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September 1290. Orkney, Kingdom of Norway.
The child that arrived in Orkney was small, blonde and bereft by motion sickness. She was surrounded by Norwegian ladies, who dragged her stringy hair away from her sickly-looking face. Her skin had a green tinge to it, her fine pink dress soiled with the remnants of her last meal and she held tightly to the hand of one of her ladies, as if she'd soon fall if she let go. She was tiny, in a way that reminded him of newborn puppies, but her blue eyes were fierce as they looked at him. Eyes of someone who knew where they stood in the world.
Andrew Murray removed his hat as the procession walked down the harbour, falling to his knees when the little girl stopped right before him. "My lady," he said, voice loud enough for all to hear, "I'm pleased to meet you at long last, here in the last outreach of your father's kingdom."
For a moment, no one spoke and the child queen stared at him with a wrinkle between her golden eyebrows. Then, one of her servants leaned down to quickly whisper in her ear and her face smoothed down in understandment. Andrew held his breath as he waited for her to look at him, and to speak something, anything, that might say she had a working mind. There were rumours around his land that the child was simple, stupid and that her father kept her by his side for so long to prevent embarrassment when the Scots inevitably found out the truth.
"Eg er glad for å ha møtt deg ser," said the little queen. Andrew blanched as he heard such words coming out of her mouth, the strange language of her father's kingdom. But she smiled then, a simple smile with visible pearly white teeth and murmured in carefully-practiced Latin, "I'm pleased to meet you too, good sir." At the end of her words, she giggled, almost as if to say that she was teasing him.
Andrew felt a relieved breath escape past his lips and he smiled too, rising from his knees.
His own Latin pronunciation needed some work, and he did not have the greatest grasp of the language, but he felt confident enough to speak, "My lady is as beautiful as her royal father claimed. My name is Andrew Murray and years ago, I had the pleasure of meeting your grandfather, our departed lord King Alexander." This last phrase he said in French, knowing about his own lacking knowledge of Latin, and the servant quickly translated his words for the little queen. They made her smile again, a true and bright smile that lit up her entire face. "If it would please her ladyship, there are rooms made ready for you at Bishop's Palace to rest after your long journey."
She nodded. Though the child did not speak, Andrew could see that she was grateful for the chance to rest in a stable environment. The travel from Norway must have been excruciating for such a little girl, the months and weeks of uncertainty weighing down on her and the stains in her dress were proof to that. At that moment, Andrew became certain that they would have to wait at least a week for her to recover before they could set sail for Edinburgh. Where she would be welcomed by the guardians and inaugurated as their new monarch.
After that… The agreement made was that the young queen would be sent to England upon her arrival in the isle of Great Britain, to be cared for by servants assigned to her by her great-uncle, the King of England. It was for her safety, the Englishman said, because Scotland was having issues accepting a child monarch, and a girl at that. And the little queen would be one day married to the English King’s eldest surviving son, Édouard. To unite the realms into the person of their heir. Thus it was all the best that she go to England at that moment, when the two children were still young, and in need of shaping. So they could meet and grow close, even become friends before they were married.
But Andrew sincerely doubted that now they had the queen in hand, the guardians would simply hand her off to a foreign ruler. For better or worse, Margaret of Norway was their monarch now and had been accepted by nearly all of their people. This little girl of seven, with golden hair, clinging to the hand of her Norwegian servant, not knowing that she would soon be replaced by a Scottish attendant, was their queen now.
She would have to learn their language, their customs. Andrew knew well that Lady Margaret would need to be Scottish. Not Norwegian, or English, but Scottish, as her mother was. As was her grandfather, and all of his ancestors going back centuries.
The Maid of Norway was the Queen of Scotland now, and so help her God.
It was an hour's ride to Bishop's Palace, the empty castle that had been cleaned and prepared to welcome her. The palace hadn’t seen a royal, or any, in fact, visitor since the death of Haakon IV in 1263. Andrew had arranged for a carriage to take Lady Margaret, as he imagined it would be more comfortable after so many weeks inside a ship. It was certainly true, for when they finally arrived at the castle, the little queen’s caretaker had to carry her out, as she had fallen asleep during the journey.
The caretaker was a small trembling woman, not much older than seventeen. Andrew took pity on her and reached forward with his hands. "Allow me," he said. His meaning was clear, and the young servant hesitated only briefly before carefully passing the sleeping child to his waiting arms. Lady Margaret flinched slightly, her skinny arms wrapping around his neck as she laid her head over his shoulder. He was somewhat thankful that she was wearing only a simple braid, instead of the elaborate headdresses that women seemed to favour and walked inside the once-abandoned castle.
Elaborate rooms had been prepared to house her, as a royal couldn't sleep anywhere, and Andrew walked carefully to set her in the lavish bed. She looked so small then, surrounded by heavy blankets and so many pillows that seemed prepared for her to drown in. Such a little child, barely seven. Golden-haired and pale-skinned with her pink dress stained with vomit.
Would she live? He hoped so. There were no heirs to be had after her. Clan Bruce seemed ready to go to war for the right to be her successor, while John Balliol spent most of his money bribing the guardians to name him instead. Her father had agreed to marry her to Édouard of Caernarfon, and if he grew to be anything like his father, then he would have the perfect skills to keep the clans under control. But there were still years before the Maid would produce children of her own, and decades before they themselves would have their own heirs.
So he would have to trust the Guardians and Edward of England to keep the clans in check until then. But would that be enough?
October 1290. Edinburgh, Kingdom of Scotland.
"Has our lady arrived yet?" asked William Fraser, the Bishop of St Andrews. He ran a hand over the balding spot in his hand, the remnant of a nervous tic, and all could see how his fingers trembled.
"She is riding into the city as we speak," said James Stewart. He was the fifth hereditary High Steward of Scotland, a man of just thirty, with black hair and sparkling blue eyes. "Healthy and hale, as we were promised." He wrung his hands together.
"Good," said the Earl of Fife, Donnchadh. "And we are certain that this child is Margaret, our queen and lady?" All understood what he meant. Children could die, and were usually in the care of frightened servants who might wish to safeguard their own position by swapping them with a replacement. It was important to be certain that the girl soon to be inaugurated at Scone was young Margaret, daughter of King Eric II of Norway and granddaughter of Alexander III, their departed lord.
James nodded "A bishop came with her from Norway, and a baron," he said. "They have attested to her identity." When her Norwegian household was placed with Scottish attendants, the two men were the only ones allowed to remain, save for a trusted nurse of the name of Gertrud. Bishop Narve and Baron Tore Håkonsson would declare her identity before the Scottish and then return to her father's lands. "Can and will do so again."
Donnchadh nodded. "After our lady is inaugurated, the agreement was that we'd send her to England until there was peace in our lands again," he murmured, saying out loud what all were thinking.
A choked sound echoed behind them and James turned, looking at John Comyn, a man of nearly forty years. He was laughing, James realised, which was a startling fact in and of itself, because he had never heard the man laugh.
When he stopped, John Comyn looked around him with an expression full of disbelief. “Do the English truly think we will simply hand over the key to Scotland to them?” he asked.
William Fraser frowned. “It was the agreement,” he murmured. As a religious man, he was more prone to holding himself to a promise or a signed treaty with their southern neighbours. But even he looked disgruntled with the fact, wringing his hands together.
“An agreement that was started between Norway and England, without our input until it was too late,” John replied. “I say we keep our lady within our borders until she is of age to marry the English heir.” He spoke of Édouard of Caernarfon, the six year old heir to England, the little boy that was to marry Margaret and unite the crowns within a decade. "Make her Scottish, not Norwegian or English."
“That would take a decade. Would Longshanks even accept it?” James asked, looking around at the other guardians.
"It's not his right to accept it or not," said Alexander Comyn, Earl of Buchan. He was a kinsman of John Comyn, his great-uncle if James' memory served him right. "We are Scottish and this is our realm. As long as Margaret is our lady and queen, and she is here, we have the power."
"What about King Edward?" James asked. "Robert Bruce? Will we have two enemies, instead of just one?"
"Robert and his clan shall be dealt with," said Alexander Comyn. "They can be placated easily with promises of recognizing their claim. When the Maid of Norway is inaugurated as our queen, and continues to grow, they shall have little standing power. Once she has a son of her own, the succession shall be assured and Bruce will not have anything to say."
"And King Edward?" James repeated.
"Children of seven are susceptible to diseases in the roads," Donnchadh murmured. "Especially during winter, which looms ever closer. King Edward will have to understand if we delay our lady's journey."
"And until then," said John Comyn, "We will surround her with Scottish attendants. A governess, companions to play with her, a chaplain." He smiled. "If Robert Bruce is good enough, his wife may even have a possibility of educating our dear queen."
It was a crazy idea to have, when the Comyns and the Bruces had been fighting in a sick rivalry for ages, but James said nothing. It would be best to have young girls of both clans to be playmates for Lady Margaret, so as to be fair, but her governess would have to be someone else. He thought of his own wife, Egidia, unable to stop himself.
But all of the highborn women in Scotland would be vying for that one position, and all the men wanted their wives to attain such influence. He wasn't the only one, of course. To be in Lady Margaret's household might give someone the power to mould their future, and the whole of Scotland with it.