replied. “A mormaer is an earl, I believe?”
“It means ‘great steward’ in the Gaelic tongue. Something akin to a jarl or an earl.”
“What of this lady harper you mentioned?” Cristina asked. “Does she live near here?”
“She lives in the far north under the protection of her fierce kinswoman,” Angus said.
“How fine it would be to hear her play someday,” Margaret said. She had not been impressed by the histrionics of the court poet, who now took up his harp to begin a strident melody.
“I am curious to hear her music myself,” Malcolm said, mouth fullas he ate. He licked greasy fingers as he addressed Ranald mac Niall. “How long since we sent a note to Moray?”
“Three months,” Ranald replied. “You asked for an accounting of king’s portion on some properties there. The lady in the north has not replied.”
“That harridan had best send me what is owed,” Malcolm said. “And if I order the harper chit here in the spring, her grandmama had best send her, too.”
“The winter weather will soon worsen and prevent travel between here and there, sire,” Ranald said. “Once the snow fills the passes between the mountains, no parties can easily move into or out of Moray. Even if you were to send for the girl, sire, we would not see her before good weather returns.”
“I would be surprised if we see her at all,” Angus of Mar muttered. When Malcolm grunted agreement, Margaret noticed how pragmatic he seemed. It was a good quality in a king, she decided, even this rough-edged and provincial one.
“Who is the lady in the north?” she whispered to Robert De Lauder, beside her.
“King Macbeth’s widow, the former Queen Gruadh. Now she is regent for her grandson in Moray, a vast province in higher Scotland. She has never given the king her full loyalty, with good reason, and the Moray people are totally loyal to her.”
“They are all
my
subjects,” Malcolm groused.
“That region is so huge and remote that imposing the rule of the crown is futile,” De Lauder explained to the Saxons. “It requires too many men and far too much effort for any king to keep close watch over northern Scotland.”
“True enough,” Malcolm said, his mouth full as he ate. “Lady Gruadh does as she pleases, or thinks she can. Ladies, welcome to Scotland—where the women are as rebellious as the Highlanders.”
Throughout the rest of the meal, Margaret heard parts of the men’s conversation as they spoke of Normans, of raids and war, of hunting,even of books. Malcolm was adamant about protecting the Scottish borders from the Normans, and though he mentioned the Saxon resistance in the north, Margaret was not sure if he fully supported the effort or was merely interested in his own claims to Northumbrian land. He ticked off a list of his properties on long, thick fingers and complained that territories should be returned to him—but he did not show much concern for the plight of the Saxon people in the north.
He was a bear of a man, Margaret noted, who had changed little since she had seen him in her uncle’s English court. Years had passed since then, and Malcolm was now a tough, mature warrior. Even his plain, unadorned clothing belonged to a warrior more than a king: a red cloak, a brown tunic over trousered legs tied to the knee with thongs. His hair was in need of trimming, his loud voice carried easily, his manners were coarse, his opinions blunt and outspoken.
Yet he spoke English like a Saxon and could switch to rapid Gaelic, then murmur in adequate French to De Lauder. Margaret listened as those two spoke of monks at Durham writing entries in annals based on reports that came via travelers and visitors.
“And where is the book I ordered made for me?” he asked De Lauder. “
C’est finis?
”
“It is not yet completed, sire,” De Lauder said in French. “It will take time. You will recall that I rode to meet some monks in the south who could create a very fine book, and I
“It means ‘great steward’ in the Gaelic tongue. Something akin to a jarl or an earl.”
“What of this lady harper you mentioned?” Cristina asked. “Does she live near here?”
“She lives in the far north under the protection of her fierce kinswoman,” Angus said.
“How fine it would be to hear her play someday,” Margaret said. She had not been impressed by the histrionics of the court poet, who now took up his harp to begin a strident melody.
“I am curious to hear her music myself,” Malcolm said, mouth fullas he ate. He licked greasy fingers as he addressed Ranald mac Niall. “How long since we sent a note to Moray?”
“Three months,” Ranald replied. “You asked for an accounting of king’s portion on some properties there. The lady in the north has not replied.”
“That harridan had best send me what is owed,” Malcolm said. “And if I order the harper chit here in the spring, her grandmama had best send her, too.”
“The winter weather will soon worsen and prevent travel between here and there, sire,” Ranald said. “Once the snow fills the passes between the mountains, no parties can easily move into or out of Moray. Even if you were to send for the girl, sire, we would not see her before good weather returns.”
“I would be surprised if we see her at all,” Angus of Mar muttered. When Malcolm grunted agreement, Margaret noticed how pragmatic he seemed. It was a good quality in a king, she decided, even this rough-edged and provincial one.
“Who is the lady in the north?” she whispered to Robert De Lauder, beside her.
“King Macbeth’s widow, the former Queen Gruadh. Now she is regent for her grandson in Moray, a vast province in higher Scotland. She has never given the king her full loyalty, with good reason, and the Moray people are totally loyal to her.”
“They are all
my
subjects,” Malcolm groused.
“That region is so huge and remote that imposing the rule of the crown is futile,” De Lauder explained to the Saxons. “It requires too many men and far too much effort for any king to keep close watch over northern Scotland.”
“True enough,” Malcolm said, his mouth full as he ate. “Lady Gruadh does as she pleases, or thinks she can. Ladies, welcome to Scotland—where the women are as rebellious as the Highlanders.”
Throughout the rest of the meal, Margaret heard parts of the men’s conversation as they spoke of Normans, of raids and war, of hunting,even of books. Malcolm was adamant about protecting the Scottish borders from the Normans, and though he mentioned the Saxon resistance in the north, Margaret was not sure if he fully supported the effort or was merely interested in his own claims to Northumbrian land. He ticked off a list of his properties on long, thick fingers and complained that territories should be returned to him—but he did not show much concern for the plight of the Saxon people in the north.
He was a bear of a man, Margaret noted, who had changed little since she had seen him in her uncle’s English court. Years had passed since then, and Malcolm was now a tough, mature warrior. Even his plain, unadorned clothing belonged to a warrior more than a king: a red cloak, a brown tunic over trousered legs tied to the knee with thongs. His hair was in need of trimming, his loud voice carried easily, his manners were coarse, his opinions blunt and outspoken.
Yet he spoke English like a Saxon and could switch to rapid Gaelic, then murmur in adequate French to De Lauder. Margaret listened as those two spoke of monks at Durham writing entries in annals based on reports that came via travelers and visitors.
“And where is the book I ordered made for me?” he asked De Lauder. “
C’est finis?
”
“It is not yet completed, sire,” De Lauder said in French. “It will take time. You will recall that I rode to meet some monks in the south who could create a very fine book, and I
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