Queen Hereafter Page 20

  “They do seem sincere,” Eva had responded quietly.

  “I trust them as well as I trust you, with my very secrets,” Margaret had said, smiling as she helped Eva, who had dropped a basket of yarn skeins.

  Just now, Godwin stood inside the doorway, flushed with the excitement of his announcement. “Crowned, Lady,” he repeated. “Malcolm has just returned from his travels and has brought with him Fothad of Saint Andrews. There will be a ceremony today, a traditional Scottish crowning.”

  Margaret, still stunned, finally found her breath. “I had no idea,” she managed. “Today?”

  “It is an honor,” Eva said. “Few of the queens of Scotland have actually been crowned.”

  “But I am a foreign queen, and so I never expected this.”

  “Malcolm worries that the Scottish people still resent your foreign birth, despite your deliberately good deeds,” Cristina said. “He must think a crowning will help.”

  “Surely by now the Scots accept Margaret more than at first,” Lady Agatha said. “She has given Scotland a strong little prince.”

  “Another prince,” Cristina corrected. “Who knows if small Edward will ever gain the throne in the future, though he ought to have the right over his Scottish half brothers, whose bloodlines are not nearly as good as his.”

  Knowing her sister’s penchant for stirring trouble, Margaret ignored that. “Malcolm did say he wished to mark his gratitude for our new son,” Margaret said. “I thought he would found a monastery or a church. This had never occurred to me. But what should I wear?” she added then. “I have had no time to consider the ceremony! Malcolm has been gone a fortnight—and returns ready to do this!”

  “The king says, Lady,” Godwin said making himself heard as the ladies spoke, “that while you cannot be full queen here due to your foreign blood, you should and will wear a crown. Bishop Fothad will explain all to you before the ceremony.”

  “I must have my own priests there as well,” Margaret replied. “Father Otto and Brother Brand, and you, Brother Godwin.” She was glad to have three Benedictines in her household, a step toward the religious strengthening that she felt would be good for Scotland now. Lanfranc’s kind letter—Truly, he wrote to her, He has spoken with thy mouth … Learn from me because I am gentle and of humble heart—had flattered her overmuch, she thought. But she was grateful that the archbishop had understood her best intentions.

  I would consider it a great honor if you would advise me as my most kind and benevolent father in the Church, she had written in reply. Heaven has seen fit to place me in Scotland, and so I will do my very best for the Scottish people. Lanfranc, as the highest authority of the Church in Britain, was therefore greatly interested in establishing the tenets of the Roman Church in Scotland. And he agreed with her that news of the goodwill and good works of the king and queen of Scotland should reach the wider world. Malcolm needed an improved reputation outside the bounds of his country—within it, too, she knew.

  Brother Brand was a surly fellow who had earned Cristina’s loyalty straightaway by agreeing with her on every point, hearing her confessions and giving her so little penance that she felt vindicated in her opinions, which pleased her no end. Brother Godwin, fair-haired and freckled, sometimes forgot his Latin and had a huge appetite. He also had a knack for ball playing and would scamper around the bailey with Duncan, Donald, and the children of servants and nobles in packs, scooting a feather-stuffed leather ball around, keeping the young ones out of mischief. And he sometimes made Margaret laugh, too, which few could do. She took her confessions to him rather than to lecturing Otto, and though Godwin did not always have the wisdom to counsel a queen, he was a frank and loyal friend.

  But she wished more and more that Tor had stayed at court. He would have been her choice for a personal confessor—she felt a natural harmony between them, both spiritual agreement and the ease of friends. In the past weeks she had received two letters from him telling of his work in the border area at Melrose. He wrote of the satisfaction of renewing a Benedictine house in an area where the farm could help some of those who were without food, with so many poor wandering out of England into Scotland. Her heart ached to hear again of the plight of so many—and she felt a swelling of pride, too, that Tor felt moved to help them.

  She had written to him quickly, eagerly, in her own hand rather than asking Brand to write it out for her. Praising Tor’s efforts, she knew that his humility would not accept the compliment for himself, but she wanted him to hear it from her. Then she had waited with almost girlish anticipation for a return letter, brought at last by a king’s messenger, who also carried a report from Tor to Malcolm and De Lauder, detailing his work on Malcolm’s commissioned manuscript.

  Margaret had shown part of her letter to Eva, for in a postscript Tor had asked that Eva write out a list of the kings who had preceeded Malcolm. Eva had agreed and had set to writing the names out—Margaret was pleased to see that the girl had a good, clear hand and could compose in Latin as well as Gaelic.

  Tor’s latest letter was still tucked in the little purse of necessaries at her belt, and now Margaret wished that he could be there for her crowning. She looked forward to writing to him about the event.

  “We had best hurry,” she told her ladies as Godwin left the room. “I have had hardly enough warning to change into a fresh gown! Finola, quickly,” she told the little Scottish maidservant, “my sky blue silk gown would be lovely for this, the one with the silver thread embroidery. Please shake the creases from it and freshen it with a warmed stone. I will be there soon.”

  Once changed, thankful for Finola’s efficiency, for the girl had also smoothed a gauzy white undergown and had laid out black silk slippers and stockings, Margaret slipped two wide silver bracelets on her wrists, and went to the great hall with her ladies and kinswomen to find others already gathering. Malcolm waited with a few members of his Scots council, whose Gaelic names Margaret found so difficult to pronounce, though Eva was helping her with such things lately. Fothad stood with two Celtic priests, one who had accompanied him and Brother Micheil, along with the Benedictines of the queen’s household.

  Tantalizing smells of supper filled the air, though she knew Dame Agnes had little time to prepare a proper coronation feast. But no matter: the king wanted this and so it would be done. The fire basket crackled with flames as Margaret took a seat on a leather-slung stool on the dais, her pale blue silk gown pooling at her feet. Folding her hands, she sensed her pounding heart.

  Fothad explained what would be required: she must only sit, wait, repeat a vow, and provide her head in graceful manner, doing all with the sincere and pure intention befitting her station. Malcolm stood waiting, arms folded, legs wide in the tough stance common to him.

  Hands pressed in prayer, Margaret bowed her head while the Scottish bishop spoke blessings over her in Gaelic. Then he gave a benediction in Latin and asked her to repeat a vow to act as a fair and good queen to her king and his people. Father Otto spoke prayers, which she said with him. Then Malcolm beckoned, and Margaret expected to see the crown carried forward by one of the priests.

  Instead, Eva stepped out between the priests and walked toward her, while Brother Micheil carried a pillow with a narrow golden circlet on it. Margaret sat straighter, astonished to see Eva. The girl wore a pale gown, her black hair shining loose, her eyes vivid. She emanated purity and power, and seemed to strangely belong. When she began to recite in Gaelic, her voice melodious and rhythmic, Malcolm nodded approval. Margaret realized that Eva recited a list of the names of the King’s predecessors—some of whom were the girl’s own deposed and murdered kinsmen.

  Minutes later, the list complete, Eva turned to Margaret and pronounced her a queen, all in the Gaelic tongue, and then lifted the small chaplet of beaten gold and set it on Margaret’s head, which was bare of its usual veil. The sharp-pointed leaves along the golden base pricked her scalp. Eva lifted her hands and stood back.

  “Queen Margaret,” she
said. “Lady of Scotland.”

  Malcolm stepped forward to take Margaret’s hand and brought her to her feet. Those watching clapped and smiled, though Margaret saw that some of the Scots nobles stared, arms folded. The occasion did not please all of them, apparently. But she smiled as suited her role.

  As soon as she had a chance, she turned toward Eva. “Thank you,” she said. “How did you come to be involved, rather than the priests? Is it because you are a bard? I do not understand.”

  “It is a hereditary right through my mother’s Macduff kin, and through my grandmother, too, who is also of that line. And bards are part of the ceremony to ensure that previous kings are named and honored. The one who is the current crowner of Scottish royalty could not be here, so it fell to me to do this for you.”

  Margaret touched the golden fillet on her head. “Who should have done? Your uncle?”

  “Lady Gruadh,” Eva said. “She has the right to crown Scottish royalty.”

  Margaret paused, staring at Eva.

  Malcolm took her arm then. “Come, Margaret. Supper is served. I am hungry.”

  DEEP WINTER SNOW kept them inside Dunfermline for days, with the household growing so restless that many gathered in the silvery snow light to eat at midday. Hector the Saxon told of a hero long gone; though the story was vivid and exciting, he seemed to drone on. Malcolm and his comrades spoke of battles and victories. Eva, restless, too, and thinking often of home again, grew attentive when she heard the name Macbeth put about a good deal. The men recounted tales for dark-haired Donald, curious and rambunctious, and Duncan, his father in miniature, though calmer and almost stony at times.

  Malcolm asked Eva to play her harp while Hector took a draught of ale to soothe his throat. She played a string of melodies, some of Margaret’s favorites, for the queen was there, too, looking pale and weary. Snow and cold did not suit the queen, who looked very thin lately; she thrived better with sunlight and warmth, though Eva never heard her complain.

  Malcolm had enough to drink that afternoon that he must have forgotten Eva was there, for he suddenly boomed her father’s name, laughing, in conversation. Hearing that, she looked his way, still plucking through the fingerings of a song.

  “Lulach the Fool!” he shouted. “Baobach, the dimwitted—hah! He made a monk’s decision—peace over revenge. I grant he was young, but he was a fool to meet me thinking of peace—” He stopped when Margaret laid a hand on his sleeve and murmured.

  Eva played on as if she had not noticed. But she had her grandmother’s temper. If her father had plotted like a monk, she would plot like a Viking, with thoughts of revenge. What she could say, what she should do, whirled in her head.

  A moment later Edgar came toward her with a cup of wine in his hand. “Pay the king no mind,” he said. “It is just warrior boasting, and nothing to worry over.”

  “I know what is worth my worry, what to let pass, and what to keep in mind,” Eva said tersely.

  “Be careful. That spark in your eyes is neither worry nor peace.” He tilted his head as he regarded her. Then he set the cup on the floor for her and returned to the table.

  “Lady Eva, give us another song,” Malcolm called out.

  She settled the harp against her shoulder anew, lifted her hands to the strings, then paused deliberately. Not many there knew her parentage, or that the king had just dealt her and hers a direct slight. Most knew only that she was one of the queen’s women, with a talent for music and a face worth gazing upon, so only a few would understand the song she was about to give the king. But Malcolm would comprehend it—that was what mattered.

  She plucked the path of strings. Had her harp been a weapon, it could not have fit the grip of her anger any better. Lifting her head, she began to sing in Gaelic.

  Bring to me a harp for my king

  A magical knot-carved one

  Upon whose strings I shed my grief

  For the loss of my father so young

  A fair young man, fierce and bright

  He held a champion’s seat

  The men of Moray rode at his back

  And he like a strong young tree

  Fair-haired Lulach fathered me

  Let me praise Gilcomgan’s son

  A bright and worthy branch

  Cut down by Duncan’s blood

  Silence filled the room when she finished. Then Malcolm pounded his fist on the table and roared like a boar’s bluster. “Her father was a fool! More fool the daughter for this. Get her out of here!” He gestured to two housecarls, who stepped forward.

  Eva stood, tilting her harp to rest on its base, then turned to Edgar, who was now striding toward her. “Look after my harp,” she said quickly. “I must leave it here. Likely he will forbid me to play.”

  “What did you do?” he asked. “I did not understand your song, though clearly Malcolm did. He is furious.”

  “I sang of my father, King Lulach.”

  “Ah. That would rile him. Is it so, what they say of Lulach? Aye, then. Perhaps the king feels guilt over it.”

  “I hope so,” she said curtly.

  “Your temper will not serve you well here, though I cannot blame you. Leave her be,” he added as the guards took Eva’s arms. But Edgar was not their lord and they were obliged to follow the king’s orders, though they seemed uneasy with it. Allowing them to guide her forward, Eva glanced back at the prince, who rested a hand on her harp and watched her go.

  Chatter buzzed through the hall. The king looked like thunder, and Margaret looked puzzled, questioning her husband. Eva realized that the queen had not understood the Gaelic either, and would be bewildered, as were others from the Saxon court. A few there would recognize Eva’s reference to her father’s death—the rest would see only her defiance.

  “Hold!” The man’s voice was loud enough for most to hear, and Eva turned as her uncle, Kenneth Macduff, entered the room. “Hold, I say!”

  Eva caught her breath as he approached the dais, shaking the snow from his cloak. She wondered if he had heard enough of her song to know what had transpired. Macduff walked past her to stand before Malcolm.

  “Let the girl go,” he said. “She is hot-tempered. That song was just the mewling of a kitten.”

  “Raised by a lioness,” Malcolm returned.

  “Declawed,” her uncle said dismissively of Gruadh. “As for Lady Eva, the best bards have fire in the soul. For her music alone she should be forgiven.”

  “For her kinfolk she should be condemned,” Malcolm said.

  “She is kin to me,” Macduff pointed out, tapping his chest.

  “Then get her out of my hall,” Malcolm barked.

  Macduff went toward Eva. “Girl, could you not have played a pretty song?”

  “If you heard the song, did you hear the king’s remarks before that?”

  “I did. But what you did was dangerous.”

  “I sang in honor of my father.”

  “And now your king may decide that you never sing again.” He indicated the dais, where Malcolm spoke with Hector. “Be wary, girl. Damn that weasel,” he said in Gaelic, taking her arm and turning. “What right does the Sassenach bard have to speak in this matter?”

  “Sire, certain punishments are reserved just for bards,” Hector was saying to Malcolm. “If this girl is well trained, she will know that.”

  Malcolm nodded. “True, I could require that she clip her pretty fingernails.”

  Eva caught her breath. An old punishment recorded in Irish law was the cutting of a bard’s nails so that a wire-strung harp could not be played for weeks, but she had not known the sentence to be invoked outside of the old tales. She moved toward the king, past her uncle and the guards.

  “Sire, you may choose to punish me by tradition,” Eva said, facing Malcolm. “But I can play a gut-strung harp regardless of my nails.” She held up her hands, palms flat. “I would have to lose my very fingers to keep from playing the harp. In fact, tales tell of a harper without arms, who played with his
feet.” Spiteful and angry, she tread even closer to danger if Malcolm was furious enough to follow through.

  “You have your grandmother’s manners, I see. Remove her from here,” Malcolm told her uncle, who walked toward her. “She is forbidden to play music in this hall until I say otherwise.”

  Relieved then to be excused, Eva went with her uncle, joined by the two housecarls that Malcolm motioned toward them. Voices murmured all around, and when her guards stopped at the door, bowing their heads deferentially, Eva turned to see Margaret walking toward them.

  “Lady Eva will come with me,” the queen said. A mere look from her and the guards stepped back. “Eva, I wish to retire to my room,” she said. “I told the king that you may come with me. I do not understand why he is so insulted, but I know you can explain it to me. Sir Kenneth, thank you,” she told Macduff. “It was kindly done to defend Eva as you did.”

  “Lady,” Macduff said. “I give my wayward niece into your custody. Eva, take care.”

  As her uncle returned to speak with the king, Eva walked beside Margaret. “Thank you,” she said as a few of the ladies who had attended supper joined them a few steps behind.

  “Why is Malcolm so upset? I did not understand the Gaelic,” Margaret reminded her.

  “I sang a song of praise for my father.”

  “What is wrong in that? Even if it was a hymn in the Scottish tongue rather Latin, the king would not be so bothered. Was it blasphemous?”

  Eva laughed. “Not that Father! My own father—King Lulach. Malcolm did not like it.”

  “Ah,” Margaret said. “I heard what he said about your father. Responding to that was bravely done in a way, but foolish, too.”

  “I could not remain silent when my father’s memory was insulted by the one who saw to his murder—so it is said, though never proven. If my rudeness shocks you, Lady, perhaps you will not wish me to serve you. I should be sent home to Moray,” she said quickly.