Queen Hereafter Page 13

  Dreading the prospect of stitchery and gossip for hours each day with Sassenach women she did not even know, Eva smiled tightly. “I am a bard,” she explained, “and my first duty is to my craft. I must tune my harp, and spend some time daily with the remembering of melodies, songs, and stories. Please tell the queen that I will join her when I am able.” If she did not establish her status as a bard and princess early, she thought, she would be relegated to far less.

  Her grandmother might chide her for haughtiness if she were here, Eva thought, but pride seemed necessary to her very survival at Dunfermline. And besides, she had learned that pride from Lady Gruadh herself, who had thrust her into this predicament.

  “Your first duty is to the queen,” Matilda told her. “It is the king’s decision for you, so Dame Agnes says.”

  Eva realized then that needlework was better than a prison cell, for she had best not trust Malcolm to honor his agreement with Gruadh. “Allow me to rest after my journey. Perhaps tomorrow or the next day I will join the queen’s circle.”

  “Very well,” Wynne said. “The queen wishes you and your men to attend supper this evening, and she hopes you will perform.”

  “I will do that,” Eva said. But she would not be dancing about with ribbons, she thought.

  When they had gone, Eva removed her harp from its leather and fur wrapping. She rubbed the instrument with a soft cloth, sweeping over the carved willow and oak soundbox, the graceful neck and forepillar. After the jostling journey, the brass strings required careful tuning; the two gold wire strings at the center, tuned to the same note, were extremely sensitive to motion, damp, and climate. Using a little ivory key to turn the pins that held each string in place, she closed her eyes, listening for the resonance of each plucked string, matching that with the perfect sounds in her memory. Finally she swept her fingers over the strings, producing harmonies. Then she played a tune, bowing her head as she surrendered her thoughts—and her rising fears—to the sound.

  CANDLES AND WALL TORCHES had been lit against the gloom, and a rainstorm pattered the walls and window shutters as Eva and her Scottish escort entered the great hall. The queen was there, but the king was late, as apparently was his habit, or so Wynne and Matilda had explained. They also pointed out Prince Edgar, the blond young man who sat beside the queen. The Scottish party waited with the others, and the hall had filled with the residents of Dunfermline tower by the time Malcolm finally strode through the hall, three dogs loping at his heels, to take his seat beside his wife.

  “We have guests from Moray this evening, sire,” Queen Margaret said. Her voice, though quiet, carried well. “They arrived today while you were gone.”

  “So I heard. Bring them forward, Sir Robert,” Malcolm told the Norman, gesturing impatiently.

  De Lauder bowed and beckoned to Eva and Ruari, who stood waiting in the shadows. As they walked forward, many of those who stood or sat in the hall turned to watch with interest.

  Seeing the very fine garments worn by the queen and the other ladies clustered near the dais, Eva was glad that she had taken care with her appearance after resting that afternoon. Wynne had brought her a large bucketful of hot water, a fragrant soft lump of soap, and linen; she had bathed and then freshened her clothing. Now her long black hair was combed out in supple waves over her shoulders, snugged with a blue ribbon around her brow, and she held her head high, shoulders square, carriage proud. She wore a simply cut tunic gown of pale gray over a white shift, with a patterned cloak of pale colors pinned with a large, round silver brooch. Her slippers were of brown leather—she owned no narrow colored slippers such as those the queen and the other ladies wore—but her accessories were worthy of any royalty. Her low-slung belt was of hammered silver links, and now her earlobes held twisted silver wires, and she wore a necklace of bright pearls on a black cord. Seeing curiosity among the crowd, she lifted her chin higher. Let them think the Highlands produced rustic Scotswomen closer to fishwives than queens, she thought; she would show them otherwise.

  Distant thunder rolled outside, and the flames flickered in a draft. Eva felt a quick chill, as if she had walked into a moment of great import in her life. She heard a few soft murmurs and whispers as she crossed the length of the room. Ruari walked beside her, strong and quiet, neither a step ahead nor a step behind, as it should be.

  The queen smiled, and King Malcolm sat forward with keen interest. To Margaret’s left, Prince Edgar ceased his conversation with Princess Cristina and straightened. “Who is this?” he asked, his voice so clear that Eva suddenly realized how very quiet the hall had become. “She is lovely.”

  “The Moray princess,” Margaret’s sister said.

  “King Malcolm,” De Lauder said, “allow me to present Princess Eva of Moray and the leader of her escort, Sir Ruari mac Fergus of Cawdor.”

  Eva and Ruari stepped forward and the king straightened, alert, his dark eyes narrowing.

  Malcolm Big Head, Eva observed, was neither the biggest nor the most ferocious-looking man she had ever seen. Many of the Vikings in her grandmother’s service were larger and fiercer, though Malcolm Ceann Mór could have stood equal with some. But among Lowlanders, Saxons, and foreigners, he would seem huge, she told herself.

  Queen Margaret sat to Malcolm’s left, slender and fair, golden braids spilling beneath her shoulder-draped silken veil. Her appearance was nearly angelic beside the king and the rough warriors seated nearby. Two older women sat with her, along with the princess Cristina and Prince Edgar.

  So here was the landless renegade Saxon royal family rescued by Malcolm, Eva realized. Beautiful but stiff-necked, each of them, like painted tomb sculptures. She stood in silence before them, hands folded, waiting, heart pounding. Heat emanating from the fire basket a few feet behind her burned off the damp chill in the room and gave her a sense of comfort as she faced these cold strangers.

  “So Gruadh sent you at last,” Malcolm said. “Aeife inghean Lulach mac Gilcomgan, welcome,” he continued, in Gaelic. His voice was deep, growling. He had bushy, untamed auburn hair and beard, thick features, dark, snapping eyes. Eva did not like him on sight; she did not want to like him.

  “My king,” she said flatly. “Mael Coluim Ceann Mór, Rí Alban.” She gave the words a formal, dramatic impact. “I am come from Moray at your request. Let me present the head of my escort, Ruari mac Fergus, now thane of Cawdor.”

  “Ah, Lady Gruadh’s loyal housecarl,” Malcolm said. “I know your name, sir.”

  Ruari nodded. “The Lady of the North sends her regards and bids me convey a message.”

  The king laughed. “Any greeting from her will have thorns hidden in it somewhere.”

  “Sire,” Ruari said, “the lady sends congratulations on your marriage, and recommends to you and your bride the Lady Eva, her beloved granddaughter and household bard. She entrusts Lady Eva to your temporary guardianship. May you and your court enjoy her music, and may she be given the rights and privileges due her as a bard and a princess of royal blood.”

  “Well enough. Lady Eva, no harm in granting you the privilege of your rank while you are here in our court,” he said in English, so that the others could understand, “under our watchful protection.”

  Eva regarded him solemnly. He had murdered her kinsmen, which she would not let herself forget. And she was no guest here, no matter how nicely her arrival was colored for the court. “My rank? Do you mean my status as a hostage?” she asked.

  His nostrils flared. “My agreement with Lady Gruadh states that you will remain here until I decide otherwise. You speak the Sassenach tongue well for one raised in the Highlands.”

  “We are hardly ignorant in the north, sire.” Her heart beat fast. Behind her, she heard someone whisper about her boldness. Well, she would not be subservient to this man and risk having scant respect here, where the Southrons outnumbered the Gaels. As for boldness, she did not care what a murdering king and a horde of Saxons thought of her.

  “Even in the south we hav
e heard of your beauty and talent,” Malcolm said. “Clearly the one is true, and we will be happy to test the other in this hall.”

  “Neither is wanting,” Eva said.

  Malcolm huffed. “You have your grandmother’s arrogance. Are you as skilled as they say?”

  “As you see, I have the right to wear five colors in my cloak.” She lifted an arm with the drape of plaid wool to display its soft colors—pale blue and green, mulberry, cream, brown. “According to Brehon law, the ancient Irish laws which holy Adomnán recorded long ago, and which we honor in Scotland, too, a king may wear seven colors, including the rare purple, in his cloak. A bard may wear six colors, chiefs and thanes, five. A female bard may wear five colors as well. All others must wear no more than four colors by ancient law. Surely you are aware of that, being King of Scots.”

  “I am.” Malcolm sat forward. Eva heard a thrum of voices as some glanced around the hall; though many of the Scots there wore Highland patterns, none had more than five colors, including her own men. King Malcolm himself wore a cloak of solid red—like a Lowlander or, worse, a Saxon, Eva thought.

  He held up a hand for quiet. “You, a young girl, are a full bard?”

  She nodded. “I am.” She was playing a little at being bold, but she was determined to prove herself early on in Malcolm’s court. As the daughter of a murdered enemy and the granddaughter of a continued rebel, she could not let him sense any weakness in her.

  The king listened as Margaret whispered in his ear. He nodded, and Eva noticed that he was calm and patient with his foreign bride, translating the conversation, which had been partly in Gaelic.

  “Lady Eva,” Malcolm said, “where we go, you will go, as a watched guest of this court. The queen is willing to accept you as one of her ladies, and you will perform for her and for the court when requested.”

  Eva nodded. “I have no desire to replace Dunfermline’s own bard.” She indicated the old man seated on a stool placed to one side of the dais. A lower stool held a harp, so his role was clear. He cast a dark look toward her when she looked at him.

  “Hector is our court poet, trained in storytelling and music. He has a permanent place here.”

  “He is a true seanchaidh?” She frowned, for the bard wore a dull brown cloak rather than a plaid of six colors, which his courtly rank dictated.

  “Hector is a scrop—a Saxon poet,” Malcolm answered.

  “A Saxon bard in a Scottish court?” Beside her, she knew Ruari tensed in warning.

  “My court honors both Saxon and Scottish ways,” Malcolm growled low. “Had you been raised by other than Gruadh of the North, you would understand that.”

  “I was born in the household of Macduff of Fife,” she said. “Later my grandmother raised me as a princess of the Gaels. I know Scotland. Not England. Sire,” she added.

  “Moray Gaels are not known for humility,” Malcolm remarked. “Well, Hector will not mind another harper in this court.” He gestured toward the poet. But Eva could see that Hector minded indeed, for the old man’s brow sank in a frown. “You will play for us later, Lady Eva,” Malcolm said in dismissal.

  Ruari took her arm and Eva inclined her head regally, stepping back. The queen’s steward, Sir Wilfrid, led them to one side of the room. When he directed a servant to bring wine for the Scots and to find them seats together for supper, Eva thanked him.

  “You are very welcome, Lady Eva.” He smiled down at her. Gaunt, broad-shouldered Wilfrid had the look of a weathered warrior but was dressed like a fine courtier in silver-trimmed green wool. His fingers twitched on his leather belt as if used to finding a sword pommel there.

  Sipping the tart red wine that the servant had poured into cups, Eva sat with her escort and watched as Malcolm spoke with others who approached the dais, until servants entered carrying platters of meat and bowls filled with steaming soups. When most had eaten, Hector returned to the stool on the dais and took up his harp to play.

  His wire-string harp was larger than Eva’s own, the resonance loud, even brash as he played a tune unfamiliar to her. She liked the droning, tight harmony of the melody and the steady rhythm that he produced with clever fingering patterns, and she leaned to watch closely. Some of the courtiers stamped their heels in time to the music, and Hector began to sing verses that told of a sailor over the sea, evoking the rhythm of oars in the plucking patterns.

  Malcolm spoke with others throughout the performance, while Margaret smiled, if a bit stiffly. When Hector finished, they applauded, and Malcolm pointed toward Eva.

  “Now the lass will play,” he said.

  “Princess Eva,” the queen corrected him gently.

  Eva drew a breath and stood. She had brought her harp to the hall, expecting to play, and now one of her Moray companions carried it forward. Eva took Hector’s place, sitting down and propping the base of her harp on the lower stool.

  She tipped the instrument so that it rested in the hollow of her left shoulder, and lifted her hands to the strings. She had tuned the metal strings earlier, and now she tested, hearing a slight dissonance, which she corrected, twisting the upper pegs that held the strings by using the ivory key, which she kept in a leather pouch slung from her belt.

  Malcolm continued a low discussion with some of his men. The queen waited, hands folded calmly. Eva paused, deciding between two songs she had considered for her introduction at court, and then she moved her fingers rapidly over the strings, brass and gold shimmering.

  She loved the moment whenever a melody began. A song might be ancient, its origins lost to memory, but a harper could spark the music to life again and join the present and the past. She plucked the strings: two together, one and two; three together, three and four. Her left hand repeated a rhythm in a lower register while the fingers of her right hand flashed like quickfire along upper and lower strings, creating delicate traceries of sound.

  Tilting her head forward slightly, she listened and concentrated. Her hair draped over her shoulders, shielding her, so that she was aware of only the harp, the music.

  Then she lifted her head and began to sing in Gaelic. Her voice was strong, its natural clarity a little husky from the strain of her journey. The song told of a mermaid sunning upon a rock, and its rhythm and lilting melody were captivating. She deliberately chose the song for its enchanting sort of charm—had she given the court a song of loss or bitterness first, they would credit her with the same from the start. Better this, in a place where she needed friends.

  Hill o ro, huill o ro

  ‘S mis ‘a chunn-aic!

  Hill o ro, huill o ro

  Ah, what I saw!

  Shining like silver on a rock of the sea

  A marvelous sight one morning early

  She raised her head and she changed before me

  To a seal, a gray seal, and she cleaved the sea

  The verses and refrain went on, lively and charming, and she saw smiles, nods, engaged attention around the room. On the last note, she let the sound fade to silence, lowered her hands, and looked up. Clapping began, caught, and grew. Queen Margaret was smiling, still in that cool, perfect way. She had not understood the words of the song, Eva realized.

  Malcolm nodded curtly. “Good. Hector, now you.”

  Unsure if the king had enjoyed her music or was annoyed, Eva tilted her harp and stood. As she began to move the instrument, a young man crossed the dais toward her. She looked up to see the Saxon prince, lanky blond Edgar, who lifted her harp from the stool before she could.

  “That was excellent, Lady Eva,” he said. “May I carry this for you?” His hands were long and nimble, and he supported her harp so gently that she smiled, relieved, for she was particular about who handled it.

  “Thank you. But one of my men will take it. You need not trouble.”

  “I do not mind.” He carried the harp as they left the dais, and then handed it carefully to one of Ruari’s men. “I hope we will have more songs from you soon, my lady.” He nodded, golden hair swinging,
and smiled before he walked away.

  Blushing at his kind and unexpected attention, Eva sat again with the Moray men and accepted a fresh cup of wine from Ruari. As she sipped, Hector, who had already taken up his own harp, began to play and sing.

  His voice was nasal, but deep and powerful. Eva recognized the tune as a Welsh one that Dermot had taught her. The lyrics, sung in English, were those of a bard praising his beloved harp as if it were a desirable woman without equal. No earthly woman could match the harp’s mellow tone or her exquisite form and timeless beauty, Hector sang. The bard gave his heart only to his loyal, exquisite harp—flesh-and-blood women were nothing to him, claimed the verses.

  Just then Hector sent Eva a cold glance across the room, as if daring her to equal him or to try to take his place.

  She smiled, giving no hint that she felt the cool reception of the incumbent bard as well as the king. Soon she leaned toward Ruari. “I am tired and would go to my chamber now.” What did she care if she seemed rude for it, being all but a prisoner here? When Hector finished one song and adjusted the tuning for the next, she stood and left the hall.

  Chapter Nine

  Loveliness shone around her like light,

  Her steps were the music of songs.

  —SCOTTISH TRADITIONAL, FROM ALEXANDER CARMICHAEL, Carmina Gadelica

  At dawn, roused by the maidservants and urged to dress quickly, Eva barely had a moment to use the chamber pot in a curtained corner before the girls hurried her from the room. They joined a few other women silently descending the stairs by the light of oil lamps carried by their maids.

  Eva followed them into the anteroom beside the great hall, where a golden and jet cross and silver vessels gleamed in candlelight. The queen knelt before it, hands pressed in prayer, pale hair rippling down her back, a simple white veil covering her bowed head. Her ladies gathered behind her, each kneeling to pray.