Two days later, Margaret was dead.
Mary was numb, shocked, exhausted. She realized that she still knelt beside her mother’s body, holding her stiff hands. How long had she been kneeling in such a manner? She forced her body to obey her mind, and she managed to rise awkwardly and painfully to her feet.
The sound of anguished wailing, a sound that had begun some time ago, reverberated within the chamber. It was the way of the Scottish people to grieve loudly and openly and without restraint. Mary listened to Margaret’s women, just outside the door, keening hysterically, she listened to the men and women in the hall below, also wailing and weeping, and to those gathered outside in the bailey. The rending communal wailing wafted over her again and again, until the pain of it finally began to pierce through some of Mary’s shock.
She felt a huge bubble gathering itself inside her breast, welling and welling, robbing her of air. She choked on it.
Dead. Mary choked aloud.Dead.God, the word was so final. She looked at Margaret, as serene in death as she had been in life.Dead!It did not seem possible.Not Margaret, not Mother!
Mary wanted to keen, too, she wanted to scream and wail and rip her hair, as the women in the hall outside were doing. But she did not. She must hold her grief at bay just a little longer. She had her brothers to think about now. They would need her to see them through this terrible time of loss.
Mary suddenly gasped. “Mother, I love you so much!” It did not seem possible. Margaret was dead! Margaret, her dear mother, was dead, Malcolm was dead, and Edward was dead! It was unfair! She could not bear it, she could not!
She turned blindly in a circle, needing comfort when none was to be found. She finally pressed her cheek to the rough stone wall, clutching it, embracing it. And she began to weep.
She wept and wept, then she beat the walls until her hands were bloody, screaming her grief. She hated him then, for his part in their deaths—in their murders. She hated her husband. They were all dead, Malcolm, Margaret, Edward, and it was forever—she would never see them again.
Finally she could cry no more. Mary found herself prostrate on the floor. God, she was so tired! She could barely sit up. She could not continue like this, she could not, not when she was so exhausted, she doubted she could even walk.
But then her mind told her to think. Her mind told her to think of the danger that lurked without Edinburgh, a danger threatening not just her, but her brothers, even Scotland. Mary wiped away the last traces of her tears. She had no time for tears. Too much was at stake. Lives were at stake; a kingdom was at stake.
Malcolm was dead. Scotland was a kingdom without a King. The seat of the kingdom was Edinburgh, and soon the strongest clans in the land would be descending upon it, hoping to seize power for themselves. Even now, a dozen great chiefs must be closing in upon Edinburgh in a mad race for the crown.
Her brothers all had legitimate claims to the throne. Edmund she did not care about—he could take care of himself, as he undoubtedly was doing—and Ethelred was safe, being a man of God. But she owned the responsibility for guarding her three other brothers; each and every one of whom posed a real threat to Scotland’s next King. It did not occur to Mary that, as Edgar was older than herself, the responsibility was his.
Mary forced herself to her feet. She moved like a very old woman.
She paused. She realized that the sounds invading the chamber had changed. Her heart lurched with instinctive dread as she strained to comprehend what she was hearing. She thought she could hear distant thunder, but the sky outside was a clear and cloudless blue. Mary gasped.
What she was hearing through the loud wailing of the castle was not distant thunder but the rumbling reverberations of a huge invading army. Dear God, not so soon! Would there not ever be any respite?
And then Edgar burst into the room. Mary listened in white-faced shock as he told her that Donald Bane had been named tanist, and that Edmund had betrayed them and joined forces with their uncle to usurp the throne. Meanwhile, outside, the thunder grew steadily louder.
For one moment Mary and Edgar stared at each other. Mary knew no relief; Edmund would be as ruthless as any stranger in these circumstances—or more so.
Mary straightened. “Gather up the boys! Do it now! Bring a cart round for—” She looked at Margaret. Her hard-won control slipped and she choked. “For the Queen. We will bury her at the Abbey at Dunfermline, where we can seek sanctuary. Hurry!”
Edgar turned on his heel and left. Mary could not stop shaking, not now, and she gripped the prie-dieu to keep herself from collapsing. Grief, fear, and utter exhaustion overwhelmed her, immobilized her.
It took a great effort, but Mary went to her mother and covered her. Edgar burst back through the door. He gave her one long look, then rushed forward to Margaret. Effortlessly he lifted their mother into his arms.
Mary pushed herself to keep pace with him. “How could Edmund abandon us?”
“He’s not a part of this family anymore,” Edgar spat as they raced downstairs and outside into the bailey, where the sunlight was so strong, it was briefly blinding. Her brothers were already mounted, all of them except, of course, the traitor Edmund. The next to youngest, Alexander, was trying to comfort little Davie, who was crying. Edgar laid their mother in the horse-drawn cart.
It was then that Mary realized that the bailey had become eerily silent. All of the crazed wailing had ceased, as had every other possible sound. The silence was unnatural, terrifying. Mary knew that she was listening for something, but she did not know what. And then it struck her—the ominous drumming beat of the invading army had ceased.
Mary cried out as Edgar boosted her onto a mount and leapt onto his own steed. The army had halted—to position itself for an attack! “’Tis Donald Bane, is it not?”
Edgar rode up to her. “No.”
Mary froze. “Then … who?”
The glance he shot her was long and dark. And Mary knew. She felt it all then, love, hate, fear, and dread. “Wo.”
“’Tis Northumberland’s bastard,” Edgar spat. “The bastard’s led his army right to Edinburgh. Is he coming to claim the throne for himself?”
Mary was faint “No,” she whispered. “He’s coming to claim me.”
