the feathers that lift the wings?”
“Prayers in accordance with the true Church will get there faster,” she countered.
“Gaelic rolls smooth off the tongue like the kiss of the wind,” he said. “Perhaps God enjoys hearing that instead of martial Latin all the while.”
Intrigued, not expecting a poetic thought from him, she tilted her head. “
Loquerisne Latine?
” Did he speak Latin? She was curious to know.
“
Non modo Latine, sed Anglice, Gallice et alias
,” he answered. Not only Latin, but English, French, Gaelic and others. “Norse, too,” he said. “Are you surprised?”
“You were raised as a prince, so a command of languages is expected,” she said coolly.
He huffed. “Even from the savage King of Scots?”
She did not falter. “Scotland is a worthy place. I rather like it.”
“Yet many Saxons think us all ignorant rascals. My lady, you are safe here, whether or not you believe it. But heed some advice, if you will.”
“Sire.” She waited, hands folded. Heart pounding, too, for he was formidable to face when he was angered, as he seemed to be now.
“Let your brother decide for himself what to do. He will be a better man for it.”
“I am only concerned for the welfare of all my family,” she said, flustered.
“He wants your happiness, yet he must defend his rights in England. He is young and earnest, without father or mentor but for a few exiled Saxon lords who have their own grudges. I would keep one or two of those and toss the rest,” he muttered. “A goal of rebellion must be shared by all, or it will not succeed.”
She had not expected sympathy, and it reassured her. “So you are sincere in your desire to help my brother?”
“God knows the lad needs help. It is a wonder he does not embroider, as flummoxed as he is by womenfolk.”
Her cheeks burned to be so chastised. “So you truly think this rebellion has merit?”
“The Saxons could gain back some of their losses, but your Edgar is no match for King William. That one is for me to take on. Good day, lady.” Heel grinding gravel, he walked away.
Margaret fisted her hands, watching his back. Right or not, the Scottish king had been rude again, with a brusqueness that seemed part of his nature. But she had been impulsive and outspoken herself. What if the king decided that he need not support the ungrateful Saxons after all? He could throw them out of Scotland entirely. If her family was banished again with nowhere to go, and if the Saxon campaign failed due to loss of Scottish support, the fault would be her own.
Picking up her skirts, admonishing herself for speaking her mind, she entered the cool, dim church. An hour of prayer and meditation would soothe her agitation, but would not erase the blunder she had made.
“ INCIPIT EVANGELIUM SECUNDUM IOHANNES,”
Margaret read from a page in her Gospel book that began the words of St. John. “
In principio erat Verbum et Verbum erta apud Deum …
”
“In the beginning was the Word,” Cristina repeated, drawing threads through linen as she listened. “Go on.
Hoc erat in principio …
”
Margaret continued, the afternoon sunlight glinting on the gold-inked letters of the opening phrases. The illustration showed an evangelist with red-gold hair and beard, seated in a grand chair; his blue and green robes draped in folds as he raised one knee, with one foot placed on a stool. Holding a feathered quill in his right hand, he paused in thought, a book propped open on his knee. Overhead a golden arch hung with curtains formed an elegant inner frame for the picture.
The little Gospel book was her most treasured and favorite volume, a collection of evangelical excerpts presented to her by England’s Queen Edith on the day Margaret had turned twelve. Her own mother did not acknowledge the anniversary of her September birth, beyond admonishing her to pray to her name saint, Margaret of Antioch, and to Queen Helena, whose feast day it was.
Small and portable,
“Prayers in accordance with the true Church will get there faster,” she countered.
“Gaelic rolls smooth off the tongue like the kiss of the wind,” he said. “Perhaps God enjoys hearing that instead of martial Latin all the while.”
Intrigued, not expecting a poetic thought from him, she tilted her head. “
Loquerisne Latine?
” Did he speak Latin? She was curious to know.
“
Non modo Latine, sed Anglice, Gallice et alias
,” he answered. Not only Latin, but English, French, Gaelic and others. “Norse, too,” he said. “Are you surprised?”
“You were raised as a prince, so a command of languages is expected,” she said coolly.
He huffed. “Even from the savage King of Scots?”
She did not falter. “Scotland is a worthy place. I rather like it.”
“Yet many Saxons think us all ignorant rascals. My lady, you are safe here, whether or not you believe it. But heed some advice, if you will.”
“Sire.” She waited, hands folded. Heart pounding, too, for he was formidable to face when he was angered, as he seemed to be now.
“Let your brother decide for himself what to do. He will be a better man for it.”
“I am only concerned for the welfare of all my family,” she said, flustered.
“He wants your happiness, yet he must defend his rights in England. He is young and earnest, without father or mentor but for a few exiled Saxon lords who have their own grudges. I would keep one or two of those and toss the rest,” he muttered. “A goal of rebellion must be shared by all, or it will not succeed.”
She had not expected sympathy, and it reassured her. “So you are sincere in your desire to help my brother?”
“God knows the lad needs help. It is a wonder he does not embroider, as flummoxed as he is by womenfolk.”
Her cheeks burned to be so chastised. “So you truly think this rebellion has merit?”
“The Saxons could gain back some of their losses, but your Edgar is no match for King William. That one is for me to take on. Good day, lady.” Heel grinding gravel, he walked away.
Margaret fisted her hands, watching his back. Right or not, the Scottish king had been rude again, with a brusqueness that seemed part of his nature. But she had been impulsive and outspoken herself. What if the king decided that he need not support the ungrateful Saxons after all? He could throw them out of Scotland entirely. If her family was banished again with nowhere to go, and if the Saxon campaign failed due to loss of Scottish support, the fault would be her own.
Picking up her skirts, admonishing herself for speaking her mind, she entered the cool, dim church. An hour of prayer and meditation would soothe her agitation, but would not erase the blunder she had made.
“ INCIPIT EVANGELIUM SECUNDUM IOHANNES,”
Margaret read from a page in her Gospel book that began the words of St. John. “
In principio erat Verbum et Verbum erta apud Deum …
”
“In the beginning was the Word,” Cristina repeated, drawing threads through linen as she listened. “Go on.
Hoc erat in principio …
”
Margaret continued, the afternoon sunlight glinting on the gold-inked letters of the opening phrases. The illustration showed an evangelist with red-gold hair and beard, seated in a grand chair; his blue and green robes draped in folds as he raised one knee, with one foot placed on a stool. Holding a feathered quill in his right hand, he paused in thought, a book propped open on his knee. Overhead a golden arch hung with curtains formed an elegant inner frame for the picture.
The little Gospel book was her most treasured and favorite volume, a collection of evangelical excerpts presented to her by England’s Queen Edith on the day Margaret had turned twelve. Her own mother did not acknowledge the anniversary of her September birth, beyond admonishing her to pray to her name saint, Margaret of Antioch, and to Queen Helena, whose feast day it was.
Small and portable,
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