occupiers at least, by the fact that he brought home with him, of all people, Cospatrick mac Maldred, lately Earl of Northumbria, cousin, former ally, recent foe and now apparently colleague again. At least the Earl did not act the prisoner in any way, cheerful, noisy, brash even. A handsome man of about thirty, in a raffish way, high-coloured, well-built, with an ever-ready laugh, he was the son of the former King Duncan's second brother, where Maldred was son of the third, Malcolm himself being Duncan's own son, although illegitimate. It seemed that, hunted across Northumbria from Cumbria by his cousin, after the Norman had retired southwards, and going to ground in his fortress of Bamburgh, he had fairly quickly wearied of siege restrictions — for he was a man of impatience and constant change — and perhaps concerned at the havoc being wrought in his former earldom by Malcolm, he had made a deal with his besieging cousin, to yield his fortress and all rights he had in Northumbria, for 4500 merks — how they had arrived at the figure was not explained. This to include his own freedom. So here he was, seemingly uncaring and prepared to be on the best of terms with everyone, including Edgar Atheling whom he had so recently abandoned.
Needless to say, he got scant response from that quarter.
While the King made no effusive greetings or courteous attentions towards his neglected guests, he had at least thought to bring Margaret a gift, a handsome gold and jewelled crucifix, no doubt looted from some Northumbrian church. He thrust it at her, as soon as he saw her — and it was obvious that there was nothing brought for the others.
"A trinket — since you like such things," he jerked.
She took it, after only a moment's hesitation. "I thank you, Sire. It is very fine. Too fine for me. This should be in some house of God. Not in a poor woman's hands."
"Better so," he said. "Too good for snivelling priests!" And he glowered over at the Benedictine Oswald.
"Then we shall find good use for it, my lord King."
Cospatrick was eyeing her appreciatively, assessingly. "For one so fair, I would have brought gifts, myself, if I had known," he declared gallantly.
"And had them less gratefully accepted, my lord Earl!" she gave back, coolly.
The faint hint of a smile flickered over Malcolm's stern features. "Beggars make poor givers!" he said tersely.
"What news of William, Sire?" Edgar asked, turning shoulder pointedly on Cospatrick. "Where is he now? And in what state?"
"He returned to York. Without battle. Because of risings in Mercia and the Welsh Marches. Passed Yule at York."
"Risings? God be praised!"
"Is it God to be praised? Or myself who sent emissaries to rouse the risers?"
"These had scarcely the time, I think. . ."
Scowling, Malcolm turned to Maldred. "You, boy — come." He beckoned him aside. "What of Ingebiorg? And where are my sons?" he demanded, but lower-voiced.
"The Queen is at Kincardine, as you commanded, Highness. The princes with her . . ."
"A curse on you! I did not say to take them also, fool!"
"But the Queen did — and she is the Queen. You sent no word as to them, that reached me. She said . . . that they needed a mother's love."
He chewed one of his cruel down-turning moustaches. "They must be brought back. She, she went readily?"
"Very readily, my lord King!"
Malcolm glared at his young kinsman. "She is better away. An ill-minded woman. I should have sent her away long since. How is it at Kincardine?"
"Well enough. When I left, before Yule. The Mormaor Colin aids her."
"Aye, he would. He was never my friend. One of MacBeth's men." He shrugged. "This other—the Atheling? How is it with her?"
"The Princess Margaret? She is well, as you can see."
"Tcha! How did she take Ingebiorg's going?"
"I did not ask her. Nor did the Queen seek the Athelings' sympathies."
Those pale eyes glinted at him. Then the King turned back to the others. "You!" He pointed at Edgar. "What is it to be? What do
Needless to say, he got scant response from that quarter.
While the King made no effusive greetings or courteous attentions towards his neglected guests, he had at least thought to bring Margaret a gift, a handsome gold and jewelled crucifix, no doubt looted from some Northumbrian church. He thrust it at her, as soon as he saw her — and it was obvious that there was nothing brought for the others.
"A trinket — since you like such things," he jerked.
She took it, after only a moment's hesitation. "I thank you, Sire. It is very fine. Too fine for me. This should be in some house of God. Not in a poor woman's hands."
"Better so," he said. "Too good for snivelling priests!" And he glowered over at the Benedictine Oswald.
"Then we shall find good use for it, my lord King."
Cospatrick was eyeing her appreciatively, assessingly. "For one so fair, I would have brought gifts, myself, if I had known," he declared gallantly.
"And had them less gratefully accepted, my lord Earl!" she gave back, coolly.
The faint hint of a smile flickered over Malcolm's stern features. "Beggars make poor givers!" he said tersely.
"What news of William, Sire?" Edgar asked, turning shoulder pointedly on Cospatrick. "Where is he now? And in what state?"
"He returned to York. Without battle. Because of risings in Mercia and the Welsh Marches. Passed Yule at York."
"Risings? God be praised!"
"Is it God to be praised? Or myself who sent emissaries to rouse the risers?"
"These had scarcely the time, I think. . ."
Scowling, Malcolm turned to Maldred. "You, boy — come." He beckoned him aside. "What of Ingebiorg? And where are my sons?" he demanded, but lower-voiced.
"The Queen is at Kincardine, as you commanded, Highness. The princes with her . . ."
"A curse on you! I did not say to take them also, fool!"
"But the Queen did — and she is the Queen. You sent no word as to them, that reached me. She said . . . that they needed a mother's love."
He chewed one of his cruel down-turning moustaches. "They must be brought back. She, she went readily?"
"Very readily, my lord King!"
Malcolm glared at his young kinsman. "She is better away. An ill-minded woman. I should have sent her away long since. How is it at Kincardine?"
"Well enough. When I left, before Yule. The Mormaor Colin aids her."
"Aye, he would. He was never my friend. One of MacBeth's men." He shrugged. "This other—the Atheling? How is it with her?"
"The Princess Margaret? She is well, as you can see."
"Tcha! How did she take Ingebiorg's going?"
"I did not ask her. Nor did the Queen seek the Athelings' sympathies."
Those pale eyes glinted at him. Then the King turned back to the others. "You!" He pointed at Edgar. "What is it to be? What do
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