Queen Hereafter Page 12

  “A great ambition for a new bride,” he said. “But perhaps necessary. Indeed, you may be the very helpmeet that King Malcolm needs. You are exemplary in many ways, my lady, and you will be a good influence on the king. Scotland, too.”

  Margaret looked at him, surprised. “Thank you, sir—but I cannot meet such high expectations.”

  “Certainement, you can and you must, ma reine,” he said quietly. “I believe it is your very nature to have a good effect on those around you. I think the king sees this, too. He seems the barbarian to some, but he knows just what Scotland needs.”

  “I value your advice, Sir Robert.” Her thoughts whirled. “Thank you.”

  “Ma reine.” He bowed his head and walked away.

  Alone in the corridor, Margaret sighed with dismay. Truly, she did not know how to be a queen in a place like Scotland. She had been trained to run a royal household—but far more than that was needed here.

  De Lauder was right. Malcolm Canmore was a sharp-witted king and a tough warrior, but he needed tutoring in proper manners—and even more, he needed to be perceived as a worthy and civilized king. That, along with a Roman-centered faith, would gain him much respect—and that support could even help save Scotland from the Norman threat.

  To be sure, she thought, De Lauder had greater faith in her training and example than she did herself. But if she could influence rough-edged Malcolm Canmore for the better, let alone his rowdy court and his backward country, she would do well to try.

  And she would have to begin somewhere. Pushing aside the curtain that draped the doorway, she entered the great hall. The floor rushes would have to go, for a start, she decided, and the floor planking scrubbed. Then all the tables should be scraped raw and scrubbed clean.

  “And the table linens must be bleached until they are as white as snow,” she told Dame Agnes once she had given the new orders. The woman lifted her eyebrows in astonishment. “Send word into town, as well, to the merchants there. We will need several ells of linen, bleached and hemmed. At every meal, the tables are to be set with the very best. Dishes of pewter and gold, silver spoons, glass goblets, and serving dishes, too—”

  “And where are we to get all that? Begging pardon, Lady,” Dame Agnes said hastily.

  “From my dower chests,” Margaret replied. “We will purchase the rest from merchant ships.”

  “And how will we pay for all of it?” the woman went on. “If I may ask.”

  “I have some coin of my own, to do with as I will,” Margaret replied. “Dunfermline is a king’s hall, not a garrison, and from now on it must look like one. Have the pieces on the wall taken down as well,” she said, pointing upward.

  “Lady, I do not know what the king will say to that. Those swords and shields belonged to his father and grandfather and others.”

  “And I vow they still have dirt and blood on them. Let them be cleaned, then, and stored. The more handsome pieces, perhaps, could be hung on the wall near the doorway. In my dower boxes are some very fine embroidered tapestries that once hung in the courts of Hungary and England. They should be aired and pegged up on the walls. And those shabby door curtains should be replaced with good oaken doors.” She gestured as she spoke, feeling relief in taking some decisive action.

  “My husband will find a carpenter for the task, and he will see to some of the rest as well. We will do whatever you wish, Lady.” Now Dame Agnes looked excited, her eyes bright, cheeks flushed. “I will have the walls whitewashed before the tapestries are hung. And the floors should be scrubbed with apple vinegar and lightly oiled before fresh rushes are laid down.”

  “Good! Then we must consider the other rooms, beginning with the king’s bedchamber. And I shall need a solar, where my ladies and I can gather during the day.”

  “There is much work to be done, I suppose,” Dame Agnes said. “But well worth it if Dunfermline is to be a suitable king’s residence, as you say. I have suggested changes before, but the king was never agreeable to it.”

  “He will have to agree to it, if it is done before he returns,” she replied, and Agnes smiled suddenly. “I wonder,” Margaret mused, looking up, “if we might find an artist to decorate the walls and ceiling rafters.”

  “Ah! I have heard that the finest palaces in England have such decorations,” Agnes said.

  “So they do,” Margaret replied. “And we will have the same here in Scotland.”

  Chapter Eight

  I have not heard of music ever such as your frame makes since the time of the fairy people … gentle, powerful, glorious.

  —“THE HARP OF CNOC I CHOSGAIR,” IRISH, FOURTEENTH CENTURY

  Eva and her escort followed the king’s housecarls through the bailey of Dunfermline tower, aware of the curious gazes of warriors, servants, and nobles, Saxon and Scottish alike. As they climbed the steps to the royal tower, Eva turned toward Ruari beside her.

  “Surely enough Highlanders come to Dunfermline that we are no novelty,” she said in Gaelic.

  “Hah! Moray visitors to Malcolm’s tower are rare,” he replied wryly.

  The men led them to a small anteroom fitted like a chapel, with a cloth-draped table that held a cross and golden vessels. Eva wondered if they would be expected to pray, for piety was the reputation of the queen’s household, but she soon realized the room had a double function, for a servant brought them ale in cups and merely asked them to wait. After that, a knight came to see them, introducing himself as Robert De Lauder.

  “The king has gone hunting for the day,” he said. “I will tell the queen of your arrival.”

  “That one,” Ruari murmured when the man left, “is a Norman in the king’s court.” He was clearly not pleased.

  Yet Eva sighed with relief, for she had dreaded meeting Malcolm Canmore, her host, captor and murderer of her kinsmen. She was weary besides, as were the others in her party. They had traveled for weeks, crossing the mountains that separated Moray from the provinces south of its boundaries, not because of distance—the journey could be made in a few days when need arose—but because they had stopped at the homes of a few thanes and chieftains, as well as the mormaers of Buchan and the Mearns. While Ruari discussed with the men matters to do with Moray and Scotland—rebellion was never said aloud, but it suffused the air at times—Eva had played and sang in return for hospitality. Finally her escort, including the king’s housecarls, rode to the sea to board a longship that carried them along the coast and into a wide firth, where they resumed on horseback and rode until they came to the fortress of Dunfermline.

  She closed her eyes, wishing she could escape now with her escort following her all the way back to Moray. Instead, the servant came to bring them to the king’s great hall.

  Walking into the larger room, Eva turned to see her companions pausing to surrender their weapons—dirks and good broadswords—into the keeping of two royal guards. Confiscation was custom in every household, especially the king’s own. Ruari lifted a brow, and after a moment, Eva took the dirk sheathed at her own belt and gave it up to the guard, who blinked in surprise.

  She turned. The room was long and spacious, and nearly deserted. A servant or two moved about carrying benches from one side of the room to the other; two housecarls sat at a table, heads bent over a board game, and a group of women were clustered on cushioned benches beneath a sunny window, absorbed in sewing and chatting. A wooden dais held two fine, carved chairs, but they were empty.

  The queen was not there, Eva thought, as she stepped forward with Ruari when the servant beckoned. She looked about, curious to see the king’s house. Her home at Elgin fortress was finer than most—her grandmother had been a queen, after all—but Dunfermline tower, though of modest size, was very well appointed, freshly painted and polished, altogether a prosperous household. Elgin seemed plain by comparison.

  Underfoot, thick rushes carpeted the planked floor, and the timbered ceiling overhead was painted with bright designs. Oak tables gleamed, carved chairs and benches were fitted
with red and blue pillows, brass candlesticks sparkled, and the jugs and cups set out for wine were of silver and even gold. Embroidered panels draped the whitewashed walls, and a tall iron basket anchored in the middle of the floor glowed with peat bricks and licking flames. Maidservants were spreading white cloths over tables, and two leggy gray wolfhounds approached the visitors, though a servant hastened them toward the door. One of the hounds came to Eva, and she reached out to pat its head, thankful for the eager, panting welcome.

  The servants did not seem to be in attendance on anyone in particular, and the women who sat working on stitchery pieces spoke quietly among themselves, watching the visitors. Eva looked uncertainly toward Ruari. “We should come back later if the queen is not here,” she told him.

  One of the women stood then, speaking softly to the others. They sat on cushioned benches, their gowns bright splashes of color in the sunlight at the far end of the room. A small child huddled at the women’s feet beside another large dog. Now and again, the toddler pounded on the dog’s haunch, and though the tail flapped, the animal seemed unbothered.

  “Dolfin, stop,” one of the women said in English. “Leave the hound be.”

  The young woman who had stood now walked toward Eva and Ruari. Dressed in a sky blue gown with a translucent, creamy veil, she was tall and graceful, her long skirts trailing on the floor, her pointed green slippers showing as she moved. Beneath the veil, her golden hair hung down in long, thick plaits woven with ribbons. Coming closer, she smiled, and her eyes, very blue, sparkled.

  “This must be one of the queen’s ladies,” Eva murmured to Ruari in Gaelic, “welcoming us in her mistress’s absence.” All the women appeared to be Saxon, judging by the English they spoke, and by the elegant foreign cut of their gowns, the drape of their veils, and their braided and beribboned hair. Eva lifted a hand to her own unruly black hair, worn loose, and she smoothed, however futile, the skirt of her tunic, its brown linen suited to hard traveling, but not to meeting Saxon ladies. She had not thought to change, and owned nothing so fine as these women wore.

  “Welcome!” the woman in blue said in English. Her slight, distinctive accent was not French, Eva realized, but perhaps eastern; she had heard some accents among the merchants and visitors who came to Moray, and she recognized the foreign cadence. “You must be Lady Eva. I understand that the Lady of the North sent you here to perform for us. How kind of her.”

  “I am Eva. And I come here as a royal hostage,” she said bluntly. “We were told the king is absent and that the queen would meet us. Shall we come back later for an audience?”

  “Please stay.” The woman reached out to take Eva’s hand in hers, then kissed one cheek and the other, drawing back. “I look forward to meeting your Lady Gruadh someday, in the spirit of peace. I am sure I could learn much from her about queenship.”

  “Queen?” Eva gasped, realizing, as the young woman smiled. “Oh!”

  Ruari bowed his head. “Lady of Scotland,” he said formally, “I am Ruari mac Fergus, thane of Cawdor. And this is Princess Eva.” He nudged Eva’s shoulder.

  She had rarely been called princess, but inclined her head. “I am properly called Aeife inghean Lulach mac Gilcomgan, daughter of the late King Lulach.”

  “Ay-fa,” Margaret attempted. “Eva. Please meet my sister, Princess Cristina.” She turned as another young woman came toward them. Unlike tall, golden Margaret, Cristina was dark-haired and stocky, though they shared similar high cheekbones and deep-set eyes. Cristina wore no veil and so was unmarried; a yellow ribbon rounded her brow above brown eyes. Her red gown flattered her sturdy figure, and her fingers glinted with rings. Both women wore slippers of green silk, which Eva thought impractical but fetching; she curled her toes inside her own thick woolen hose and sturdy leather shoes. Margaret and Cristina even carried about them the lovely fragrance of oil of lavender and blossoms. Undoubtedly Eva smelled of horses, damp wool, and too many days’ traveling.

  “Welcome, Lady Eva,” Cristina said in accented English also. A quick frown as she took in Eva’s appearance indicated that she was unimpressed. Eva drew her cloak close; at least her plaid was very fine, she knew, patterned in muted purple, blue, and twilight colors, edged with wolf fur, and cinched by a round silver brooch set with crystals. Her earlobes were pierced by a pair of golden circlets set with emeralds, brought from the exotic east by a Viking jarl for her grandmother, who gifted Eva in return. She lifted her head and shook back her hair to subtly show them. Grasping her cloak, her hands showed the callused fingertips and long nails of a harper, and her fingers were slim and strong.

  “We thank you for your welcome,” she said in English. Her voice carried smoothly in the room, a result of her bard’s training. “King Malcolm invited me here under particular terms, as I am sure you know, Lady.”

  “I am aware,” Margaret said. She was very pretty, Eva thought, tall and slender, with delicate features, a long neck, lovely hands. Her hair was thick, striated gold, and her skin was pale, as if she rarely saw the sun. Whether still or in motion, she had a natural grace about her.

  “Lady Gruadh sends her compliments on your wedding,” Eva said. “She bids me sing at the king’s hearth and tell the old tales of heroes and adventures, and serve in all ways that I can as a seanchaidh in the king’s household.”

  “Shawnkhey.” Margaret tilted her head. “We have one of those already, I think, old Hector, who sings and plays for us. I have heard of your talent, Lady Eva. Tell me, is it usual for Scottish princesses to do such common work?”

  “Common?” Eva blinked. “What do you mean?”

  “The singing,” Cristina explained. “Do you dance as well?”

  Eva stared at her, then looked at the queen. “I am a harper.”

  “We know. We look forward to something new. The old man who sings for the court is quite dull,” Cristina said. “At our uncle the king’s court there was a conteur who danced and sang, and tossed balls in the air.”

  “Conteur?” Eva asked, uncertain of the word.

  “A storyteller. Sometimes a jester, very lively. He told amusing jests, some quite bold,” Cristina went on. “His daughters danced with ribbons, and there was a dwarf, too, who did clever imitations of the courtiers. He was a little rude, but it was very entertaining. We laughed often.”

  “I do not imitate others,” Eva said, growing tense. Beside her, Ruari was silent. “I play harp. I sing. I tell stories. Bards are accorded rank in any Scottish household.” I have trained for eleven years, she wanted to say; I am nearly a filidh, which in the old days was revered as just below a king’s rank. But such a claim would be wasted on these Sassenach women.

  Margaret seemed a bit bewildered. “We look forward to your performance at supper.”

  “Are you one of the players in the troupe?” the princess in red asked Ruari.

  “We are not a Christmas pageant,” Ruari said stiffly.

  Eva felt her pride and temper rise up like a banner in a high wind. She turned on her heel suddenly and walked toward the door. Though she heard Ruari excuse himself to hasten after her, Eva did not look back, but shoved through the embroidered curtain and left the hall.

  Ruari caught her arm. “Stop.”

  She shook him off. “I will never,” she said through her teeth, “sing or dance like a poppet on a stick, and this Saxon queen will have to beg me on her knees,” she went on fiercely, “to have even one of the old Irish tales from me. Her sister, too. Their ignorance makes them unworthy of what any seanchaidh offers. We are leaving, Ruari mac Fergus. Gather the men.”

  “That is not your decision,” he answered, gripping her arm. “Nor can you leave this court.”

  “The king is not even here to see us, and I a princess, a bard, too. And the queen is … a needleworker,” she said. “What does she know of what I do? We will go home tonight.”

  “We will stay, and you will do your mistress’s bidding.”

  “Which mistress?” she snapped.

 
; “Both,” he said, leaning close, hand gripping above her elbow. The guards in the corridor watched them, hands resting on sheathed swords. Ruari spoke low so that they would not hear if indeed they spoke Gaelic at all, which Eva doubted.

  “Lady Gruadh is right—this Saxon queen does not belong in Scotland. She is weak and shallow, and knows nothing of our ways, to speak of bardic tradition as if it were a bore. You heard what she said of ‘old Hector,’ whose name I know. The position of king’s bard is not to be belittled, yet the queen gives the tradition little credence.”

  “Then teach her.” Ruari gave her a little push back toward the curtain. “Show her what a true seanchaidh does.”

  “I do not toss balls,” Eva said.

  “You can learn,” he growled, “if it serves the purposes of both your queens.”

  A NARROW WOODEN BED with a good mattress, stuffed with feathers and lavender, was Eva’s own in the small bedchamber she was to share with two maidservants. She stood back as two of her Scots escort carried her basket of belongings and her harp—she would trust its care to no one but herself—into the room. The maidservants entered, too, and Eva turned to greet them.

  They were Saxon and spoke only English. Wynne, with messy golden curls and a quick smile, and dark-haired Matilda both welcomed her, insisting that they would share the other bed and blankets. Nodding, Eva reminded herself that since she was given two maids and her own bed, she was not being treated like a prisoner, at least so far.

  “The king’s tower is not large and has few beds to spare, so you are indeed fortunate,” Wynne further assured her. “The royal Saxons and their household have taken most of the beds in the tower and in the guest buildings in the bailey. Your Scotsmen will have to find space on the garrison floor while they are here.”

  “Above our little room is the queen’s solar,” Matilda said, pointing up. “There is a stair in the corner beside our door. The queen and her ladies work at stitchery there each day for hours, though sometimes they sit in the great hall, too. The queen expects you to join her circle, and we have been told to bring you to her as soon as you are settled here.”