Queen Hereafter Read online

  Eva worked on the green gown, silk and wool rustling under her fingers. After a while Queen Margaret rose and circled the little room, speaking to each woman, praising here, gently correcting a technique there. She paused by Eva.

  “Neatly done,” she said. “Though you might prefer to play harp rather than do stitchery, is it so?” Eva smiled and the queen touched her shoulder and moved on.

  Moments later, as Margaret paused by Juliana, she took the piece the girl was working on to examine it. With a quick, impatient huff, Margaret grabbed a set of silver scissors and ripped out a section of colorful stitches that had been sewn with tiny seed pearls. Eva gaped, seeing Juliana’s look of dismay as the pearls scattered over the floor.

  “This work is uneven,” Margaret said. “Only the finest embroidery will do for a priest’s vestment, especially if it comes from the queen’s circle. Do it again, Juliana. It must be flawless.”

  Juliana flushed. “I beg your pardon, my lady.”

  “Only the best, do you understand? I ask the same of myself. Only the best, ever.” Margaret returned to her own chair, her cheeks pink as she sat to resume her own needlework.

  The queen’s stern words hung in the air. Eva saw the other women working earnestly, all of them silent, while the maidservant Finola dropped to her knees to gather up the pearls. Over her head, Eva caught Juliana’s gaze. The girl lifted a brow in clear, silent comment. Then she went back to picking loose threads out of the cloth in her hands.

  Margaret embroidered a new line of stitches steadily, her expression so calm that Eva wondered if she felt any remorse. The queen had a ruthless side as Juliana had said, and a startling temper out of keeping with her otherwise exemplary manners.

  “Lady Juliana,” Margaret said a little while later, leaning forward to look. “Those new stitches are nicely done.”

  “Thank you, my lady,” Juliana murmured.

  “Do you do much embroidery, Lady Eva?” the queen asked after another stretch of silence.

  “I do,” Eva answered, and showed the sleeves of her gown, where she had trimmed the blue wool in a looping pattern of yellow and green thread, matching the band she had sewn along the hem. Under the gown, she wore a shift of creamy linen embroidered with blue flowers.

  The queen admired the work, smoothing slender fingers over it as she discussed the technique Eva had used. Others peered over her shoulder, including Lady Agatha, who exclaimed and reached out to touch Eva’s sleeve. Princess Cristina did, as well.

  Cristina gave the work close scrutiny, pointing out missed stitches and stating what would have fixed them. For a moment, Eva felt overwhelmed by a chatter of compliments in various languages; she understood English, Gaelic, and Latin only, and she was impressed by how easily the Saxon women changed languages, even in the midst of a conversation, a necessary skill in most royal courts, she realized, particularly when the queen and her kin were foreigners.

  Lady Agatha held out a piece of cloth embroidered with an elaborate design and insets of gold wire, minutely wrapped with the silken stitches. The piece was a priest’s stole, Eva saw.

  “Take this,” Lady Agatha told her. “Trim and finish the back, then line it with that piece of silk and hem it. Your stitches are good enough for that. We have much work to do here, since we are making things for the church as well as for my daughter’s household. We will teach you new stitches, and you will learn much.”

  Taking up a little pair of scissors, Eva snipped loose threads as she had been assigned. She did not want to do this, she thought, and would far rather be elsewhere, away from this earnest little workshop with its busy, productive, unquestioning ladies—but for the Lady Juliana—and its demanding mistress. She needed to tend to her own work of harp playing and bardcraft. But she could not play harp for the queen and her circle unless Margaret asked her, and so the only strings she handled in the queen’s solar were of silk and cloth.

  But she was a seanchaidh, not a seamstress. How long must she be a hostage in Malcolm’s court—and worse, in a ladies’ stitchery circle?

  EVA STOOD IN THE cool morning air watching Ruari and the other men of Moray readying to depart. She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly and desperately lonely, wanting to ride away with them. While Ruari paused to check his horse’s harness, she ran toward him.

  “Take me with you,” she blurted. “We have been here a month. Do not leave me here.”

  He smoothed the blanket under the saddle. “We have no choice; you know that. And Lady Rue expects you to do as she has asked.”

  “Spy for her?” Eva hissed.

  A muscle pulsed in his cheek. “Listen and learn while you are here. Send word when you have something to share. Take this”—he handed her a small leather pouch jingling with coins—“and use it to pay messengers and purchase ink and parchment. Send your sealed letters to Abbot Drostan at Loch Leven. He will see to the rest.”

  Pocketing the coins, pouting like a child, Eva knew she could not win the argument. “Then give this to my grandmother. I wrote down all I have learned here so far,” she said, handing him a folded parchment on which she had inked all the news she had. “I have heard of no designs on Moray,” she spoke softly. “The queen is lovely and kind, does needlework, and prays a good deal. She has a temper—but so does Lady Gruadh. I have heard no mention of a secret book, but the queen’s own books are prettily painted and she reads to us daily. I am asked to play harp and to sew stitches. Though a hostage and a spy,” she added in a fierce whisper, “I hear nothing of any use to Moray. Tell her there is no need for spying here. Tell her I wish to come home.”

  “Watch your words,” Ruari whispered, glancing around. “Very well, I will give her this. She will cherish it and wait for more—not for secrets, but because it comes from you.”

  Tears sprang to her eyes. Impulsively, Eva stood on her toes to hug Ruari and kiss his cheek, while he patted her back. “Be safe,” he said gruffly.

  Nodding, she stepped back and hastened away. She lacked her grandmother’s strength to stand and watch while they left her alone here.

  THUNDERSTORMS RUMBLED OVERHEAD one afternoon as Margaret sat at a table in the great hall playing a game of chess with Malcolm, who had been surprised when she had suggested it. He and De Lauder had returned a little earlier with several hares brought down by their hawks before the rain swept through, and his hair was still damp, though he had changed to dry clothing. He sipped ale with one beefy hand wrapped around a wooden cup, and he picked at a dish of sweetmeats, which he now offered to Margaret.

  She shook her head, for she never indulged in the honey-crusted almonds and hazelnuts. As Malcolm popped one handful after another into his mouth, she thought of her father and had to resist reaching out to stop her husband, who did not know quite how her father had died. Sweetmeats always made her feel ill—but her stomach had been very uneasy of late, so that she could tolerate only small helpings and mild dishes. Besides, a queen should not show too healthy an appetite in front of others, and she had always been taught to eat delicately. Malcolm ate with noisy abandon, even though his manners were improving.

  He moved another piece on the board, and Margaret contemplated in silence, hands folded calmly. Nearby, Hector played his harp, while Lady Eva sat at the other end of the table, talking quietly with a Lowland thane, one of the guests who had been hunting with Malcolm that day. Margaret could not recall his name, but remembered that he owned property along the English border. He was also a leering old man who pressed closer to Eva while the girl leaned away.

  Margaret beckoned to Wilfrid. “Bid Lady Eva come sit by me,” she said, “and tell her that we would like her to grace us with a song or two.” As Wilfrid delivered the message, Margaret saw the relief on Eva’s face. Within moments, she joined Margaret and the king, though she sat on a stool near them and watched the board game in silence. Malcolm kept glancing at the Moray girl as if he was deeply curious about her, but he said nothing to her, nor she to him. Margaret sensed a cold
barrier between them like a wall, and knew there must be anger on both sides.

  She turned her attention back to the board. She had not yet demonstrated her skill at chess, which she had learned from her father, and had perfected with various opponents in King Edward’s court. Soon she trounced Malcolm with ease and a little thrill of pleasure.

  “Aha! Excellent,” he allowed. “I did not expect that from a lady who once wished to enter a convent.” He grinned.

  “Should I know only prayers and devotional quotations? I am well schooled, and chess is a scholarly game. Besides, chess skills are quite useful for a queen of Scotland.”

  “Queen of Scots,” he corrected. “In Scotland we rule people, not land.”

  “I have not been crowned, so I am only a consort,” she pointed out.

  “Aye, but you would wear any title and crown well,” he replied, watching her for a moment, so that she felt a little thrill that had nothing to do with her chess victory. Then he rose from his seat, ignoring Lady Eva, grabbed the dish of sweetmeats, and walked over to join a few housecarls who were seated at another table, drinking wine and rolling dice.

  Margaret began putting the chess pieces away in a leather bag, and Eva came to help, plucking up the pieces from the board.

  “A queen should not have to do this.” Eva smiled and dropped the two queens into the sack.

  “My husband reminds me that I do not even know my own title.” Margaret sighed.

  “No matter. You won the game and showed the king your worth.”

  “A queen cannot be found wanting in chess, or anything else.”

  “Aye?” Eva glanced up. “But losing a chess game is no flaw. Many cannot play at all.”

  “A queen must be exemplary in all she does.” Margaret took the bag from Eva and hung its cord on a little hook attached to the chess table where the heavy stone board rested. “Thank you. Will you give us a song?”

  “Gladly, unless you think Hector would be offended. I am found wanting in his eyes, I think.” She rose to her feet. “Perhaps a lively song would help on such a dreary day.”

  When Eva smiled, her lovely face turned winsome and dimpled, and lit her like a candle from within. Margaret smiled and sat back to wait as Eva walked away to speak quietly with Hector. He nodded and left the dais, and Eva took the stool and settled with her harp, which had been perched on another stool.

  As the dulcet notes floated outward and filled the room, gradually the others paused to listen, smiling, turning their attention to the bard. Margaret felt the music all through her, a sense of gentle warmth like a soft cloak covering her. The next melody was exquisite and enticing, and Margaret closed her eyes for a moment as the music poured over her, cascading from the brass and golden strings of the beautiful harp.

  The girl was skillful and very sure of her music, which flowed outward, entrancing. Then Margaret sat straighter, suddenly afraid to be lured in, as if the girl spun some old form of magic that might enchant those who listened. So Margaret sat stiffly, appearing impervious, smiling coolly, and though the music’s beauty made her burn with a sort of impulsive joy, she would not fold against it, but clasped her hands and kept perfectly still.

  Chapter Ten

  To the hand of her lord, the first cup of all

  Straightaway she shall give.

  —The Exeter Book, ANGLO-SAXON, NINTH CENTURY

  The king came blustering into the hall one rainy afternoon after another absence of more than a fortnight, accompanied by a dozen men and the dogs who were always excited to see the men return. The day’s mist seemed to blow inside with them, along with the chaos and noise that often surrounded Malcolm like a whirlwind. Margaret looked up from where she sat at the table with Dame Agnes and a few of her ladies, counting neatly folded linens and newly polished pewter and glass goblets. As the brawny king came toward her, she realized that since their wedding a few months earlier, she had spent more time with the courtiers and servants than with her own husband.

  Well enough, she thought, for there was always much work for her to do at Dunfermline, and she had been busy of late supervising more improvements. Malcolm stopped in the middle of the room and looked about the hall, with its whitewashed walls hung with embroidered panels, its freshly swept floors and rearranged furnishings, and she saw him note further changes since the last time he had been at home. Glowering, he spun about.

  “Margaret!” he thundered.

  “I’m here, my lord.” Smiling, she stood as he came toward her. On the table beside her were some goblets that were now kept available for the king’s male guests, rather than the drinking horns normally used—glass goblets banded in silver, made in Germany, that were part of Margaret’s dowry. Choosing a stemmed chalice, she filled it from a leather bladder of Rhenish wine and held it out for her husband.

  Ever since the day De Lauder had spoken to her about her purpose in Scotland, she had given her role careful thought as she made changes to the king’s tower. Now she saw another way to improve the tone of courtesy at the Scottish court.

  “My lord king,” she said, extending the full cup toward Malcolm. “Welcome home.”

  “Lady.” Malcolm looked surprised, tipping his head, but he took the cup from her hands and swallowed a few times, handing it back to her with a low rumble of thanks. He shoved down the mailed hood of his mesh hauberk and began to turn away.

  Margaret set a hand on his arm, cool woven steel under her fingers. “Sire, take the cup and share it round with the others. It is a poculum caritatis.”

  “A what?” He cocked a thick eyebrow. “A love cup? What the devil—”

  “It is a loving cup when shared before a meal, and a grace cup when shared afterward.” She handed the goblet back to him. “It was a tradition much honored in King Edward’s court,” she said.

  “Aye?” Instantly he looked interested. Whatever a Saxon king had done, Malcolm cared to do also, Margaret knew. The king’s own ambition would facilitate her self-appointed task of improving Malcolm’s manners and household.

  “Please, sire, pass it along to the next man. Let it go from lip to lip and back again to us, as our gesture of welcome when guests come to our hall.”

  Malcolm snugged his brows together like a child determined to master something new as he took the cup and passed it to Angus, the mormaer of Mar, who stood within arm’s reach. The man was as heavily armored, sweaty, and muddy as the king and the others, but he took the cup, looking slightly puzzled as well.

  “Drink and give it to the next man,” Malcolm urged.

  The cup went from man to man, and once it was returned to her, Margaret drained the last few drops of wine and set the cup down. She caught De Lauder’s gaze as he nodded approval.

  “Welcome home to Dunfermline, sire, and everyone,” she said, offering her arm to Malcolm. Looking pleased, he led her toward the dais and the two high-backed carved chairs there.

  The hour was too early for supper, so the trestle tables were not yet set up. The amber glow of a lingering sunset poured through narrow open windows, and some of the housecarls and courtiers who had business with the king entered the hall. Margaret looked at Malcolm.

  “Sire, did my brother return with you?” she asked, for she had not seen him.

  “Edgar is riding with Ranald mac Niall and others, not far behind us. They will arrive before midnight, I think.” He glanced around the room. “You have changed things again, and for the better. But—Margaret—where the devil are my grandfather’s swords?”

  “I had those moved, sire. I did not think they should hang here, over our heads.”

  “Ah,” he murmured. “You could be right. The improvements are … good, my dear.”

  She smiled, a little surprised by that. Then she noticed that some of those gathered in the hall now looked toward her as if waiting for her to signal what would come next, whether audiences or a meal. Malcolm, too, looked toward her expectantly.

  With sudden clarity, she realized that she was truly rega
rded as a wife and a queen now. That status had not begun with the wedding, or on the marital night, or with the assigning of household responsibilities. Rather it seemed to have taken hold just moments ago, when she had acted deliberately as both chatelaine and queen. She felt a little stirring of purpose, an elation similar to praying, and far more than rote responsibility. That revelation filled her like a light.

  MALCOLM AND HIS MEN rode out almost daily and otherwise remained closeted with his council, a group that included Edgar and the Saxons, most of whom came and went from Dunfermline now, having renewed ties in England with their journeys south; they included Morcar, his brother Edwin, and others. Margaret was glad to see the Saxons’ influence over Edgar lessening as he spent more time in Malcolm’s company; the king was now his brother by law and so Edgar turned to him for advice and tutoring in leadership. Relieved somewhat in her natural worry over Edgar, she still fretted for his safety and because of his gullibility.

  When the men gathered with the king, whether Scots or Saxons, a cleric wrote out documents to which Margaret was rarely privy, for the matters were either Scottish or, if Saxon, highly secret. Priests and bishops arrived, too, though more often than not, Malcolm discussed taxes and laws, judicial rights, and legal disputes in meetings that at times went deep into the night.

  Debates would grow so hot, particularly if Normans were mentioned, that Margaret could hear the men shouting either from the anteroom that also served as a chapel, or in the king’s bedchamber, or in the great hall, where they gathered late at night. In the small hours when she rose for prayers, she could hear voices still rumbling like thunder.

  She usually slipped from bed to take to her knees in the bedchamber, whether alone or if Malcolm slept beside her. When she felt a need for a deeper, more fervent appeal, she would send a maid to fetch Lady Eva. The Scottish girl would come bleary-eyed and uncomplaining from bed, a plaid wrapped around her shoulders, her raven gloss hair mussed, her cheeks pink, so lovely even in that state—and so unaware of it—that Margaret tried to avoid the men who might wander out of the intense meetings with the king. Eva of Moray could be temptation for a man, Margaret knew, and so she decided to cast a watchful eye over her newest lady, summoning her into her company more often. Besides, she enjoyed the girl’s forthrightness as much as her harp music.