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in shabby leather over a patterned tunic. His expression was grim and he planted his legs wide, grasping the great sword at his belt. “This is Ranald mac Niall, one of the king’s guard,” De Lauder explained. “King Malcolm sends word that he is grateful for your safe arrival and he wishes you to stay in his palace of Dunfermline, a few leagues from here. You will enjoy many comforts there until he can return.”
    “The welcome is appreciated,” Edgar said.
    “Sir, we have horses for you and a cart fitted for the ladies,” De Lauder said.
    “We brought horses from England,” Edgar said. “Perhaps your king will accept some of that fine stock. We look forward to meeting him.”
    Word quickly spread that the Saxon party would leave immediately for the king’s tower, and Margaret and her kinswomen were escorted to a cushioned wagon. When Cristina, who muttered that she disliked carts, mentioned that she and Margaret would prefer to ride, horses were brought forward for them. De Lauder himself assisted the girls into the wooden saddles, offering his cupped palms as a boost for their feet.
    “This is a courteous escort,” Cristina said, “and it will be good to stay in the king’s palace instead of these old huts. I am glad to leave this dirty village, I vow.”
    Margaret blushed, hoping Cristina would not be overheard. But she, too, yearned for the comforts of a fine palace. She particularly looked forward to a hot, fragrant bath and the feel of clean linen and silk against her skin. “These people have been kind, though a royal welcome is due our brother,” she remarked.
    “It is our due as well,” Cristina replied with a sniff.
    The Scottish horses were smaller than Margaret had seen before, stocky and sturdy, and she adjusted her skirts and cloak in the saddle, waiting while Lady Agatha and the maidservants were settled in the cart. Gently tugging the reins as her horse sidled, Margaret calmed him with soothing words and pats to his neck. She caught the Norman knight’s look of surprise.
    “You handle the horse quite well,” he said.
    “
Ce n’est rien
,” she answered. “It is nothing. We were raised in Hungary and placed in Magyar saddles when we were still very young. And we rode in England, too,” she added.
    As the men readied to depart, Margaret saw that some local people still waited on the beach. Mother Annot was with them, waving, and Margaret lifted a hand in return, realizing that there had been no time to properly thank their hosts. Just then, De Lauder rode toward Margaret and Cristina and offered fur-lined cloaks for the journey, as the November air was damp and chilly. Moments later, the escort began to move out.
    Looking over her shoulder, Margaret hesitated, drawing back on her horse’s reins. She felt a tug of remorse, not having thanked their hosts, who had saved their lives and had been exceedingly kind to them. On impulse, she guided her mount around to ride down the beach, despite shouts of surprise from her sister and others.
    Reaching Mother Annot and the cluster of women and men with her, Margaret leaned from the saddle. “Thank you for your hospitality,” she said breathlessly. “We do appreciate it.”
    Mother Annot smiled, nodded, and Margaret realized the woman did not really understand her. But she wanted to show her gratitude somehow. None of the other Saxons had bothered, being in a hurry to leave these people for better circumstances—that troubled her, too.
    Shrugging out of the fur cloak that De Lauder had loaned her, she unpinned her own red cloak beneath it, swept it free, and handed it to Mother Annot. The old woman caught it, looking astonished, then shook her head in protest.
    Margaret gestured her insistence that the woman keep it, but Annot handed it to a younger woman who stood holding a small child, shivering in the wind’s chill. Noticing that Annot and a few of the other women were barefoot despite standing on the wet, cold, stony beach, Margaret