Queen Hereafter Read online

  Malcolm held out his hand for her to go outside with him. Come with me—we are needed now. And this time she was on the verge of agreeing, for it seemed her only route to freedom from that confining little house when she longed for sunshine. Then she awoke.

  SHE DID NOT SEE the king for days, and received no message of thanks from him accompanied by a gift, as a more worldly prince might have done. When he returned, a quick and plain-spoken betrothal was performed in Dunfermline’s great hall, with a midday meal and some awkward merriment. Malcolm did thank her then, in his way, with gruff good wishes, and he provided a good new French wine, pale red and crisp, in celebration of the betrothal. Then he went outside to meet his men, and the group rode off with a clatter of hooves and creak of armor and weaponry. That was his true world, she knew, rather than courting or marriage.

  Once again he was gone for a fortnight, while Margaret, with the help of her kinswomen and Dame Agnes, planned the royal wedding for whenever he returned. That the ceremony would be performed in relative haste and therefore could be an embarrassment to the bride did not seem to matter. Impatient by nature, the king saw no reason to wait.

  Chapter Six

  Oh, my own,

  Child of my child,

  Gentle, valiant

  My heart cries like a blackbird’s

  —IRISH, TRADITIONAL LAMENT

  The sun hung pale and bright over the northern mountains on the morning Lady Gruadh sent Eva south. A day after the lady had decided to obey the king’s demands, Eva sat bundled on the back of a garron pony, her harp in a fur-lined leather bag slung on the saddle. A few possessions were contained in pannier baskets on the back of another pony; she had not wanted to take much, but the former queen had given Eva some of her own things.

  “My robes are fine enough even for Malcolm’s Sassenach court,” she told Eva. “I am taller than you, but if you sit with the ladies hemming robes with your fine hand for stitchery, you will hear some of the news at court. Send messages to me about whatever you learn.”

  “I thought I was to act as bard there,” Eva said. “It sounds better than hostage.”

  Lady Gruadh looked up, an assessing spark in her cool blue gaze. “Then hem the things during the day, and sing at night. Either way, keep your ears keen.”

  Eva looked away, seeing the men in the yard mounting horses, among them Moray men as well as housecarls sent by the king, who had demanded her presence as a royal hostage, a turn of events that had shocked Eva. “I do not want to go,” she told her grandmother.

  “I know. This time you must. Even I cannot gainsay the king to this extent, or show my hand in war. Aeife, my girl,” Gruadh said fervently, wrapping long, slender fingers over the pommel of Eva’s saddle. “You must do this for me, and for Moray. Sing for Malcolm and his new bride. You will be given preference, for you are both princess and bard.”

  “Hostage,” Eva insisted. “Prisoner. I could be thrown into a dungeon.”

  “Nonsense. Even Malcolm would not do that—he has no reason to punish you, though reason enough to keep you, I admit. Send word of how you fare, and send word of anything that Malcolm would keep from me.”

  “You want me to be your spy,” Eva whispered.

  “Just so.” Gruadh smiled, a dimple quirking the corner of her mouth, fine wrinkles gathering around her eyes. She was beautiful still, her eyes luminous, skin pale and smooth, cheekbones taut, chin firm and stubborn. Beneath her silken veil, her hair, Eva knew, was the color of copper threaded with silver. She was fierce and gentle all at once; exasperating, too. “I have faith in you,” Gruadh went on. “You can do this.”

  “How can I have faith in you, if you agree to my capture?” Eva felt sullen.

  “You are so young,” Gruadh said, patting her hand. “It is not a capture. You will not be ill treated. Malcolm has promised so, according to his guards and messengers. Eva, I delayed Malcolm as long as I could, but we have no choice. He sent his own guard to fetch you south. Just know that I would never send you into harm.” She smiled, then turned away, her red cloak and gray gown whipping with the whirl, head veils floating lightly over her shoulders as she approached Ruari mac Fergus to speak with him.

  The lady, now in her fifth decade, was a half head taller than the leader of her guard, who was as thick and powerful as an oak, a handsome man a little older than Gruadh. Yet they seemed suited as a pair, somehow, shoulders close and heads together as they talked. Eva sighed, waiting. She was relieved that Ruari would accompany her south with the king’s men, for he was more an uncle to her than a housecarl or local thane.

  As for staying in the king’s household, Eva could not imagine how she could ever discover the king’s intentions toward Moray, if that was what Lady Gruadh wanted her to do. It seemed preposterous. She pushed out her lower lip, feeling truculent. She ought to refuse. It was hard enough to be a prisoner—but a spy? She could not do it. Would not.

  Her horse sidled and snorted, impatient to go, though Eva did not want to leave. Elgin was home and hearth to her. She blinked back tears as her grandmother and Ruari walked toward her, still talking between them.

  “Malcolm’s new queen is finely bred and will have fussy manners, no doubt,” Gruadh said. “Likely she will prove a religious reformer, too, for she is of the Roman faith and they have little patience with the Celtic church. I hear she is a lovely creature—Malcolm no doubt pants after her. If she bears him sons,” she added low, “she will have whatsoever she wants.”

  “We do not know what sort of woman she is, or what sort of queen,” Ruari argued.

  “A Saxon queen cannot be good for Scotland.”

  “But the wedding will take place before Eva even arrives, whatever comes of it.”

  “Malcolm took the ones I loved and now he wants the girl, too. He thinks to keep me obedient this way, but I mean to turn his order to Moray’s advantage. Eva,” she said as she came closer. “Give the king this letter.” She handed the girl a sealed, folded parchment. “I have detailed my expectations for your care. He expects Moray to pay for your keep—a Saxon custom, that,” she added with a sneer, “so I will send gold with Ruari. The king’s mood will be generous now, for he is enthralled with his Saxon bride.”

  “You will do well enough. Do not fret,” Ruari reassured Eva. Then he turned away to speak to his red-bearded brother, Angus mac Fergus, who came toward them now. Both men were part of the lady’s personal phalanx and had been friends with Gruadh since childhood. They were as devoted to her as she was to them, though she held something further in her heart for Ruari mac Fergus.

  Eva loved Ruari too, and though his hardened air sent many scuttering out of his way, he had a tenderness to his character that Eva trusted. She would not want him to leave the king’s court when the time came for him to return north.

  Gruadh stood beside Eva’s horse. “My girl, play your harp tunes and be our eyes and ears in the south.” She placed a hand on Eva’s own, over the pommel. “Your voice is silver and your talent gold. They will fall under your spell in the king’s court, and that will be most useful.”

  “If you would just promise to obey the king, I could stay home,” Eva pointed out.

  “She has your stubbornness,” Ruari remarked drily. “Rue, explain to her why you ask her to listen and watch for you. She should know the truth.”

  Gruadh sighed. “Very well. I want to know what happened to the ones I loved.”

  “They were killed, each one,” Eva said quickly, hotly. “First Macbeth, then my father the young king, perhaps even Queen Ingebjorg, all by Malcolm.”

  “There, girl! That is the feeling to hold in your heart—anger. Remember that and let that fire warm you at the king’s court. Listen well, and learn the answers to my questions.”

  “What do you want to know?” Eva asked.

  “Just this: Does Malcolm plot to kill my grandson, Nechtan, or even me, so that he can rule Moray himself? What does he intend for Moray—will he let us be, or force us and other regio
ns in the Highlands to take on Saxon customs and Roman ways over the Celtic church? And one more question,” Lady Gruadh said, leaning close. “Where is that damnable book?”

  “What book?” Eva looked at her, startled.

  “Malcolm was commissioned a chronicle in which heinous lies will be recorded about Macbeth and Lulach, even myself and my father, Bodhe. Find it for me. Bring it to me.”

  “Even if I could, what would you do with it?” Eva asked.

  “Fire, water, will take care of books. That part is nothing. Find the thing, for it must not survive,” Gruadh said. “Now go, and Ruari with you. You will take your time traveling, even with the king’s escort—they will have to go where Ruari leads, and if he intends to stop at every thane’s house for rest and news, they will do so, too. I am in no rush to send you there, though I must send you. Eva,” she said urgently, reaching for her hand again, grasping it tightly. “Stay safe and strong. Come back to me soon.”

  “I will,” Eva promised, as she took up the reins.

  Within moments, the escort filed through the gate. Eva guided her horse to ride alongside Angus and Ruari, with the king’s housecarls taking up the rear of the escort. When they reached the moorland below the fortress mound, Eva turned to look back.

  Lady Gruadh still stood in the open entrance, a slender pillar in a billowing red cloak.

  Chapter Seven

  A king shall win a queen with goods, beakers, armlets;

  Both, from the first, must be free with their gifts.

  —The Exeter Book, ANGLO-SAXON, NINTH CENTURY

  Rain silvered the sky on the day of the wedding, mist drifting around Margaret as she stood on the steps of the hilltop chapel with her kin and Saxon friends. Nearby stood several of the king’s men, along with a few Scottish lords with their wives and daughters. They did not go inside the chapel, but stood waiting for the king to arrive. Malcolm was late again.

  Margaret brushed raindrops from her cloak of pale blue wool, over a silken gown of fog gray, its hem now dark with moisture. The chaplet of white flowers that crowned her head dripped rain. Sighing, she tried to look peaceful, though inside she simmered like a kettle over her groom’s tardiness.

  At last the king and his housecarls arrived, some on foot, the king riding a white horse, a grand entrance that was unnecessary, Margaret thought, considering how annoyed the waiting party was by then. The Scottish guests were not pleased about the wedding either, she knew, for Malcolm’s lords had not unanimously agreed with his choice of a Saxon bride. Days ago, De Lauder had reluctantly told Margaret that many Scots were not happy to have a Saxon and, worse, a foreign-born queen, and that she might hear rumors of discontent.

  “But remember that Scotland is a wide land and its people are far-flung,” he had added. “Likely you will see little direct disapproval. They will soon learn how kind and gracious their new queen is,” he had said, smiling. “You will win their hearts, I am certain.”

  But she had not won them as yet. Her wedding party was a small and grim lot, waiting in silence for the king’s arrival. Dismounting now, Malcolm looked tired and pasty, beard scruffy, eyes pinched. He had been up drinking and gambling the night before—she had heard the ruckus belowstairs until late into the night, but still she rose early for her prayers and preparations.

  He was a large, fit man, but not handsome, and the excess of drink the previous night did not improve his appearance. At least his clothes were clean, she thought; he wore a brown tunic over woolen trews and a plaid cloak over all, in several colors. His shoulder brooch was a magnificent circlet of gold as big as a plate, detailed with wire and gems. Margaret had to admit that he looked like a king in his striking size, carriage, and sheer presence.

  One of his men set a red cloak about his shoulders, edged in bird feathers: a savage touch and well done, Margaret thought. He wore a slender crown of beaten gold, crammed askew over his unruly hair. When he stepped up to join her, she turned expectantly, ready to enter the church.

  Fothad, the bishop of the pilgrimage church of Saint Andrews, whom Margaret had met the night before, joined Brother Micheil to welcome them inside the chapel. Dressed in white, he was a small man with long gray hair shaved deep across front and top, the always distinctive mark of a Celtic priest. He stood back to let them enter, for the marriage of a king and a royal princess must be consecrated at the altar rather than on the outer step, as was common for those of lesser rank.

  Malcolm crossed the threshold, his boot crushing the silvery hem of Margaret’s gown. She set a hand on his arm. “Sirrah,” she whispered.

  He glanced down at her. His hair and untrimmed beard formed a matted russet thicket that obscured his expression, but she thought he looked chastened. He allowed her to step ahead, and as she did he touched her elbow gently, quickly. Then he strode past her toward the altar. He seemed eager to have this done with; well, so was she, Margaret thought.

  She followed with deliberate grace, hands folded, though privately she was sure that a hopping toad could show more manners than the Scottish king. The rest of the party gathered inside the church, and the sound of rain was steady on the chapel walls as Margaret and Malcolm stood before the altar, knelt, prayed, repeated vows.

  Lowering her head, she prayed silently for guidance, for now she must be not only a perfect wife and a mother someday but a faultless queen as well. God would expect it of her, as would her mother and their priests—but she would demand more of herself than anyone else, for that was simply her nature. Having agreed to this, she would do it to the utmost of her ability.

  As they spoke the vows, the king’s Latin was adequate but awkward. Her own was better than the very priest’s; but Fothad was, after all, a Scotsman. As the ceremony progressed she noticed that whenever she spoke a word or phrase that Malcolm repeated, his pronunciation improved. He was quick-witted, seeking even during those moments to learn more. Glancing at him again, she saw his hands clench, the knuckles blanched.

  Inexplicably, she liked him better for it.

  DUNFERMLINE’S GREAT HALL was decorated for the nuptial feast with bleached cloths on the tables, glowing tallow candles, swags of early spring flowers and rowan branches. Fresh herbs and reeds were strewn over the floor, releasing their green fragrances as they were crushed underfoot by the wedding guests and servants gathering inside the hall. Margaret and Malcolm sat beside each other in two chairs on the dais while one person after another wished them good cheer before all were finally seated.

  Continuing rain pattered the shuttered windows as the guests ate the feast prepared under Dame Agnes’s supervision. Margaret hardly ate, for her stomach was never keen on food when she felt anxious. Beside her, Malcolm delved into steaming sliced beef, mashed turnips, and other dishes with a noisy appetite. Her groom did not suffer from excess politeness.

  “My lady.” Looking around, she saw Wilfrid of Bourne pause just behind her as if he had an urgent message. “More visitors have arrived.” He leaned closer. “The fisher-folk are here to wish you well. They walked all this way to present you with a gift on your wedding day.”

  Surprised, she set down her linen napkin. “How kind. Do let them in, Wilfrid.”

  “The king’s guards have refused to allow them into the hall, nor will they let the servants bring them trenchers from the feast—although I requested that, thinking you would approve.”

  “Of course, but—they were refused food from the king’s table? That must change.” Margaret turned. “My lord husband, I wish to invite more guests into our hall.”

  “Beggars?” Malcolm waved a hand. “Send them away.”

  “Sire, we cannot be seen as uncharitable at our own wedding supper,” Margaret protested. The king did not reply as he stuck his knife into another chunk of meat.

  Wilfrid leaned forward. “Sire,” he murmured. “Pardon me, but may I say that in my errands to other towns lately, I have heard it said that some are unhappy to have a queen of Saxon blood on the throne of Scotland. It is perha
ps wise for the queen to win over the people by whatever means she can. The local fisher-folk are loyal to the new queen, and their work, trading by sea and selling in marketplaces, brings them in touch with others.”

  “Wilfrid is right,” Margaret said. “I will let them in myself.” On impulse, she stood.

  Malcolm gaped up at her. Juices shone on his beard. “Sit down,” he said between his teeth. “At least leave it to the servants. You have not even eaten of your own wedding feast.”

  “My friends were refused at your door,” she pointed out. “How can I eat until they are fed? Many will watch to see what we will do now, as king and consort.”

  “No one is watching. They are all eating but you. Sit.”

  “God is watching.” She stepped away from the chair. Then, realizing that she could not be seen arguing with her bridegroom at their wedding feast, she held out her hand.

  “Sire, if you please. Your … generous nature is known to all.” She leaned down to whisper. “If some wait hungry outside while we feast in here, be sure that the Benedictine priests in this hall will notice. They will send word to Rome of Scotland’s lack of charity.”

  Malcolm sighed, and stood. “Lady,” he boomed for all to hear. She took his arm as they walked the length of the hall, and Malcolm waved a hand. “Open the doors! Our new Lady of Scotland, in her great generosity, wishes to welcome everyone on her wedding day!”

  “And she will serve them at the same feast,” she said.

  “And she will feed them from her own dish and spoon!” he called.

  She had not intended that, exactly. But she knew that the king would be quick to find the advantage in any situation. He had the instincts of a pageant performer; a useful quality in a king, she thought.