June 1068, Dunfermline, Scotia
After crossing to Inverkeithing, they rode another half day beneath a fickle sun to the gates of King Malcolm’s fortress, a large timbered wall surrounding the peninsular outcropping of rock. From atop this crag, Alaric saw the steep ravine, the village Dunfermline nestled below. He wondered why William had sent them by land when they could have come by sea to the port called Edinburgh nearby. Scanning the broad view of the surrounding land he knew that scouts would have spotted their party and recognized their banners. Malcolm himself would already know this was a royal envoy and that they’d captured Edgar Atheling.
To the guard’s challenge, Alaric, gesturing toward his entourage, introduced the bishops and Count Alain le Roux of Brittany as envoys from King William. Alaric did not mention Edgar.
“And you are?”
“Alaric of Ewyas, lord of Staffordshire.”
“Black Wolf howls at our gates!” someone within yelled. Several people ran to the ramparts to look him over.
Roderick, mounted beside Alaric, snorted.
The gate opened. Alaric dismounted and led his horse into the walled fortress. His retinue followed. The bailiff, an elderly man with a toothy grimace hobbled toward him.
“I will see to your comforts. We have prepared quarters for your stay. King Malcolm invites you to the Toun when you have settled.” He motioned to the grooms who approached to take Alaric’s horse.
Alaric handed his reins to his own squire.
“As you wish,” the bailiff said, his lips twisting into a bitter scowl.
Le Roux and his men helped the bishops alight from their carriage and, with grand ceremony, followed the bailiff who took them to their quarters. Alaric stopped le Roux’s captain, who had led the vanguard.
“Well done, Jagu,” Alaric said. “It’s an honor to have a good man.”
“At King William’s command, I owe you obedience during this journey, Stafford. Your tribute will not win my allegiance,” he said. “That belongs to Count Alain.”
“As it should,” Alaric said. “Join your liege, and remember we all serve William.”
Roderick joined him, and Alaric shrugged away Roderick’s unspoken question.
Turning to see Edgar, Alaric recognized the boy he himself might once have been: young, impulsive, eager to forge his future, landless, impotent. Cruel fate had teased the prince. His kingdom had blown into his hair, fluttered his elegant cloak, and vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving only a trace rippling across the grassy vale of his life.
Edgar stopped before Alaric. Despite a humiliating defeat and capture, he held Alaric’s gaze—proud and direct.
Alaric took a packet from his inner cloak and handed it to him. “From William.”
“What is it?” Edgar asked. “A bribe? My . . . kingdom?” The boy’s eyes sparked with fury.
Alaric saw Edgar flush, embarrassed at his outburst. “Choose wisely, Edgar of Wessex.”
The boy turned away and crossed the courtyard.
“He or his men will try to kill you,” Roderick said.
“Perhaps.”
“One of Malcolm’s grooms is telling tales about you. Seems you killed a hundred men with one slash of your sword and changed into a black wolf the size of your horse.”
Alaric glanced around the courtyard at the people watching them. One man’s hard stare caught his attention: an old mucker with shorn hair unlike the Scots.
“Rotate the men to guard our horses.”
“How long will we be here?” Roderick said. “I want to find me a willing woman, or two, and see if they brew a decent ale.”
“We’ll have a few weeks, enough time to do both,” Alaric said with a grin. “William wants us back by Lammas Day. Tell the men to be cautious with their boasts. Malcolm spent his exile years in Edward’s court. He and his men might be as fluent in Saxon and French as we are. Have Gawain and his brothers mingle. They know the Gaelic tongue better than we do.”
After they removed their mail and travel gear, Alaric followed le Roux to the stone tower, and, as customary, all relinquished their swords before entering.
Dunfermline’s hall was crowded, hot and steamy, and the smoky room smelled of sweating men, spilt ale, and burnt hair. The Scots milling or sitting around the shadowy room were all large and loud, as large, Alaric thought, as Roderick, a giant among men. They had long shaggy hair and beards, and wore woolen blankets wrapped about their bodies toggled with broad belts. Their strange words began to cease as Alaric and le Roux walked toward Malcolm, obvious strangers in their tunics, leggings, and mantles, with their clean-shaven faces and short hair giving them the look of tonsured priests.
Edgar Atheling stood near a wall in conversation with someone whose profile seemed vaguely familiar to Alaric. One of the bishops nearly pushed Alaric into le Roux in his haste to join the other bishop and the king’s priests, all arguing among themselves.
When the crowd parted, Alaric saw Malcolm. A large, robust man, mid-thirties like William, more grizzled and broader. He had a full head of thick red hair streaked in yellow and a long, dark-red beard. His hair was pulled back, revealing a high forehead, creases between pale, keen eyes, now turned to watch them approach.
As they neared the king, someone in the back began to sing a Gaelic tune, the jumbled words garbled and unintelligible except for a single word: Blackwolf. Malcolm’s cheek twitched as if he passed gas, and his fingers ran down the length of his beard. He turned his intense gaze on Alain le Roux, who took the lead as Alaric stood back.
“Lord King,” le Roux began in French.
Immediately the bishops and priest began translating into various languages. From the first greetings and customary platitudes, Alaric realized William had chosen a worthy envoy. Le Roux’s family were kin of King Philip, Malcolm’s ally. Francia and Brittany had together shared a mutual regard for Scotia—against Normandie.
Malcolm gave le Roux many compliments, stating that Brittany’s alliance with Scotia was a much-valued result of long friendships and mutual support. Surprisingly, le Roux, a blunt, insipid brute in Alaric’s opinion, seemed little swayed by flattery and demonstrated a surprising alacrity until he got to the core of their mission.
Malcolm raised his eyebrows. “I’ve been summoned to York by your presumptuous king?”
“Invited, Sire,” le Roux said. “William, our consecrated, blessed, and anointed king, invites you to York, so you and he may join hands in mutual grace and sanctity to demonstrate the peace between two great and wise kings. We would be honored to escort you.”
“Think I don’t know the way?” Malcolm smirked. Everyone in the hall laughed.
“We will see to your safety.”
Several of Malcolm’s men roared in Gaelic or banged on the boards. Some stood abruptly, stepped forward aggressively as if issuing challenges. Alaric cringed inwardly. Le Roux had just insulted Malcolm’s prowess and ability to keep himself safe. Malcolm, long a friend to the English, especially now after sheltering Edgar Atheling, had more guarantee of safe passage throughout all of Englelond than William or any Norman could provide. Besides, he knew his uncle’s court in York well.
With a wave of his arm, Malcolm quieted the hall. “What are the terms?” he asked.
“The usual,” le Roux said. “William gives you hostages. Blackwolf and fifty of William’s finest knights.”
What? Alaric thought but said nothing despite le Roux’s shocking statement. Kings usually chose hostages from among their unimportant relatives, those whose death mattered little. By custom, Alaric and his men would be executed if any harm came to Malcolm or anyone under his protection—including Edgar. Ripe with lethal possibilities, this situation gave le Roux the advantage of killing both Edgar and Alaric with one arrow—if he had the balls.
Malcolm studied Alaric.
“Are you disposed to become Edgar’s hostage, Blackwolf?” Malcolm asked, testing Alaric’s willingness to be placed in the hands of the English prince he had recently bested.
“I and Count Alain,” Alaric said without pause, “serve King William in all things.” Reaching into his mantle, he pulled out a packet, stepped forward and handed it to Malcolm’s page. “William would give you this, and his most valued subject to signify his good faith.” He stepped back. “I am honored to assist Count Alain. My king intends you no harm.”
“Excellent,” Malcolm said, fingering the packet bearing an elaborate seal. “You shall remain at liberty until we leave.”
Le Roux turned slowly to Alaric, his eyes blinking, confused perhaps by Alaric’s acquiescence and a royal packet he knew nothing about.
Alaric glanced at Edgar Atheling and again caught a glimpse of the familiar man stepping back into the shadows. A commotion arose suddenly in the back of the hall. The crowd hushed and gave way as two women walked slowly toward Malcolm.
The first—tall, bony, richly dressed—sailed through the smoky room, creating a chilling draft in her wake. She slowed as she neared Alaric. Her brilliant blue eyes pierced him with hatred. Surprised, Alaric frowned and saw the lingering appearance of a splendid beauty: an erect posture, a firm chin, clear though lined skin, and still full lips. Without a word, she moved to the dais, and a young woman, a silent beauty, followed as she joined Malcolm and Edgar, now standing beside the king.
“Greetings Agatha of Wessex,” Malcolm said. “And to you, dear Lady.” He smiled at the young woman.
“I won’t have him in my presence,” Agatha said to Malcolm. “My son is the rightful English king, chosen by the Witan. That . . . ,” she gestured at Alaric, “inferior challenged him to single combat. A capital offense in Scotia, is it not? Arrest him immediately!”
The bishops gasped and looked nervously between Alaric and Malcolm.
Alaric watched the frown between Malcolm’s eyes deepen as his gaze swept over the young woman whose head remained lowered in the pious stance of the cloister. The demand, Alaric knew, created a dilemma. Malcolm could not arrest William’s envoy without exacerbating tensions between the neighboring kingdoms, nor could he ignore Agatha’s demand.
Before Malcolm answered, Alaric said, “A Rìgh.”
Malcolm’s eyes narrowed in speculation at Alaric’s Gaelic. He nodded and Alaric continued in Gaelic, requesting permission to leave the hall.
Malcolm’s fingers drummed over the sealed packet. “Why did you spare Edgar?” he asked in Gaelic.
Alaric hesitated, unsure he would say the proverb correctly. “Bithidh na geòidh as t-fhoghar.” The geese return at autumn: we will know all in good time.
Malcolm smiled and dismissed Alaric. As Alaric began to depart, he called out, “Blackwolf.”
Alaric looked up at the king.
“On behalf of all those present,” Malcolm said in Gaelic, “I wish to convey our thanks for . . . escorting Edgar back to our humble home. We have learned that you swore to keep him safe and did so despite the wishes of certain noblemen who want to give his severed head to William.” Malcolm stroked his beard. “It will be our pleasure to give you safe passage to York.” Malcolm raised a single eyebrow slowly.
Le Roux frowned, as the bishops translated Malcolm’s words. Alaric bowed and turned to leave. A smile played on his lips as he passed Roderick, who followed him. In the courtyard, Alaric bent over and laughed, staggering across the bailey.
Roderick, trudging through the mud with him, shook his head, perplexed. “There is nothing funny in being held hostage!”
Alaric struggled to control his relief and looked at his captain. He burst out laughing again and walked on. “Malcolm will not hold us hostage. We’re going to York.”
“What? How do you know?” Roderick asked, tying on his sword.
“Practice your Gaelic, Roddy. Malcolm just said so.” Alaric slapped Roderick on his back. “If God wills it, and if Rufus becomes insufferable, Malcolm just might hold him hostage instead.”
“Praise God’s will!” Roderick said. “Then what?”
Alaric sobered. He shook his head, recalling William’s words to him.
You have been on the march with me, and on my behalf, for more than a year, far beyond the normal knight’s service. Occasioned by serving me directly, of course. I need you yet, Alaric. But after making a pact with Malcolm, if all is calm, you may return to Tutbury. Matilda would have you bring your wife to us at Christmastide.
As he and Roderick walked toward the cookhouse, Alaric felt what he had not felt for a long time: loss. He’d fought for William to secure the birthplace he had once called home. But without his family, he had no home. For an instant, he thought of Marguerite, and the thought fell flat and hollow like a heavy leather boot on a dusty road.
He tried to recall the vague, indistinct image of Genevieve de Fontenay. He could not. Eustace’s niece was the blood price delivered by the man who had probably watched his family die in their pyre.
Alaric swirled suddenly in his tracks, gazing intensely about the courtyard.
“What?” Roderick asked, reaching for his sword.
“Dubec!” Alaric said. “Brian Dubec, Eustace’s man. He’s here. I saw the son of a hairless mother’s whelp talking with Edgar Atheling. He does nothing without Eustace’s orders. We have to find him.”