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Rufus would never be. He was different from his father by all accounts. William I had had great dignity; he was a tall man and although towards the end of his life he had grown so corpulent that only the strongest horses could carry his weight he had always had the appearance of the great ruler he was. Rufus was short of stature, broad and fat; there was a red tinge in his hair and his complexion was ruddy. When he was angry he would stammer and become almost unintelligible, but in the company of his friends he was said to be witty and able to laugh at himself. As his vices were many and his greatest friends were among members of his own sex, his joking references to them made those about him accept them with more leniency than they would otherwise have done. Like his father his greatest passion was the hunt. At this time Rufus had fallen ill and when the news had reached Scotland, Malcolm Can-more decided that the moment had come for him to take revenge on his old enemy for all the slights Scotland had received at his hands.
Malcolm’s great ambition was to restore the Saxon line. If he could succeed, he would not only drive the Normans back to Normandy but set his own relations through marriage on the throne of England.
For this reason Malcolm had amassed an army and marched south; and it was while he was absent that his wife had become ill and that illness had so progressed that now she was on her deathbed.
* * * * *
Turgot came into the schoolroom, his expression grave, his pallor accentuated by his black priestly robes. He was their tutor as well as their mother’s confessor, but there would be no lessons today.
‘How fares my mother?’ asked Edith.
‘I fear, my child,’ he answered, ‘that you must be prepared for the worst.’
‘If only our father would cornel’ cried Edith in despair.
Turgot nodded. ‘Soon she will wish to see you to say goodbye. I have come to warn you to be ready.’
Mary began to cry.
‘Do not let her see your tears,’ went on Turgot. ‘She will wish you to be brave. Kneel with me now and pray for strength to face this ordeal so that she will know that all my teaching has not been in vain.’
There in the schoolroom they knelt.
Turgot wondered whether the girls realized the tragedy which was facing them. They lived in a violent age from which during their short lifetimes they had been miraculously sheltered. He had advised peace; he had been against Malcolm’s marching across the Border. These Normans had come to stay. That seemed certain. And, although William Rufus might not be the man his father was, he was a wily general and the Normans were great fighters. Battle was in their blood. It had come from their marauding Norse ancestors who had roamed the seas in their long ships looking for lands to plunder.
Malcolm should have stayed at home. Turgot had not swerved from his conviction even though the news was good and Malcolm had laid siege to Alnwick castle and it seemed that the besieged could not hold out much longer. But if he took the castle that was but a begi
Turgot was deeply involved with the family; he had been a part of it for so long. Of a noble Lincolnshire Saxon family he had become aware of the power of the Conqueror when, during one of the latter’s punitive expeditions, he had been taken prisoner and held hostage. There had followed a time of privation in the dungeons of Lincoln castle, from which, with the help of sympathizers, he had escaped and, reaching the coast, taken ship to Norway. When the ship was driven back to the coast by the treacherous winds, he had landed in the north and because the north was then in revolt against the Conqueror and he was a man of some learning had found hospitality in Durham Abbey and there became a priest and eventually its prior. Having heard his story Queen Margaret had been interested and had sent for him. Their regard for each other had been instantaneous. She made him her confessor and the preceptor of her children and ever since the welfare of the royal family of Scotland had been his chief concern.
The death of the Queen would be as great a sorrow to him as to her family and he knew that before she died she would want him to swear on oath to continue to care for them after her death as he had during her lifetime.
As they now knelt in prayer there was a shout from below and the clatter of horses’ hoofs could be heard.
Mary forgot she was supposed to be at prayer. ‘It is a messenger.’ she cried, and rushed to the window. The others were not long in following her.
‘It is our brother Edgar.’ said Mary.
‘He must have come from the battle.’ added Edith.
‘How sad he looks!’ went on Mary. ‘Oh I know something fearful has happened.’
They followed him down the stone stairway to the hall and there was Edgar, weary, mud-stained, his eyes wild, and a look of such misery on his face as the girls have never seen before.
‘My son.’ said Turgot, ‘you have ill news?’
Edgar answered: ‘The worst. I must see the Queen.’
‘The Queen is grievously sick.’
‘It ca
‘Tis so, alas. Tell me your news and I will impart it to her if she must know it.’
Edgar shook his head and it seemed as though the words would not come.
Turgot prompted him gently. ‘Your father was besieging the castle of Alnwick and had reduced the inhabitants to starvation. They were on the point of surrender.’
‘Yes.’ replied Edgar slowly, ‘they did surrender. They surrendered on condition that they should deliver the keys of the city to none but my father.’
‘Yes, yes, my son.’
‘So...he went in person to receive them, and a knight brought them to him on the point of a lance. The knight knelt and as my father stooped to take them, this...this...treacherous dog forced the point of his lance through my father’s vizor and pierced his eye.’
‘God in Heaven!’ cried Turgot. ‘And the King?’
‘He died mercifully soon. He was in great agony.’
Turgot folded his hands and his lips moved in prayer.
The King dead, he was thinking, the Queen dying. What will become of these children?
* * * * *
They stood about her bed. How different she looked from the beautiful young girl who had come ashore at Queen’s Ferry and captivated the King.
Her eyes, enormous in her pale wasted face, sought the children ranged about her bed—Edgar, the two girls and the little ones. She saw with relief that Turgot was there also.
‘You would keep something from me.’ she said. ‘I know it. There is ill news. ‘What of my husband and eldest son?’
Turgot nodded to Edgar.
‘Mother, there is sad news.’
‘My husband...my son Edward...?’
‘They are dead. Edward was killed in battle. Our father at the siege of Alnwick.’
‘Oh, God help you all.’
She looked at Turgot. ‘Come close, my friend.’
He approached the bed. ‘You will continue to care for these children.’
‘I will, with God’s blessing.’
‘They are young yet, Turgot. Too young to lose both father and mother. Swear to me, Turgot. Swear to me on the Black Cross.’
The girls looked on in awe as the beautiful cross was taken from the black case which gave it its name. It was made of gold and enormous diamonds adorned it. On the gold the figure of Christ was engraved in ivory. It had been talked of often but always kept in a secure place and it was because the Queen was dying that it had been taken from that place that she might hold it in her hands during her last moments on earth. It was symbolic, that cross. It had belonged to the Saxon royal family for generations and must never pass into the hands of any other. While it was in the possession of the Athelings they believed themselves to be the true sovereigns of England no matter if William the Conqueror had snatched their lands from them.