken leg in two with his hands. A strip of it flew across the hall and landed on the floor. A marauding dog was quick to notice it and swiped it. Margaret watched her mother’s look of horror at his crude table manners and smiled to herself. Her mother was brought up in a court where people had fine manners.

A simple dish of apple pie followed the meat courses. Cristina talked to the King but noticed how his eyes always came to rest on Margaret, who, carefully avoiding his gaze, was aware of this.

 ‘You have such charming daughters, Agatha’, Malcolm said.

 ‘Yes, I thank the Lord daily,’ she replied. She tapped Edgar’s hand. ‘And I thank him for my wonderful son,’ she added. Margaret smiled. Kind, gentle Edgar was the apple of her mother’s eye. He resembled her late husband Edward, who had died not long after they’d arrived in England. His death had steeped her in great grief for months. Her eyes had lost their sparkle, fading to a lighter shade, as her joy of life had faded into discontentment. 

 ‘The ladies can sleep in my chamber and Edgar can sleep in the great hall with the men,’ Malcolm said in a booming voice.

 ‘That is very kind, Sire. But where will you sleep?’ Margaret asked.

He stared at her for a long moment. His eyes grew warm. He knew where he’d like to sleep, in her arms, but he disregarded this wild notion and gave a little grin. ‘Don’t worry about me, lass. I’ll be fine bedding down with the rest of the men.’ A little smile tugged at his mouth.

Margaret saw his expression and felt colour rise in her cheeks. She felt embarrassed that she’d stirred his feelings with such an innocent question.

The women laid themselves down on the simple beds, covered with furs and rough sheets and slept well after their ordeal. Edgar had nightmares about the skirmish, and he woke up almost everyone in the hall whenever he cried out.

In the morning the King enquired about them. ‘What the devil were you dreaming of lad? You were shouting and kicking in your sleep.’

Pasty-faced, Edgar frowned and shrugged, muttering: ‘It was horrible. All that blood.’

All was calm outside, and a watery sun rose in the sky. At breakfast time they gathered around the table and partook of steaming bowls of porridge, followed by bread and honey.

Malcolm ignored the spoon on the table and slurped some porridge from the bowl. Some of it got stuck on his moustache. He wiped it away with his sleeve.

 ‘I’ve had my men look at your ships, and unfortunately two of them are in a bad way with broken masts. I’ve instructed them to patch up yours as best as they can. The sail is torn but can be fixed. You will be able to travel the morrow to Scotland. Some of your entourage have opted to travel by land and the rest of you can sail.’

 ‘How far is Scotland from here?’ Agatha asked.

 ‘Not far. Sixty miles or so. You will be safe there,’ he reassured her. ‘The weather is fine and settled, so you’ll get there by nightfall. When you get ashore it’s not a stone’s throw from Dunfermline. Make yourselves welcome at my Tower.’ Directing his gaze at Margaret, he added: ‘I will return as soon as my work here is done.’ His eyes rested warmly upon her face.

 ‘We are most grateful for your kindness, Majesty,’ Margaret said. She felt a strange fluttering in her heart when she met his lingering gaze. But ever since she was a child, she’d vowed to dedicate her life to Christ and join a nunnery. This was still her plan, and nothing would stand in her way.