Queen Hereafter Read online

  “You have found it,” he said quietly.

  “Sometimes I feel … as if I must seek more. I have achieved little so far.” She glanced away, aware that something was amiss within. Only she knew her sins, the flaws in her character that she could never expunge and could not easily confess. If Tor was her confessor, she thought then, she might feel free to speak of those feelings someday. He was a friend, even after so long.

  “You are graced with so much now. Perhaps God is done testing your spirit, after the last few years,” he replied.

  “Brother, I long to be challenged,” she whispered. “I yearn to be tested and proven.”

  He leaned closer. “If you feel so, then prove yourself through good works and devotion as queen and mother and as a pious woman. Let that ease whatever troubles you.”

  She paused. “Brother Tor, would you … confess me and hear my sins?” She said it impulsively, with a surge of hope, and a twinge low in her body that felt, for a moment, like the deepest excitement of lovemaking—she caught her breath against it. But she wanted to confide in this man, who would sincerely understand the bliss and forgiveness she sought in prayer and had not yet found completely.

  “Margaret, I am not your confessor,” he whispered.

  “But I wish you were,” she whispered breathlessly, blushing hot. Her confessors were Father Otto, Brother Micheil, even Bishop Fothad when he visited the king, but she could not open her private heart to them. Somehow she felt Tor could fully accept her thoughts as well as her sins.

  “It is not my calling,” he said, and his eyes, so pale a blue, sparked brilliantly. “Though for your sake I, too, could wish it.”

  “MELROSE! THAT PLACE was abandoned a century ago at least,” Malcolm said. He leaned forward at the table during supper, hand gripping a small knife, point upward. He spoke sharply, though he addressed the two monks who were his guests. “I was not told of that decision—and that place is in my territory.” He pounded his fist in emphasis. “What the devil are you doing down there, Brothers?”

  Eva listened with interest, seated beside Margaret as her companion that night. She, too, was eager to learn more about Tor’s activities along the border, particularly if it was news for Moray. Silence fell over the table as the others—a few gathered with Malcolm and Margaret, their closest courtiers, and the guests—waited for Brother Tor to reply.

  “Sire,” Tor began, “we came from Durham months ago to restore the place and prepare it to house monks again. With such turmoil in northern England now, the abbot and the bishop of York see the need to establish monastic centers away from the conflict. As of this month, we have over a dozen monks at Melrose, with more arriving. We hope to do good work there for the community and the region.”

  “I gave no permission for monks to live there!” Malcolm burst out.

  “Sire, if I may remind you,” Brother Aldwyn said calmly, “the monastery is part of the wide-flung parish of Durham and the bishopric of York, rather than the Scottish church. Our permission came from the bishop of York as well as Archbishop Lanfranc in Canterbury.”

  “Neither of them consulted me,” Malcolm groused. “Margaret, did you hear aught of this from Lanfranc? You have had a letter or two from him lately.”

  “We have had a brief correspondence about spiritual matters only, sire. He promised to send one or two of his own Benedictines here to join Father Otto in our household, but he did not mention Melrose or York. But it seems that Brother Tor and Brother Aldwyn are doing very good work, sire.”

  “Huh!” Malcolm turned his knife to spear a bit of mutton from his bowl. As at other times, Eva saw that he listened to, and considered, Margaret’s opinions. That the queen had a firm, gentle influence over the king seemed clear. “Why Melrose? If Benedictines are settling on Scottish land, I would know about it.”

  “We assumed that you knew, sire, for we met with Sir Robert concerning the scriptorium,” Tor said. “Our apologies if the exact news of our situation did not reach you.”

  “Saint Cuthbert was a monk at Melrose before he moved on to Durham and Lindisfarne Abbey, did you know, sire?” Margaret asked.

  “Cuthbert?” Malcolm frowned. “He is not a warrior-saint, so he is of little use to Scotland. Cuthbert does not like Scots much. The Saxons pray to him for protection from us.” He laughed curtly.

  “Perhaps his holy intercession has made a difference,” Brother Tor suggested. “You are now assisting the Saxon cause, and have married into the Saxon royal family.”

  “I decided that, not Cuthbert,” Malcolm grumbled.

  “Honoring Cuthbert invites his blessing,” Margaret said. “I think it is an admirable plan.”

  When Malcolm glanced at his wife, Eva noticed that he did not seem pleased. “Brother Thorgaut, now that you have settled on my lands without my permission,” the king said, “I suppose you will want further income to finish the work there. Is that why you have come here?”

  Listening, Eva blinked. The king could be even more direct than her grandmother at times.

  “We did hope for generosity, sire, as Melrose is in Scotland. The bishop of York sent a letter explaining the work we are to do at Melrose,” Tor said.

  “I had no letter. But not all messages from England make it over the border into Scotland.” The king took another bite of food. Malcolm seemed calmer, though still displeased.

  Eva spooned up some of the peppery stew of mutton and vegetables and ate. But she noticed that the queen only nibbled some cooked barley. She knew that Margaret had gone to Father Otto that morning to request extra penances, feeling remorseful after snapping at her women for giggling while they worked. But Margaret had seemed even more out of sorts after the two monks had arrived, refusing her midday meal in favor of more prayers.

  “Lady,” Eva murmured. “Please try some of the stew.” Margaret shook her head.

  Eva saw how closely Margaret listened to Brother Tor. The queen blushed as if she had a fever, while Eva hoped that Malcolm would not make note of it—though Eva thought the queen’s distraction rather obvious.

  Sipping wine from a silver cup, she studied Tor herself and wondered what truly brought him to Dunfermline. He was an intriguing man—nearly as tall as Malcolm, his tonsured hair thick blond, his cheekbones broad, and striking blue eyes set deep. He looked like some of the Vikings in her grandmother’s service, yet too thin, with an air of reserve and authority all at once. He did not quail before the contentious king, and when he looked at Queen Margaret, the hard lines in his face and the coldness in his eyes softened. The fair skin of his high cheekbones went visibly pink, too. Eva had the sudden desire to warn both the queen and monk to beware.

  “The book,” Malcolm said. “Tell me more about it. You came here to discuss it.”

  Book? Startled and attentive, Eva sat forward.

  Robert De Lauder turned toward the king. “Sire, you will recall that months past I told you of a monk in the south who was skilled at composing histories and scribing manuscripts, who had agreed to compose your history. Brother Thorgaut is that man. How fortunate that he was finally able to travel here so that you could meet him yourself.”

  “What book?” Eva whispered to Margaret. “Has the king commissioned a book?” The queen nodded and set a finger to her lips for silence.

  “So how is my history coming along?” Malcolm asked.

  “The book progresses well, sire,” Tor said. “We are very busy at Melrose, repairing old buildings and preparing for our first vegetable crops this spring. But I have found time to work on your manuscript pages. I am also writing the story of Cuthbert, though I give your history precedence, of course. Lately I have been listing your ancestry, according to the information Sir Robert gave me when we discussed the commission. I am not a Scot, so some of the record is unknown to me, though I have a copy of an Irish chronicle that lists some Scottish events for generations back. Your book is a privilege to compose.” He smiled slightly.

  “See that you do justice to it,�
�� Malcolm said.

  Brother Tor nodded. “I hope that while I am here we can discuss some of the details.”

  “Good. Be sure to include my victories and achievements,” Malcolm replied. “This must be a vita as well as a history relevant to my line and my reign.”

  “Indeed, it begins with the early kings of Scotland and will end with King Duncan and yourself.”

  “What of my father?” Eva asked suddenly, so that the others turned to look at her. “What of King Lulach and my step-grandfather, the great Macbeth? They must be included as well.”

  “The king supplied details of their lives, my lady,” Tor told her.

  “You should ask me about the truth of their reigns,” she said. “I am a bard as well as of the royal family.”

  Tor nodded. “I would be glad to discuss some details with you.”

  Malcolm slapped the flat of his hand on the table. “Lady Eva misspeaks,” he rumbled. “This is my history, not hers. You and I will discuss this later, Brother Monk.”

  “Sire.” Tor tilted his head.

  “I hope you will represent all the worthy kings and warriors in this book fairly, Brother Tor,” Eva said. “It would be a waste of good ink to spill falsehoods on those pages.”

  Margaret gasped. Malcolm glowered. Eva watched them evenly, feeling her heart beat hard and fast as she waited for reprisal. But in this company, with the Benedictines to impress, the king only shot her an arrow glance and turned to Tor.

  “The facts of Scottish kingship are well known and there are good chronicles to consult,” he said, while the monk nodded. Tempted to speak again, Eva thought better of it, hoping she had made her point about the accuracy of his work.

  “I am interested in your book about Saint Cuthbert,” Margaret said gently into a moment of awkward silence. “I look forward to seeing your history of my husband’s life, too.”

  “I would be pleased to share it with you,” Tor said.

  “Nothing should be written of my kinsmen unless I am consulted,” Eva persisted. “I have committed the genealogy of Scotland’s royalty to memory.”

  “Excellent,” Tor said, leaning toward her. “Perhaps you know—”

  “Lady Eva, give us a song,” Malcolm said brusquely.

  Eva knew what he meant: Give us a song and cease this talk. But she had finally found the source of the ill-conceived manuscript meant to ruin the reputation of her kinfolk.

  “Brother Tor—” she began.

  “Lady Eva.” A warning colored Malcolm’s tone. He wanted to prevent her from talking to Tor. He knew, she thought in a panic. He feared she might mean to destroy his false record.

  Bowing her head, she rose from the table and went to her harp, which perched on a low stool, another stool beside it. Settling into place, she used the little harp key strung on a cord around her neck. When the metal strings were in pitch, she lifted her hands, stroked her long nails delicately up and down to bring out an array of harmonies, and then began to play.

  STILL SLEEPY AT DAWN, Eva entered the anteroom chapel behind Margaret, who had woken her only minutes before, whispering that she wanted to pray before the ebony and gold cross in the little chapel. Through the parted door curtains, Eva saw the cross gleaming in the light of the candles flickering on the altar as Margaret went ahead, hands folded.

  Eva was in awe, a little, of the beautiful, mysterious black cross. Margaret had said that it had been adored for centuries in her birth land because the glass vial at the heart of the cross held a sliver of wood—a tiny relic, Margaret had explained, that represented for many the power of trials, strength, and faith.

  Speaking of Hungary and her childhood, Margaret had hinted of hardships and loneliness, of her terror of the sea and the devastating loss of her father. “But where the black cross finds its home,” Margaret had said, “there do I also.”

  Now Eva had understood a little better why the young queen felt so compelled to pray at odd hours. To be sure, accompanying her was not always easy, for Eva tended to keep late hours practicing on her harp; the music lulled the maids, Wynne and Matilda, to sleep while Eva played on.

  As she pushed aside the curtain behind Margaret, she realized that someone else was in the chapel. Clad in dark robes, he knelt in the dark shadows. Eva stopped short when Margaret halted.

  Brother Tor prayed before the altar, head bent. Margaret motioned in silence that they should leave, and Eva nodded agreement. Watching a monk at his private prayers felt like an intrusion.

  But he turned, saw them, and beckoned them forward. Margaret knelt next to him, candlelight rippling over her veiled head and blue-cloaked shoulders as she pressed her hands together. Eva sank down beside her, bowing her head but looking sideways at Tor, who murmured in Latin. He rocked a little on his knees as he prayed, and his sleeve touched Margaret’s. Just behind them, Eva saw their shoulders press for a long moment until they leaned away.

  Bathed in stillness, Eva breathed slowly and heard Margaret murmur Latin verses in whispers. The queen begin to sway a bit, as she sometimes did when her devotions became fervent. Once again the queen leaned toward Tor, and he toward her, the two of them rapt in their prayers, both staring up at the black cross suffused in candle glow. They looked twinned somehow, Eva thought: a golden, peaceful pair, like two bright candles themselves.

  For a few moments, inspired by the purity and strength of the two people kneeling in front of her, Eva heard in her mind not the prayers she should be reciting silently but a poignant harp melody and phrases of a song:

  Thou shell of my heart

  Thou face of my sun

  Thou harp of my music

  Thou crown of my senses.

  She nearly hummed it aloud, and caught herself. Odd to think of a love song rather than a prayer when kneeling in a chapel with the queen and a monk. Yet in that moment Eva realized how suited they were, a matched pair.

  Tor ended the peacefulness when he stood, and Margaret did the same, gathering her skirts. Eva got to her feet and followed them to the corridor. There, Tor turned, smiled.

  “Brother Aldwyn and I will depart shortly,” he murmured, his gaze on the queen. “The horses are waiting in the courtyard. I am glad to have seen you and your kinfolk again. And pleased to have met you, Lady Eva,” he added, almost an afterthought, as if he had just noticed her standing near.

  “Brother Tor,” Eva said. “I had hoped for a chance to speak with you about the king’s book.”

  “There is no time for that now. Perhaps you and the queen can travel south to Melrose and we can talk at length about the book.”

  “Not with such tension along the border,” Margaret said. “The king would not allow it. But we can hope that you will visit us again.”

  “Lady, that would be most pleasant,” Tor said politely. Then Eva saw him step back suddenly, as if he was aware how close he stood to the queen, how intently he watched her. “Truly I do not know if we will meet again. But you will always have friends in Durham and Melrose.”

  Margaret smiled up at him. “Perhaps you will consider joining our household as one of our confessors. I would treasure your opinion and your advice here.”

  Eva lifted her brows at that. If the monk had been invited to take up residence in Dunfermline, he would bring that unfinished manuscript with him—and Eva would have the chance to look at it for her grandmother’s benefit. “Indeed, Brother Tor,” she chimed in, “your presence here would be most welcome.”

  “It would not be wise, Margaret,” he said, ignoring Eva. “You are queen—” Then he stopped. “You already have excellent spiritual advisors. And you have found the most important mission of your life in your marriage, your family, the good work you can do. I have no place here. My work is elsewhere.”

  “It could be done here,” Margaret urged. “Your bishop would agree to a new assignment if I request it and the Scottish king approves, too. I will write to Lanfranc—”

  “Do not,” he said quickly. “But I am honored by the sugges
tion. Farewell.” His gaze was so focused on Margaret that he scarcely looked at Eva. Turning, he hurried away.

  Margaret sighed, watching him unguarded. Eva realized suddenly how lonely the queen must feel—an intelligent, educated, pious woman married to a blustery warrior could sense a kinship of spirit with a man like Brother Tor. Surely that was all that passed between them as they prayed and leaned together, and as their gazes met and met again.

  “Eva, why are you standing there? We must summon the ladies to their prayers,” Margaret said briskly. “They are doubtless still in bed this morning.” Drawing her skirts into her hands, she walked away.

  Chapter Twelve

  Then she went out and ordered her harp to be fetched.

  —APOLLONIUS OF TYRE, ANGLO-SAXON, ELEVENTH CENTURY

  Today, my lady,” Brother Godwin said after the door of Margaret’s solar was opened to him, “the king says you are to be crowned queen before supper.”

  Astonished, Margaret realized that Godwin was in earnest. The young Benedictine was new to the household, having arrived shortly after Brother Tor’s visit. He and another monk had been sent north by Archbishop Lanfranc, who had learned that Margaret wished for more Benedictines to come to Scotland to help spread Roman teachings there. Lanfranc had written glowing letters to Margaret from Canterbury, so warm that she felt his almost fatherly approval and support, and she welcomed the monks Godwin and Brand, who had arrived with another letter from Lanfranc. Although Malcolm had cautioned her to beware any French archbishop appointed by King William, Margaret was pleased with Brand’s competent clerical assistance and Godwin’s youthful spirits, and she thought that both young men added much to her household.

  “Malcolm is convinced that they were sent here as William’s spies,” she had told Eva only a few days earlier. The Scottish princess had blinked at her with wide gray-blue eyes, her expression echoing Margaret’s own disbelief. “I could never imagine such a betrayal in my house!”