gave your commission to them. They agree that this book should not be produced in the usual scriptoriums where annals are made. By the very nature of its subject it requires discretion.”
“True,” Malcolm said, spearing some meat with his knife and chewing vigorously.
“You will be pleased with the result, I am sure, when it is done.”
“A book, sir?” Margaret asked De Lauder when the king turned to speak to Edgar. She felt encouraged by the warrior king’s interest in such matters. “I am very fond of books. May I ask if the king has ordered a new copy of the Gospels, or a psalter, or perhaps a copy of a treatise by one of the holy fathers?”
“None of those,” De Lauder said.
“A medical or herbal text, then? We had many beautiful books at our disposal in the library of my uncle, King Edward. Does the king collect many books?”
De Lauder gave her an odd look. “The king does not care overmuch for books. He is simply ordering a specific volume, a list of sorts, to be prepared for him by a monk in Lowland Scotland.”
“The book would not interest you much, Lady Margaret,” Malcolm said abruptly; she realized he had been listening. “No doubt you like pretty little books with precious covers and paintings. This one is a chronology of kings and their deeds. Nothing you would read.”
“But I quite like histories,” Margaret replied.
“Not this one. We have other books here if you want to read those. Ask Sir Robert to lend you the key to the cupboard where they are kept.” The king shifted his attention to Edgar and the others, joining their discussion. He listened intently to what they said and replied with calm authority, which the men welcomed. Margaret was reminded, suddenly, of a priest rather than a warrior-king. Oddly, it did not fit with what else she had seen of the Scottish monarch.
More food was served, but she was not very hungry. In other royal courts she had known, suppers consisted of multiple courses and elaborate dishes, but a Scottish feast was a simple array of fresh but plain foods—boiled mutton, vegetable stew, yellow cheeses. The wines were good, the ale frothy. No bread was offered, which Margaret found strange, although she was served crusty oatcakes, hot and good, such as she had enjoyed at Annot’s home. She also nibbled at some vegetables and sipped a red wine, tart but excellent, from a polished wooden cup.
“Do you like the wine, Lady Margaret?” De Lauder asked, beside her. “It is one of the king’s favorites, which he regularly imports from France.” He lifted his own cup in a half toast as he addressed Margaret and the other Saxons. “This one comes from Bordeaux, where my mother was born. There, the grapes are firm and sweet. A better wine than this cannot be had.”
“Indeed.” Lady Agatha pursed her lips as she spoke in French. “Does the king prefer all things French, wine and Normans and so on?”
“Not in all matters, lady,” he answered tersely. “But he appreciates good wines, and orders a variety of imports from France and the Low Countries as well.”
“All very good, but he does not seem to appreciate the state of his household or the properness of his manners,” the lady then said in German to her kinfolk.
“
Der König hat keine Königin
,” De Lauder said in easy German, so that Margaret lifted her brows, certain that he could, indeed, understand what they said. “Though the king has no queen, Dame Agnes manages the royal household here at Dunfermline, and does a fine job.”
Though grateful for the shelter and sanctuary offered her family, Margaret was anxious to leave the noisy hall as soon as the chance came. Throughout the meal, Malcolm had nearly ignored the royal Saxon women, which would have been a plain insult in England. But she suspected that her kinswomen were too tired to take offense.
Privately she felt relieved to escape the king’s attention. Soon she left the room with her kinswomen and went to her prayers
“True,” Malcolm said, spearing some meat with his knife and chewing vigorously.
“You will be pleased with the result, I am sure, when it is done.”
“A book, sir?” Margaret asked De Lauder when the king turned to speak to Edgar. She felt encouraged by the warrior king’s interest in such matters. “I am very fond of books. May I ask if the king has ordered a new copy of the Gospels, or a psalter, or perhaps a copy of a treatise by one of the holy fathers?”
“None of those,” De Lauder said.
“A medical or herbal text, then? We had many beautiful books at our disposal in the library of my uncle, King Edward. Does the king collect many books?”
De Lauder gave her an odd look. “The king does not care overmuch for books. He is simply ordering a specific volume, a list of sorts, to be prepared for him by a monk in Lowland Scotland.”
“The book would not interest you much, Lady Margaret,” Malcolm said abruptly; she realized he had been listening. “No doubt you like pretty little books with precious covers and paintings. This one is a chronology of kings and their deeds. Nothing you would read.”
“But I quite like histories,” Margaret replied.
“Not this one. We have other books here if you want to read those. Ask Sir Robert to lend you the key to the cupboard where they are kept.” The king shifted his attention to Edgar and the others, joining their discussion. He listened intently to what they said and replied with calm authority, which the men welcomed. Margaret was reminded, suddenly, of a priest rather than a warrior-king. Oddly, it did not fit with what else she had seen of the Scottish monarch.
More food was served, but she was not very hungry. In other royal courts she had known, suppers consisted of multiple courses and elaborate dishes, but a Scottish feast was a simple array of fresh but plain foods—boiled mutton, vegetable stew, yellow cheeses. The wines were good, the ale frothy. No bread was offered, which Margaret found strange, although she was served crusty oatcakes, hot and good, such as she had enjoyed at Annot’s home. She also nibbled at some vegetables and sipped a red wine, tart but excellent, from a polished wooden cup.
“Do you like the wine, Lady Margaret?” De Lauder asked, beside her. “It is one of the king’s favorites, which he regularly imports from France.” He lifted his own cup in a half toast as he addressed Margaret and the other Saxons. “This one comes from Bordeaux, where my mother was born. There, the grapes are firm and sweet. A better wine than this cannot be had.”
“Indeed.” Lady Agatha pursed her lips as she spoke in French. “Does the king prefer all things French, wine and Normans and so on?”
“Not in all matters, lady,” he answered tersely. “But he appreciates good wines, and orders a variety of imports from France and the Low Countries as well.”
“All very good, but he does not seem to appreciate the state of his household or the properness of his manners,” the lady then said in German to her kinfolk.
“
Der König hat keine Königin
,” De Lauder said in easy German, so that Margaret lifted her brows, certain that he could, indeed, understand what they said. “Though the king has no queen, Dame Agnes manages the royal household here at Dunfermline, and does a fine job.”
Though grateful for the shelter and sanctuary offered her family, Margaret was anxious to leave the noisy hall as soon as the chance came. Throughout the meal, Malcolm had nearly ignored the royal Saxon women, which would have been a plain insult in England. But she suspected that her kinswomen were too tired to take offense.
Privately she felt relieved to escape the king’s attention. Soon she left the room with her kinswomen and went to her prayers
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