The Dola and the Saint
by Bruce Golden
The storm was relentless. For hours the ship swayed and jerked until she was sure she’d be sick. Her brother and sister had already succumbed to the constant pitch and roll, heaving their suppers across the sodden decks. She was determined not to. There had been lulls in the gale, but each time she thought it might be fading away, the wind resurrected and the sea resumed its onslaught against the battered vessel. She beseeched God to save them from the tempest, and, though she felt guilty for it, she also implored Anya to not let her family’s fate be to drown.
She was alone for the moment, uncertain where her mother had gone. Likely Mother was ministering to her brother and sister on the other side of the hold—though the squall was much too loud for her to hear them, or anything else.
It was bad enough they’d had to flee their home in Wessex, but her mother had insisted they must do so right away, in the dead of night. Margaret had overheard her uncle tell her mother and brother that the armies of “William The Bastard” were on the march, and would be at his door the following day. He said it wasn’t safe for them. Their royal blood would be sure to adorn the executioner’s block if they stayed. William of Normandy had defeated the armies of King Harold at Hastings, and he was not likely to let anyone with a claim to the crown live to stir up rebellion.
So they fled—though her brother Edgar foolishly wanted to stay and fight. Fight with what? The English were a conquered people now. They’d have to bend knee to a Norman king.
Margaret didn’t care who was king—even though Edgar thought he had every right to the throne—she only cared that she’d found a home in the court of Wessex. Her family had traveled so much…and now they were off again.
Even before she was born, when her father was but a baby, he’d been banished from England by Canute, the Viking who seized the throne when Margaret’s grandfather King Edmund died. Canute shipped her father to Sweden where he was to be murdered. But someone took pity on the infant, and spirited him away to Kiev. He grew up there, and spent years traveling across the continent, before finally settling in Hungary where she was born. They called her father “Edward The Exile”—though never to his face.
After Canute’s reign ended, England was torn by various factions. When one group of nobles learned her father was alive, he was sent for. His claim to the throne was expected to have a stabilizing effect on the fractious nation. So Margaret and the rest of the family left Hungary and traveled with him, across the continent, to England—which to her was as foreign a place as the godless halls of Persia. But not long after they arrived, her father died. She heard whispers it was poison, but no one would tell her. She didn’t think anyone really knew for certain.
The years after her father’s death were happy, for the most part. She enjoyed life at the court of Wessex—the pomp, the merriment, the gaudy feasts. However, despite the luxuries of court, she and her sister Christina had vowed to one day become nuns and devote themselves to the church.
Now they were forced to leave—running away like thieves in the night. Her mother wasn’t sure where they’d go—Burgundy first, then maybe Franconia where her mother had family. Maybe they’d even return to Hungary. It didn’t matter to Margaret. She’d seen the world and didn’t think much of it. It was a man’s world. Women weren’t allowed much. She wanted to do things with her life—not just become some man’s wife.
She wondered if all her childhood friends in Hungary were married now. They probably had children of their own, while she had spurned many a suitor. They all seemed to be dilettantes, philistines, or vulgar boors. Now, more than ever, she was certain the only bride she’d become was a bride of Christ.
“You never know what fate has in store for you.”
Margaret turned at the sound of the voice. Sitting next to her, seemingly impervious to the swaying of the ship, was a tiny gray mouse.
“Anya?”
“I see a man, a powerful man with golden hair and a voice rich like molasses.”
The voice Margaret heard was that of a young girl, though it emanated from inside her head rather than in her ears. Yet she knew it was coming from the mouse. It wasn’t the first time. Anya appeared to her in many forms.
“Oh, Anya. I beg you to save us from this awful storm. Please, at least save my family. Even if I must die, please spare them.”
“Their fates are not my concern. I am only for you, Margaret. Your destiny lies not in the sea, but in being seen.”
“Seen by who?”
The ship rocked violently and Margaret tumbled over backwards. When she regained her balance, the mouse was gone.
“Anya? Anya, are you there?”
She was alone again, but no longer afraid. Anya had said her destiny did not lie in the sea, and her dola had never been wrong—not since she’d first appeared to her those many years ago in the Hungarian forest. But she wondered what Anya meant? To be seen? And who was the man with golden hair and a voice rich like molasses?
She woke to a calm that belied her fitful night of half sleep. The deck no longer rolled beneath her. The ship was still.
Margaret rubbed her eyes, pulled off the cloak she’d used as a blanket, and stood. She was sore, bruised by the battering of the storm. She straightened her robe skirt and tied it at the waist with a gold-embroidered silk belt. She threw the cloak over her shoulders and fastened it with her silver brooch—the one her father had given her just before he died. She pulled her wimple over her hair and tied it under her neck before climbing the stairs to the main deck.
The ship was docked to a ramshackle pier. Looking seaward, Margaret spied a number of small fishing vessels already underway, sailing out of the harbor. Inland, a quaint hamlet dotted the coastline, and beyond that was a range of rolling hills so green they might have been painted. In the distance loomed nature’s counterpoint, a range of jagged black mountains. None of it was familiar to her.
She spied her mother walking along the pier and wondered where her brother and sister were. A man on horseback cantered down the pier toward her mother. When her mother reached the man, she curtsied—which was not at all like her. Having come within a hairsbreadth of being Queen of England, her mother did not show deference easily.
The rider was a powerful looking man, with a rich mantle across his shoulders, sword at his side, and legstrappings bound at the knee over forest-green tights. Though she couldn’t hear his voice, his hair and full beard were indeed golden.
The ship’s captain strode up to the railing where she stood.
“Is this Burgundy?” she asked him.
“No, Milady. The storm damaged our foremast and blew us off course. It’s all right, I’ve harbored here before. This is Scotland.”
Her brother and sister appeared at her side.
“Where’s Mother,” asked Christina.
Margaret simply pointed.
Their mother bowed again and turned back to the ship. The man wheeled his horse and galloped away.
“Who’s that fellow on the horse? Why is mother bowing?” wondered Christina.
“I recognize him,” said Edgar. “That’s King Malcolm III. I saw him at Wessex once.”
Margaret had heard of Malcolm, King of Scotland. But all she knew of him was that he was her uncle’s ally, and had visited Wessex years ago. Unlike her brother, she had no memory of ever having seen him.
Her mother drew close and called to them.
“King Malcolm has granted us safe haven and invited us to his castle. Come now, he’s sending for a wain.”
Their ride was more rustic than royal, and its driver had to quickly construct some makeshift steps for the ladies. King Malcolm watched the proceedings from his horse, ordering his retainers to load their luggage.
Margaret prepared to follow her mother and sister up the steps to the rear of the wagon while Edgar took his place on the driver’s seat in front. As Margaret stepped up, a strange urge overcame her. For a moment she felt as if she had no control over her own body. She pulled her skirt off the ground to step up, but raised it much higher than was necessary, baring a length of her leg. As she did, she looked up. King Malcolm was watching her. She continued up the steps and sat in the wagon, only then feeling as if the loss of control had passed. When it did, she was overcome by embarrassment. What had caused her to do such a thing?
As the wagon pulled away, she chanced a glance. The King was still looking at her.
Margaret found the Scottish castle dreary and damp compared to the colorful halls of Wessex. Even Castle Réka in Hungary, where she’d played as a young girl, was a nicer place. Like the rest of the manor, the room where they gathered to eat was less than spacious, poorly lit, and badly in need of a tapestry or two to adorn its colorless stone walls. Much too austere, she thought, for a king’s dining hall.
Still, they could be worse off. They could be eating scraps in William’s dungeon. She chastised herself for her lack of graciousness. She should be thankful to King Malcolm for taking them in.
The food, at least, was delicious. There were helpings of mutton, pork, and a kind of fish she couldn’t identify. The bread was coarse though tasty, but the dates were not nearly as good as the ones she remembered eating in Hungary. She tried the ale in her cup and found it much too bitter.
The King was an older man—she guessed him to be in his late thirties—more than a decade her senior. A touch of gray streaked his beard, yet he was handsome and there was a thick brogue in his voice Margaret found charming. Now that she knew he was a king, he seemed more regal than he had on horseback. A ring of brass fastened a fur-lined mantle across his shoulders, and a single eagle’s feather hung from the side of his long blond hair. She’d never seen a man wearing a feather like that before.
The King sat at one end of the table, her mother at the other—which made Margaret wonder where his queen was. Across the table from her, Edgar, and Christina, were the King’s three young sons, the eldest of whom was only eight or nine. They did not speak, but demonstrated hearty appetites.
“It grieves me, Lady Agatha, to hear of the bastard William’s invasion of England.”
“Look to your own borders, Sire,” warned her mother, “for he might not be content with the lands he’s already conquered.”
Malcolm pulled the dirk from his belt and jabbed it more forcefully than was necessary into a serving tray full of pork. “Aye, he may try, Milady, but he’ll likely find Scottish meat a bit too tough for his liking. So says I, Máel Coluim mac Donnchada.”
Malcolm cut off a piece of pork. “Still, it’s passing strange that a Norman now sits on the throne of England.”
“He’s an interloper, not a king,” spoke up Edgar. “I’m the rightful King of England.”
For a long moment Malcolm regarded the skinny teenager who was her brother. “That may be, young prince, but a man who would be king must have followers, an army. Royal blood isn’t everything. Your grandfather Ironside would have told you the same.”
Malcolm bit into his hunk of meat. He stared at Edgar as he chewed, waiting for a reply. Edgar looked vexed, but remained silent.
“I was in much the same state as you, Edgar Atheling, when I was a boy. After the betrayer Macbeth slew my father, my mother spirited me away for my own protection. But when I reached manhood I made allies, gathered my forces, killed Macbeth and his son Lulach, and took what was rightfully mine. It wasn’t easy, but being a king isn’t as simple as saying you’re one. What is yours is only yours if you can take it…” Malcolm grabbed a fistful of air “…and hold it.”
Margaret thought it sage counsel, though she doubted her brother would embrace it. She’d had no idea Malcolm had been exiled much like her father. She couldn’t imagine what ordeals he must have gone through to regain his father’s crown. She glanced at the King. He was staring at her. She averted her eyes and reached for a piece of bread.
“I was sorry to hear of the death of your wife, Milord,” said Agatha. “She was known in Wessex as a gracious woman.”
“Aye, she was.”
“It will be lonely for you now, and hard with three young boys to raise.”
“They’re good lads…most of the time.” Malcolm stared at his sons as if they’d recently committed some transgression. They avoided their father’s gaze.
“When do you think you’ll remarry?”
Margaret was appalled at her mother’s lack of propriety. The King simply shrugged and took drink of his ale.
Boldly, her mother continued. “What a fine union it would be if the King of Scotland were to marry a granddaughter of King Edmund II. If the royal house of Scotland were to unite with the royal bloodline of England, it would forge a powerful alliance.”
Margaret blushed, but kept her head down, eyes on her food. She didn’t know if her mother was referring to her or Christina, but the blatant nature of the suggestion was mortifying. It wasn’t unusual for her mother to try and find them husbands, but speaking thusly in their presence was outrageous.
“You speak true, Milady,” responded the King politely. “It would make for a fine union.”
Although she dared not look at him, Margaret was certain she felt the King’s eyes upon her as he spoke.
Margaret was alone in the chamber she and her sister had been given. Christina had gone out riding with Edgar, and she didn’t know where her mother was. But that was all right. She was happy propped against the bed, doing her needlework, though she kept thinking about King Malcolm. She tried not to—even to the point of reciting holy verses in her head. But thoughts of the King would not be vanquished.
Something brushed against her and she looked down. It was a cat with thick orange fur, purring and rubbing against her. She’d seen this cat before, but that had been a world away.
“Anya? Is that you?”
“You must catch his eye before you can capture his heart.” It was the familiar voice of a young girl that Margaret heard in her head, but she wasn’t sure who or what Anya was speaking of.
“What do you mean, Anya?”
“The King needs a wife. You need a husband. There are children to be born.”
“The King? No, no, I can’t,” replied Margaret, bemused by the idea. “I’m to be a nun. I am for Christ. God calls me.”
“Fate is stronger than faith.” The cat rubbed against her once more. “There are children to be born.”
Even though her dola had never been wrong, Margaret protested. “That can’t be, Anya. I’ve promised—”
“Beg your pardon, Milady.”
Margaret looked up to see King Malcolm at her door. She hastened to her feet and bowed.
“May I enter?”
“Of course, Your Majesty.”
“Who were you talking to, lass?”
“I…uh…I was just talking to the cat.”
“There are no cats in this keep, Milady. My dogs would tear it asunder if they saw one.”
Margaret looked around, but of course Anya was gone.
“Who is Anya?” asked Malcolm.
Margaret hesitated, wondering what to say, nervous because it was the King who questioned her. However, it was not in her nature to lie.
“Anya is my dola, Sire.”
“Your dola? What, may I ask, is a dola?”
“A dola is a protective spirit, the embodiment of one’s fate. It can take the form of an animal or a person.”
“So you pray to this pagan sprite?” wondered Malcolm.
“No, Sire. I am a good Christian. I pray only to the one true God. But Anya has been with me since I was a little girl in Hungary. She guides me. I believe God sent her to me.”
“I see,” said Malcolm, walking over to her small stack of books and picking one up. “I am not so good a Christian, Milady, though I make allowances.” He opened the book and looked inside. “I’ve never told anyone this, but, as a child, I believed in the Ghillie Dhu—little folk in clothes woven of leaves and grass. I even saw one of these benevolent forest elves once, or so I thought. But that was before Macbeth killed my father and the world changed. On that day I could no longer lend myself to such flights of fancy.”
Malcolm continued to look through the book, once or twice tracing the lettering with his fingers. Watching him, Margaret couldn’t help but think about what Anya had said to her.
“This is a work of great craftsmanship,” said Malcolm. “I’ve never seen a book with golden letters and precious stones on its pages.”
“I like to embellish my books. Would you care to borrow it?”
“I’m afraid I don’t have the knowledge of reading, Milady. But I do find books a thing of both beauty and mystery. I suppose if I could read them, they wouldn’t be so mysterious, would they?”
Malcolm chuckled, but Margaret was surprised at his admission. A king who couldn’t read?
“Reading is not that difficult, Milord. I could teach you, if I had time.”
“Speak you true?” Malcolm appeared intrigued by the possibility. “Then I pray God grant us the time. However, I have other demands upon my time now. I must depart, and beg pardon for interrupting your needlework.”
“Not at all, Your Majesty. As your guest, I am at your bidding.” Margaret said with a curtsy.
“Your presence in my home does me honor, Milady,” said Malcolm with a brief bow of his head.
When he was gone Margaret looked for Anya, but she wasn’t likely to return now. Yet what the dola had said kept returning to her. There are children to be born. The King’s children? Her children?
After supper the second night in Dunfermline Castle, Margaret was unsettled. She begged leave to go to her room as soon as was polite, and stayed there for some time. During the meal, Malcolm had made a point of speaking to her several times, asking her opinion and seeming to gauge her answers. He all but ignored Christina, and did not seem that enthralled with engaging either her mother or brother in conversation.
It was his manifest interest in her that was troubling. Not that she didn’t find Malcolm an intriguing and handsome man. But it was something she didn’t want to dwell on. Instead she wanted to pray. She felt the need to commune with the Holy Spirit. However, she found it difficult to clear her mind of the King.
“Go to the chapel.”
Startled by the sound, Margaret flinched. She turned to see a familiar face. A young girl of only twelve or thirteen years.
“Anya. Oh, Anya, I’m so glad to see you. My mind is in disarray. Tell me what to do.”
“Go to the chapel,” repeated the dola.
“Yes, yes,” agreed Margaret. “I’ll be able to clear my mind and pray in a house of God.”
By the time Margaret had collected her cloak and put on her wimple, Anya was gone. But Margaret hardly noticed. She hurried out, down the stone stairway, and outside the castle. The soldiers there paid her no mind.
The night air was thick with fog, but she knew where the little chapel was. She’d seen it just across the courtyard when she first arrived. Still, she went slowly, careful of her footing, her skirt sweeping the ground with every step.
She heard a noise and discovered a trio of waifs so poorly clothed they must have been chilled to the bone. They were huddled inside a small shed next to the chapel.
“What are you children doing here? You should go home.”
The oldest of the three, a boy of maybe ten, replied, “We have no home, Milady. We’re orphaned, we are.”
The poor wretches were as scrawny as scarecrows, and Margaret could only think of feeding them. She reached into her robe and pulled out what coins were there. She gave them to the boy.
“Get yourselves some food. I’ll speak to the priest about finding you shelter.”
The boy accepted the coins, but replied, “The priest runs us off when he sees us, Milady.”
Margaret couldn’t imagine anyone being so cruel to children, especially a man of God.
“I will speak with the priest. Go on now, feed yourselves.”
The children ran off and Margaret found the entrance to the chapel.
She didn’t know what she’d expected—certainly not the splendor of the churches in Wessex—but she was surprised by the extravagance of this tiny place of worship. There were rich tapestries of velvet and ermine along the walls and adorning the altar, upon which lay chalices of gold. A golden crucifix hung on the wall above it, with golden candlesticks at each end.
Given what she’d witnessed just outside its doors, the opulence was anything but devout to her way of thinking. Praising God was one thing. Ignoring poverty was another. Someday she would work to change that.
She refrained from approaching the altar, choosing instead to kneel in the rear. She began to pray, asking for clarity to end her confusion. Before long, her silent communion was interrupted by voices coming from the front of the chapel. At first Margaret tried to ignore them, continuing to pray. When the voices grew louder she had no choice but to listen—though she kept her head down and continued to kneel.
“And if I aid you in this plot against the King, what is my reward?”
“My dear priest, isn’t the removal of this heathen king enough? He’s never been a true Christian.”
“That may be so, but neither does he interfere with the church’s business. What you propose is for the church to intercede and support your claim to the throne. Some might call that treason.”
“Treason to right the wrong? I, Máel Snechtai of Moray, am the rightful King of Scotland.”
“Perhaps, but—”
“Don’t pretend you have qualms, priest. We both know you can be bought. The only question now is the price.”
“Yes, well…how much gold are we speaking of?”
The men continued to move as they spoke, and for a moment Margaret was afraid they would happen upon her. She shifted her position, trying to see where else she could hide, and slipped.
“What was that?”
“Someone’s in here.”
Hearing she’d been discovered, Margaret stood in plain view of the men and ran for the door.
“Stop her!”
She heard them give chase as she pushed open the chapel door and raced through the fog. She was frightened and disoriented. She could only pray she was headed in the right direction, running like she hadn’t since she was a young girl.
A voice ahead of her, to her left, called out, “This way, this way.” It was Anya.
Her heart pounded as though it would burst from her chest when she reached the castle. One of the soldiers she had passed earlier came running. She could hardly catch her breath to say, “The King…I must speak with the King.”
The guard outside the King’s chamber stopped her.
“I must speak with the King. It’s urgent.”
“The King has retired for the evening, Milady. He mustn’t be disturbed.”
“He must be,” insisted Margaret, “for I have news that is more than disturbing. You must allow me—”
“What’s this all about?” bellowed Malcolm, appearing at the entrance to his chamber.
“Sire, I’m sorry. The Lady Margaret insists upon speaking with you.”
Malcolm looked at her, and she realized in the moment what an unflattering figure she must present. Between the damp of the fog and the sweat of her own exertion, she must look like so much flotsam.
“Please enter, Milady.”
Margaret stepped inside,but couldn’t contain herself.
“Your Majesty, there is a plot against you.”
“There usually is.” Malcolm smiled. It almost seemed to Margaret as if he found her state amusing.
“Sire, this is no jest. There are those here in Dunfermline who would see you cast out or worse.”
“Did your dola tell you this?”
“No, but she led me to where I heard it with mine own ears. Your own priest plots with a man named Snechtai—Snechtai of Moray he called himself.”
The name struck a chord with Malcolm. His expression darkened. “Snechtai is the son of Lulach, whom I dispatched to reclaim my throne after I killed his stepfather Macbeth. You say the priest is in league with him?”
“The last thing I heard, Sire, was the priest discussing how much he’d be paid for his treachery.”
To his guard Malcolm commanded, “Gather the men and conduct a search. Bring me the priest and Snechtai of Moray if he’s still about.”
The guard hurried off and Malcolm took Margaret’s hand, leading her to a chair within his chamber. By now, several servants had been roused and stood waiting.
“Please sit and rest yourself, Lady Margaret.” To the servants he said, “Bring us some warm broth and bread.”
Malcolm paced as he spoke, and Margaret saw the concern on his face. “I must thank you for your forewarning, Milady. A king must always beware of assassins.”
“I simply wanted to pray, Milord. It was Anya who sent me to the chapel. I think she must have known what I would hear.”
“Then I thank Anya as well as your piety. It is unfortunate that many of the Christian faith only feign to follow their own teachings.”
“It is a sorrow, but true, Your Majesty. I have seen such time and again.”
Malcolm stopped pacing and looked at her. “Your brother tells me you and your sister are determined to join a nunnery.”
Margaret felt herself blush, though she didn’t know why. “Yes, Your Majesty. I hope to someday right such wrongs within the church, and to work for the further glory of God.”
“A solitary nun would find altering the course of the church quite difficult, I imagine. Perhaps you would be in a better position to right those wrongs if you were a queen.”
It took Margaret more than a moment to absorb the implication. She blushed all over again.
“Sire?”
“You should know, Lady Margaret, that, with your permission and that of your family, I intend to pursue your hand in marriage, and to make you my queen.”
His words left her dazed, speechless. Though her grandfather had been king, and had come from a long line of kings, Margaret had never considered, even for a moment, that she might become a queen. Such fanciful thoughts were for little girls who knew nothing of the real world.
She didn’t know what to say—let alone what to think. Malcolm was right. As queen she would be able to help the less fortunate, to change the church for the better. It would not be easy, but at least she could try. Yet she didn’t know how to be a queen…or, for that matter, a wife. She’d long since given up on the idea. Perhaps it was time to consider new ideas.
Less than a year after their chance meeting, in 1070, Margaret and Malcolm were married. They would have eight children, including a daughter Edith, who would go on to become the Queen of England when she married Henry I, and three sons who would all become kings of Scotland. Christina would indeed become a nun, but Edgar never became king.
Though Shakespeare’s Macbeth was a work of dramatic fiction, there was, in fact, a real Macbeth. However, he didn’t murder King Duncan. The King was killed in battle against Macbeth’s forces, and years later, the King’s son, Malcolm, killed Macbeth (as King Malcolm relates in this tale).
Queen Margaret was known to attend to orphans and the poor every day before she ate. She is said to have risen every night at midnight to attend church services, and was known to work for religious reform. She was considered to be an exemplar of the “just ruler,” and influenced her husband and children to be just and holy rulers.
Margaret was canonized in the year 1250 by Pope Innocent IV in recognition of her personal holiness, charity, fidelity to the Church, and work for religious reform. The spot where she and her family first landed in Scotland is still known today as Saint Margaret’s Hope.
In 1093 Malcolm was killed in battle after reigning as King of Scotland for 35 years. Margaret, who was already ill, died just a few days later—some say from sorrow.
Among the direct descendants of Saint Margaret and King Malcolm were King Henry II, King Edward III, and the author of this tale, who has no title to speak of (royal or otherwise) but is their great, great, great (27x)…grandson.
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Bruce Golden’s short stories have been published across more than two dozen countries and 40 anthologies. Asimov’s Science Fiction described his novel Evergreen, “If you can imagine Ursula Le Guin channeling H. Rider Haggard, you’ll have the barest conception of this stirring book, which centers around a mysterious artifact and the people in its thrall.” New Myths magazine said of his novel Red Sky, Blue Moon, “With thematic echoes of Dune, Dances with Wolves, and The Last Samurai, it’s an epic tale of adventure and arrogance, discovery and desire, courage and greed.” His latest novel, The Omega Legacy, looks at artificial intelligence through a post-humankind lens. Once upon a time his novella Monster Town, a satirical send-up of old hard-boiled detective stories featuring movie monsters of the black & white era, was in development as a TV series. Then COVID shut down Hollywood for a year, likely driving a stake through the heart of the project forever.