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reached down and pulled off her red leather shoes, which Annot had cleaned and dried for her overnight. She handed them to the Scotswoman and tucked her stockinged feet under her skirts.
    “Thank you, woman.” Annot tried English, then switched to Gaelic, shaking her head as if to refuse. One of the fishermen, her husband, came close.
    “My wife says she cannot take these things from you, lady. You are too generous.”
    “I want her to have them. Please tell her they will look very fine on her. I have other cloaks and shoes and can do without these,” Margaret added. “Please, say I am happy to do this.”
    As he translated, Annot grinned with delight and shoved her feet into the shoes, which were too small, but she danced a little while the others laughed. Then she looked up at Margaret. “
Tapadh leibh
. Thank you!”
    “Tapah-lev to you,” Margaret said, smiling. She then rode back toward the others.
    Her mother and sister, her brother, and the men stared at her, but De Lauder rode closer, smiling. “Saint Martin himself gave his red cloak to a beggar, they say, and you did better than that. You made the Scotswoman very happy, eh? You are a fine lady,” he murmured. “King Malcolm will want to hear about this.”
    Margaret felt her cheeks grow hot. She did not want attention—she had only wanted to express her thanks, embarrassed that no one in the Saxon party had done so. She had several cloaks and pairs of shoes packed in chests, and Kata would fetch another pair. Most had not been worn since she had gone to Romsey Abbey three years past.
    What no one knew was that she was not as generous as they believed. After soaking in seawater and drying by the fire, the redshoes were very tight and their color was ruined. She would not have worn them again. And she told herself that instead of taking pride in her deed, she ought to pray a penance for selfishness.
    THEY RODE AWAY from the sweeping gray sea toward mist-covered hills and forestland, and soon Margaret could see round-shouldered mountains far away, layers of blue and green shapes fading into the distance. The escort followed an earthen track as they passed isolated cottages set on steep hillsides where sheep grazed; one cluster of homes, Ranald mac Niall explained, was a
clachan
, the native word for village. Here and there she saw tall stone crosses on the peaks of a few hills, handsomely carved monuments combining a cross with a circle, large enough to be easily seen across hill and
gleann
, as she learned the valleys were termed.
    Finally the escort entered the shadowed coolness of a woodland, the track thick with pine needles crushed to invigorating fragrance by horse hooves and cart wheels. A wide stream flowed beside the path with small waterfalls rushing over boulders.
    “It is so beautiful here. Peaceful,” Margaret breathed, smiling at Cristina, riding beside her.
    Tower walls appeared through the trees: a wooden citadel behind a palisade perched on a hillside. The timber structure was of modest size, and Margaret looked for the king’s grand palace in what seemed a wonderland of forest, stream, rocks, and waterfalls.
    “That must be the gatehouse,” Cristina said. “The palace will be close by.”
    Robert De Lauder, riding in the lead, paused to wait, and as Margaret and Cristina approached, he swept his arm wide. “
Mes princesses
, welcome to Dunfermline Palace.”
    “
That
is the king’s palace?” Cristina gaped.
    “His main residence must be farther on,” Margaret said hopefully.
    “This is his favorite royal residence,” De Lauder said. “Dunfermline Tower.”
    Visible beyond the palisade, the tower itself was square and plain,a few levels of pitch-treated timber and a slate roof graced by a tilted, rusted weathercock. Narrow chimney spouts emitted thin plumes of smoke.
    As they followed the slope toward the fortress, the tower came more clearly into sight and the gates opened. Margaret saw tattered curtains flapping in a few