Margaret of Wessex (The Legendary Women of World History) by Laurel A. Rockefeller ➱ Book Tour with Giveaway
Margaret of Wessex
The Legendary Women of World History Book 10
by Laurel A. Rockefeller
Genre: Historical Fiction
The 11th century was a dangerous time to be of the line unbroken of King Æthelred II Unread and his first queen, Æfgifu of York. Born in Hungary after King Canute III's failed attempt to murder her father, Edward the Exile, Margaret found her life turned upside down by King Edward the Confessor's discovery of her father's survival -- and the resulting recall of her family to England.
Now a political hostage only kept alive for as long as it served powerful men's interests, Margaret and her family found King Máel Coluim mac Donnchadh Ceann Mhor (Malcolm III Canmore)'s invitation to his court in Dunfermline in Alba the long-awaited answer to her prayers.
Scotland would never be the same again.
Includes two family tree charts, an expansive timeline covering over three thousand years of Pictish and medieval history, plus Roman Catholic prayers, and a bibliography so you can keep learning.
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You can find all the textbook editions at https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B087CVGB1T
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Margaret of Wessex Excerpts:
#1
“Mother! Cristina! Margaret!” called Edgar hastily as he ran
through the mansion that was their accommodations during their stay in York.
Cristina emerged from her room, a towel over her wet hair,
“What is it, Edgar? What’s wrong?”
“King William has bribed our Danish allies into leaving York
and abandoning our defences across Northumbria.”
Margaret and Agatha emerged into the corridor. “You think we
are in danger, Edgar?” asked Agatha.
“Mortal danger, Mama. Without those soldiers and sailors we
have little chance of surviving if the king sends up his better trained
knights. Already they’ve been in the
field all year fighting in Mercia and against the Welsh kings and princes who like
we English have no desire to be ruled by the Norman iron-fist. Those who have
not taken up the sword and the axe are felling entire forests for the dozens of
castles and fortifications the king is using against us—wood because it’s
cheaper and faster than building in stone,” described Edgar.
“Are all the ships gone yet, Edgar?” asked Margaret.
“No, but most that are still here are readying to set sail
for Denmark.”
“Can any be persuaded to head to Alba on the way?”
“Alba? Why Alba?” asked Cristina.
“King Máel Coluim Ceann Mhor invited us to come live at his
court. I told the herald conveying the invitation that we are pleased to
accept,” explained Margaret hastily.
Agatha stared at her daughter incredulous, “When did this
happen?”
“Last Christmas.”
“You didn’t say anything to me about it! Shouldn’t you
consult with the rest of us before you make such a decision for us?” scolded
Agatha. “Or haven’t you read that verse in Exodus about honouring your father
and your mother? Disrespectful child!”
Margaret met her mother’s eyes, annoyed at her mother’s
attempt to guilt her into apologizing, “I didn’t say anything because the
king’s spies were everywhere. The herald
appeared ten minutes before King William’s soldiers forced me to appear in
court so his friends could gawk at me and whisper lewd suggestions about me in
the name of celebrating the king’s august majesty and power. I didn’t think any
of us wanted to be thrown into some pit to starve to death which you all know
would have happened if the king suspected we were plotting to escape his ‘hospitality’
as his hostages. I’m rather surprised we
secured permission to visit York in the first place.”
“I
suggested our presence would deter further rebellion in the north. For surely
no Saxon would wish harm to come to the last of King Æthelred II Unread’s
blood,” reasoned Edgar.
“I
assume the argument worked.”
“We
are here, aren’t we?”
“True,
but can we leave now we are here?” questioned Margaret.
“Only
one way to find out,” suggested Edgar. “Will you help me?”
Margaret
nodded, “I am yours to command!”
Margaret
and Edgar slipped through the city streets quietly, walking discretely towards
the Ouse River which twisted and wound through the central part of the city
like a serpent. Shops selling anything and everything the Viking world could
procure from every corner of Europe bustled noisily. Disguising their
intentions by casually shopping and sampling different wares, they steadily
worked their way towards King’s Staith Street where several Danish merchant
ships moored. A young man carried a tightly woven wicker chest up a ramp onto a
medium-sized merchant ship. An ornately dressed young woman in Danish-style
dress walked with him, the richness of her gown, veil, and wimple contrasting
greatly with the simplicity of the man’s tunic, trousers, and woollen brat
cloak. Margaret adjusted her veil and wimple, suddenly self-conscious of her
very Saxon-looking clothes, “God morgen!”
Reaching
the ship and putting down his load, the man turned back towards them, “God
morgen!”
“Nice
day!” added Margaret.
“It
rains all the time here, even here in Jorvik,” observed the man. “So I suppose
since it is not raining at the moment, it is a nice day.”
“Might
I ask—where is this ship sailing to once you depart?” inquired Margaret.
“Alba.”
“Where
in Alba?”
“Normally
Leith, but we have a special cargo designated for Dunfermline to deliver
first.”
“Any
chance there is room for passengers headed in the same direction?”
“How
many?”
“Four.”
The
lady studied Margaret and Edgar carefully, “I know you! Or at least of you. You, Sir, are the
Ætheling!"
“I
am,” confirmed Edgar confidently. “We want no trouble, only passage out of the
city and to King Malcolm’s court for the two of us plus our mother and sister.
We prefer to not attract any Norman attention in this matter—if you understand
my meaning.”
“Perfectly,”
affirmed the Danish lady. “Defying King William has its price—but you know that
otherwise you would not be seeking escape now. If it were you alone, Ætheling,
I would deny you. If there is trouble about, it is precisely because you and
your earls have started it.”
“You
cannot possibly consent to this Norman conqueror’s rule over England!” debated
Edgar. “William is a blood thirsty thug who rules by terror and by the sword
instead of following Jesus’ example and pursuing a policy of justice and
mercy!”
“I
don’t consent to the conqueror, Ætheling. But to stir up the people’s feelings
about the king and then slip away from danger on the eve of real opposition
from your enemy—this to me is cowardice!” countered the Danish lady boldly. “If
your request did not include the women of your family, I would deny it. But for
their sake I will consent to bringing you aboard—at a rate of one pound per
person.”
“Highway
robbery in most instances,” balked Edgar, knowing anyone else would pay no more
than a schilling for the same journey north.
“But
a fair price compared to what the Normans would pay us to deliver you to their
hands,” countered the lady.
“Four
pounds it is,” agreed Margaret, overriding her brother and handing them a mix
of coins equalling four pounds. “When do you depart?”
“Three
hours.”
“We
will return within two hours,” promised Margaret.
“Done!”
agreed the Danish lady.
“Done,”
confirmed Edgar.
Excerpt #2
Spring
came to England, Margaret’s very first. After enjoying a sunny day for Easter
mass with the king and queen, Margaret found herself surprised by the
constantly changing weather that seemed to move effortlessly between rain,
sleet, and the occasional light snow flurries.
Taking breakfast with her parents, brother, and sister, Margaret looked
to God for help adapting to her new surroundings. As beautiful as Winchester was, it still did
not yet feel like home. For one, the city streets were all laid out on a grid,
a residual from when the English capital was a Roman city. Though Winchester
fell in disrepair after the Romans left, House Wessex restored it to make it
one of the finest towns in the south. At just 15 miles north of Southampton,
the location was well suited to travel by both land and sea—without the marshy
bogs of the Thames to deal with out east.
“Margaret,
come quick!” yelled Cristina as Margaret knelt at the altar in her room to
pray.
“What’s
wrong?” asked Margaret as she crossed herself and rose from her kneeling bench.
“Something’s
wrong with father,” cried Cristina.
Margaret
took her sister’s hand and followed her to the garden outside. Earl Harold
Godwinson of Wessex stood over the figure of what seemed to be a man. Reaching
them, Margaret looked down to see her father’s face, “What happened?”
Earl
Harold met Margaret’s eyes, “We were talking about his responsibilities as the Ætheling when suddenly
he fell down dead.”
Margaret crouched down and touched her father’s
cooling face. Touching his neck she felt no pulse, “He’s gone! Just like that!” Margaret rose to her feet, shock and half
disbelief filling her. “What do we do now?”
“I will send for some servants to lay him out
properly. A priest will come and pray for him. Then we will arrange for his
funeral and burial. In a few days the king will make the official declaration
making your brother Edgar his new heir, though in truth the Witan has the final
say in who assumes the throne. Should the king die this year, it is doubtful
the Witan would give the throne to Edgar.
He’s too young to even hold a sword, let alone lead our armies against a
foreign invasion,” explained Harold.
“Who then will the Witan choose if my brother
is too young to rule?” asked Margaret nervously.
“That I think only God knows, Margaret. Perhaps
you should ask him?” suggested the earl deceitfully.
“That I shall do,” agreed Margaret as she
turned and left, her sister Cristina almost running to catch up with her as she
returned to her room.
Closing the door, Cristina eyed her coolly,
“Our father dies and all you can think of is the succession? What’s wrong with you, Margaret?”
Margaret paced her bedroom pensively, “What’s
wrong with me? Did you at all look at the man? He wants to be king, Cristina. I
could hear it in his voice. He is absolutely confident Edgar will never rule
England as king. I’m betting if the worst were to happen, this Harold Godwinson
would be able to persuade the Witan into choosing him. At least that is what he is preparing to
do. Harold is gathering his resources so
that no matter what our great uncle wants for the future, he will be in
charge. It’s what his father Godwin
did. You really think our pious
great-uncle handled the day to day administration of his realm? You would have
to be either ignorant or stupid or both to believe that.”
“And
Queen Edith?” asked Cristina.
“She
is the earl’s brother, a daughter of Godwin of Wessex. We must expect her
alliance to be stronger with her family than with ours.”
“I
hope you are wrong, Margaret. I hope people are kinder and more generous than
you give them credit for. I do not think I could live in the world you choose
to see. Politics is not for me!”
Margaret
hugged her sister, “A sign of what God wants for your life, Cristina. But for
mine, I expect affairs of state to continue to be front and centre in my daily
life. As much as I think I would like
the peace and quiet of a convent, I do not think that is God’s calling for me.”
Excerpt #3
“Veni, veni Emmanuel Captivum solve Israel, Qui gemit
in exsilio, Privatus Dei Filio. Gaude!
Gaude! Emmanuel, nascetur pro te Israel!” chanted the monks in the small church
attended by King Malcolm and the senior members of his court. A bitter cold
wind blew. Drizzle wetted the plain window glass as the priest completed his
work and the small congregation exited the church, the joyful start of the
advent season difficult to experience on such a dreary day.
A messenger rode up from Cas Chaolas, his woollen brat nearly soaked through. Disembarking from
his horse, he bowed to the man he thought was the king, “Your Majesty!”
Prince Edgar corrected the messenger, “Not me! I am Edgar the Ætheling.
This man is our lord and master. This
is King
Máel Coluim mac Donnchadh who is affectionately called Ceann Mhor, the great
chief.”
“Forgive me, Sire! By your dress I deduced you a
nobleman, but not the great King of Alba,” apologized the messenger.
King Malcolm raised up the messenger, a young man
looking to be no more than twenty-five years old, “No need to grovel. You have
news for me?”
“Yes, Sire. Norman knights, the elite of King
William’s soldiers are burning Northumbria.”
“Where in Northumbria?” asked Margaret.
“All of it. They bring fire and the sword to all,
slaughtering every living person and animal without discrimination and torching
everything that is not living as they ride north. Not one graniry, not one barn
or house, person or animal is being spared. They were a day’s ride from the
Ouse River when I set sail with a Saxon merchant and his family, the boat
crowded with refugees. So heavy was our small craft that it nearly sank before
we entered the Firth of Forth. If a single person lives still in York or a
single stone left standing upon another by week’s end it is only through an act
of divine mercy!”
“Where are those who travelled with you from York?”
asked the king.
“Still at Cas Chaolas with the ship.”
“Come with us back to the palace and take a cup of
wine. When you are ready I will send you back with an armed escort to bring you
and your companions here to Dunfermline. At None you all may break bread with
us in the great hall while my ministers find places for you in town. Forget
your sorrows, my friend! Let Alba be your home. This offer is not only for you
and your companions, but all who need shelter from William’s knights. Word must go forth to Northumbria: any who survive this harrying are welcome to
settle in Alba. Yorkshire may fall—but only for a time. It will rise again, though perhaps peopled by Picts and Scots instead
of Angles, Saxons, and Danes.”
“Ceann Mhor you are indeed, Sire!” wept the messenger.
“Great is your mercy!”
Raising the man back up to his feet, King Malcolm
embraced him compassionately as Princess Margaret watched him, her mind running
a hundred calculations quietly. Maybe, just maybe coming to Alba was God’s will
after all.
Compline rang and with the finish of the last prayers
of the day, King Malcolm and the royal Saxon family dined quietly in the great
hall, the normal supper time conversation halted by the terrible news of events
across Northumbria and York in particular. A veil of wool gauze replaced the
normally fine linen veil and wimple Margaret wore. Somehow even the most basic
of royal fineries felt garish and disrespectful of the dead. People they knew,
people who sheltered them were likely all murdered by now by King William’s
knights, perhaps even tortured and dismembered while they lived by the heavy
two handed swords the Normans used.
Shivering, Margaret stepped into the courtyard and
gazed into the partly cloudy sky, the occassional moonbeam penetrating to light
the ground.
Malcolm strode up behind her, “Feasgar math, a bhean.”
“Feasgar math, mo thighearna rìgh,” echoed Margaret respectfully.
“You seem to make a habit of this. Do you ever like to stay indoors? Or
do the stars call out to you like sirens?”
“My heart is heavy tonight, mo rìgh.”
“I am your king, but please! Call me Máel Coluim!”
Margaret nodded her consent, “Máel
Coluim.”
Malcolm took her hands into his
sweetly, “What weighs on your heart?”
“York.”
“I know. I cannot stop William’s
knights from harrying Northumbria nor killing your friends in York. But there
is something I can do,” offered Malcolm.
“What is that?”
Malcolm descended to one knee, “Maighread nighean
mhic Eideard of the line of Saxon kings unbroken from the time of Alfred the
Great, great is your beauty and your grace. Greater still is your piety, your
kindness, your compassion for all. Nine years I have lived alone, a widow
unable to raise my own son myself and deferring my duties to him to servants. I
do not wish to live alone nor should I deprive my country of a queen. Since the
moment I first saw you I have desired you, desiring not only your body, but
your love in equal measure. As days passed to weeks and months, my admiration
for you has grown as I have watched your many virtues in action. You are
intelligent, kind, and compassionate. You are curious about the world and eager
to learn. Gracious to those of lesser blood. Pious beyond measure. No abbess
can surpass you in service to God. No professor can surpass you in wisdom and
intellect. You are kind to my son. In
all my life I have never met a fairer or more virtuous person, female or male.
Margaret of the Saxons of Wessex, will you marry me?”
Margaret met his eyes and nodded
sincerely, “Yes, Máel Coluim. I will marry you—as long as my brother and
my mother consent therein. My brother because he is king of the Saxons and
patriarch of my family. My mother because God commands I obey her in all
things. If they approve of the match then yes, Máel Coluim, I consent to wed
thee at the hour of your choosing.”
King Máel Coluim rose to his feet.
Removing the veil from her golden hair he caressed her face before kissing her
with the softest of kisses. Yielding, Margaret let herself enjoy the feather
touch of his lips, returning a few of them obediently. Malcolm held her closer
and kissed her brow, “I love you.”
Uncertain of her own feelings about
the king, Margaret closed her eyes and let the sensation of the king’s touch
spread through her. Though some part of her still wished for the chastity and
simplicity of the convent, God’s Will on this matter was clear: her duty was to
serve God as queen of Alba, to offer her body obediently to Máel Coluim as his
wife and mother of any children God wished her to give him. It was a different
path than the one she imagined for herself, though not entirely unexpected
given the value of her bloodline, a new path made easier by Máel Coluim’s kind
temperament and affection. No matter
what the future may hold for her, this she knew: she would be happy in her new
life as Alba’s queen, safe and protected at long last from Norman violence.
Five Fun
Facts from Medieval Alba
By Laurel
A. Rockefeller
I
love the middle ages. History always has
surprises around the corner for you, as I learned writing “Margaret of Wessex: Mother,
Saint, and Queen of Scots.” Here are
five fun facts from medieval Alba.
1.
Scotland. Believe it or not, the people of Scotland did not refer to
their country as Scotland until circa 1368 and the Wars of Independence against
English conquest. The English named the
country Scotland, a reference to the Scotti or Scots of the short-lived tiny
kingdom of Dál Riata (also spelled Dalriada) which occupied modern-day Argyll
and most of the Hebrides Islands. The Scotti spoke Gaelic, a Celtic language
referencing the Irish Gaels. Being Irish, not Brythonic, it likely differed
slightly from the language of the Picts – the Brythonic natives to “Scotland.”
In 840 CE Cináed mac Ailpín (Kenneth I
MacAlpin), the son of King Ailpín of Dál Riata and a Pictish princess merged
Dál Riata into his Pictish kingdom, naming the unified kingdom “Alba.” As part
of the merger, Kenneth moved his government, including all documents, religious
relics, and personnel to his capital in Scone—including the famous Stone of
Destiny now associated with Scone. A few weeks later, Viking invaders from
Ireland destroyed Dál Riata. Very few actual Scots lived in Alba, perhaps 10%
of the population, making “Scotland” ethnically overwhelmingly Pictish.
Linguistically, Gaelic and the Pictish languages fused together (just as
English evolved as a fusion of Brythonic languages, Latin, Germanic dialects,
and Danish). But though we call the
language “Gaelic” the probabilities are highest that “Gaelic” is mostly a
modern version of Pictish.
2.
Scottish Clans. We assume that the
clan system in Scotland has always been there. While there certainly have been
clans (most of the names we have for different Brythonic people in Scotland are
actually clans –not tribes) since before Roman times, the organized clan system
we associate with Scotland itself did not exist until 1093/4 in the aftermath
of King Malcolm III Canmore and Queen Margaret of Wessex’s deaths. Specifically, the clans organized and
codified themselves to protect traditional customs and ways of life from
further erosion by Malcolm’s successors, all of them named in English instead
of Pictish or Gaelic. It was a check on royal power not unlike in some respects
from the checks made against Malcolm and Margaret’s Plantagenet descendants in
England via the Magna Carta.
3.
Kilts. When most people think of Scotland, they immediately think of
kilts. The assumption being the kilt is an ancient garment that men have always
worn. In fact, the first depictions in
art of a man wearing a kilt only dates to the 17th century, to after
the merger of the English and Scottish crowns under the Stuarts. Before that
time, Brythonic people wore a “brat” as an over garment to protect them from
the weather. A brat is a 2 meter long
length of heavy wool (either solid or plaid) that is wrapped and pinned around
the body. Kilts evolved from the brat by pleating this length and belting it to
the body at the waist.
4.
MacBeth. Ah the Scottish
Play! Few names are better known than
MacBeth thanks to Shakespeare. But
unlike the version in the play, the real man was not a murderer. Rather, MacBheatha mac Fhionnlaigh (MacBeth) killed
his cousin Donnchadh mac Crìonain (Duncan I) in a civil war for the
crown in 1140 at a battle near Elgin in Moray – a battlefield death, not
murder. MacBheatha mac Fhionnlaigh held onto the throne of Alba for 17 years.
On 17 August 1057 at the Battle of Lumphanan in Aberdeenshire, Duncan’s son Máel Coluim mac Donnchadh (nicknamed Ceann
Mhor [Canmore] which means “great leader”) killed MacBeth in battle. Though
MacBeth’s stepson Lulach briefly succeeded his father, by 1058 it was all over
and Máel Coluim ascended Alba’s throne as King Malcolm III Canmore.
5.
Cas Chaolas. Unless you know your medieval Alba, the
name Cas Chaolas probably means very little.
But it’s been an important harbor for millennia. Cas Chaolas is a
natural harbor on the north bank of Firth of Forth, a massive and both
commercially and ecologically important estuary. At only six miles from
Dunfermline, the capital city for pre-Norman kings of Alba, Cas Chaolas was
vital to trade, especially with Norwegian merchants to the north and Danish
merchants from Jorvik (York, Yorkshire, England) to the south. In the late 11th
century, Queen Margaret ordered a ferry built to connect Cas Chaolas with the
south bank of the firth. As a result, Cas Chaolas was renamed “North
Queensferry” and the village directly across the firth was renamed “South
Queensferry.” Six miles east of South Queensferry lies another major port on
the Firth of Forth: Leith. Leith is only three miles from Edinburgh
Castle which was largely built by Malcolm and Margaret’s youngest son, Dabid
mac Maél
Coluim (King David I) to protect Alba from David’s brother in law, King Henry I
of England.
There’s
a lot more to medieval Alba than just these five facts. Learn more in “Margaret of Wessex: Mother, Saint, and Queen of
Scots.” Also available in student-teacher edition.
Born, raised, and educated in Lincoln, Nebraska USA Laurel A. Rockefeller is author of over twenty-five books published and self-published since August, 2012 with editions spanning across ten languages and counting. A dedicated scholar and biographical historian, Ms. Rockefeller is passionate about education and improving history literacy worldwide.
With her lyrical writing style, Laurel's books are as beautiful to read as they are informative.
In her spare time, Laurel enjoys spending time with her cockatiels, travelling to historic places, and watching classic motion pictures and classic television series. Favorites: Star Trek, Doctor Who, and Babylon 5.
Laurel proudly supports Health in Harmony, The Arbor Day Foundation, and other charities working to protect and re-plant forests globally.
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