Queen Hereafter Read online

  “I want you to stay with me. And Malcolm will not release you yet. Eva,” she said thoughtfully, “I do understand how you feel about your father. My own was unfairly killed when I was a girl.”

  “Oh my dear,” Eva said impulsively. “I did not know.”

  Margaret shook her head. “Tell me this. The king threatened to have your fingernails trimmed in punishment, and forbade you to play—but why?”

  “The Gaelic verses told the truth of my father’s death.”

  “Ah. I know so little of the language. I have been thinking—Eva, you must teach me more Gaelic.”

  “I am happy to do that.” And it might keep her out of a dungeon, she quickly realized.

  “If I could converse a little with the Celtic priests, I could better convince them to respect Rome. Please come inside,” she said as they reached the door of her solar.

  Once seated, Margaret took up a piece of embroidery, and Eva did the same. Lady Juliana and her stepmother entered the room after them, and a few minutes later, Eva looked up with surprise to see Edgar standing in the threshold. He held Eva’s harp in his hands, having carried it up the stairs. Margaret beckoned him inside, and he set the instrument on a table.

  As Eva thanked him, he smiled. “Malcolm suggested that I toss the harp out a window,” he said, as Eva gasped. “But the harp did nothing to deserve it.”

  Eva laughed a little. “The king would rather toss me from a window.”

  “That may be. But I would have stopped him. I would have caught you,” he added in a low tone, a little shyly. Then he looked around with reluctance, as if newly aware that they were not alone. The other women smiled with amusement, though Margaret frowned without comment. Edgar inclined his head in polite farewell and departed, cheeks showing pink through his light golden beard.

  Drawing the needle through the cloth in the silence that followed, Eva felt at odds, sewing while her harp sat by, and she forbidden to play it.

  “Eva, please, a little music.” Margaret spoke as if she knew her thoughts.

  “I am not permitted.”

  “The king need not know what he need not know.” Margaret smiled quickly and impishly, as if enjoying her rare defiance. “Malcolm said do not play in the hall, but this is my solar. Music will relax us after such a trying evening. We retire to bed so early in the winter, and a harp melody before sleep would be soothing.”

  Eva moved another stool beside the low one that held the harp, and lifted her hands to the strings to begin a tune that was gentle but uplifting, and then went seamlessly on to another. Juliana and Edith began to yawn as Eva played a tune of the sort called the music of sleeping. The queen sent them on, and they bade good night, leaving Eva with Margaret.

  She glided her fingers into another melody, while Margaret sat reading her Gospel in silence. The leather covers flopped open, worn at the edges from years of handling, and the queen traced graceful fingers over text and images that she knew well. After a while, the door of the solar opened and Mirren entered, carrying Margaret’s little son wrapped in trailing swaddling clothes. Taking the child on her shoulder with kind words of affection, Margaret dismissed Mirren and began to walk holding Edward, soon humming softly to the music as she patted his back.

  Plucking the strings together as the song ended, Eva lifted her hands. Margaret turned.

  “Play the song about your father for me, in English.”

  Eva nodded and closed her eyes to think through the translation, knowing that her bardic training would help her as she sang. The words tumbled forth, the greater challenge in finding the rhythm. Margaret listened, swaying gently as she held her son. Her translucent veil cast a shadow over her pensive features in the candlelight.

  When Eva finished, the queen’s eyes glistened with tears. “You loved your father very much. I, too, loved and respected my father.”

  Eva had met Lulach but once and so had not truly known him, but she was deeply proud of him even so. And she envied, a little, Margaret’s affection for her own father. “Lulach was a good king, unfairly slain,” she said.

  “My father would have been king of England, and a strong ruler. But he was … poisoned one night. I—I had a hand in it,” she said in a rush. “Oh—forgive me, I did not mean to say it …” Margaret looked pale, stricken.

  “A hand in that? You could never do anyone harm,” Eva reassured her. “I heard of your father, the heir to King Edward, when I was a girl. I remember my grandmother speaking of him at supper one night. She said he was a good man who had been killed due to others’ ambitions.”

  “His enemies were ready when we arrived in England. I was eleven, and I made a terrible error that night. My father might be alive now if not for what I did. All our lives would have been different. William might never have won England.”

  Leaning the harp away, Eva stood. “A child’s deed did not cause the war. It is not possible.”

  Margaret lifted a shoulder. “What if it were so?”

  “Your memory is that of a child, Lady,” Eva said. “You cannot be to blame for his death.”

  “No matter,” Margaret said quickly. “I spoke too freely. We will not discuss it again. But your music was calming, and you … have proven a friend.”

  “I am honored, Lady,” Eva responded, drawing her brows together as she wondered at Margaret’s revelation. The queen held herself accountable for some sin; that was clear from her constant praying, and perhaps this supposed deed was it. Eva sighed, aware that if she had blamed herself for Lulach’s death a fortnight after he risked visiting her in Fife, that burden would have been unbearable. She felt a little frisson of sympathy for Margaret, who must have tormented herself for years with inner accusations. Eva wanted to offer comfort, touch the woman’s shoulder or embrace her. Instead she traced her fingers over the harp strings, releasing soothing whispers of sound.

  “I admired you so much tonight, Eva,” Margaret said. “Your song about your father took courage. I do not have such bold spirit in me. But now I know that you think of your murdered father as I do mine. In a way, that makes us sisters.” She kissed her infant’s head. “The little one needs to go to sleep now, and his nurse waits outside. And I need to go to the house chapel again before I retire tonight. Good night, Eva.”

  She went to the door to pull it open, supporting her infant in one arm. The nurse was there, reaching out for the child. As Margaret descended the steps toward the chapel, the sound of her footsteps cascaded as if she ran.

  WHEREVER THE QUEEN WENT, Eva went, too. As the king’s hostage, and still forbidden to play harp for the court, she had little else to do but watch the dynamic, demanding king and his somber, charitable, beautiful wife. She garnered what observations she could to please her grandmother, and yearned to go home, lonely despite the friendships she had made. Margaret was good to her, Juliana was a joy, and Edgar made her heart beat fast and oddly—but he was often away. Even when he was there and greeted her, lingering to chat, his Saxon and Scots comrades would pull him away for debates, chess, or dice.

  What troubled her even more than her disgrace, Eva realized one day, was that her music was suffering since Malcolm had limited her playing. She had believed, however foolishly, that she would have the privileges of a court bard in Dunfermline. Instead, she was housed like a servant and watched like a prisoner, and now for the most part silenced.

  She knew that Hector profited by her eclipse, making a show of playing after supper, even adding more Irish melodies to his performances. “Hector is an evil man, to gloat so over your fall from favor,” Wynne told her. “Do not let that bother you. We know who is the more gifted!”

  The Saxon poet knew no Gaelic and had not mastered the old tunes as Eva had done, so that sometimes she wanted to stand and walk out of the hall when he struck the beginning chords of an Irish tune, for he did not always capture its spirit. But the king’s stern gaze discouraged her. She would not cross him again until there was more to gain from it.

  One evening
as Hector was beating the life out of one of the Irish tunes, Ranald mac Niall and Angus of Mar joined Eva at the table and spoke to her kindly, saying they missed her music. And Angus shook his head.

  “If that poet were a Scot,” he remarked, “he would know the code of honor that binds seanachaidhean to each other in loyalty. He would help you regain favor with the king.”

  “He does have an exalted position in this court,” Ranald agreed. “But we have influence with the king as well. We will speak to him about this.”

  “No one need help me,” Eva said. Her fingers itched so to play that she curled them into fists in her lap. “I made the choice to sing of Lulach, and I will bear the consequences.”

  “Ah, you are the granddaughter of Macbeth and Gruadh,” Angus murmured, smiling.

  As Hector finished the Irish tune and began to tell a story from the oldest Irish cycle, Eva sighed. She wanted to play, and needed to practice. Both were essential to her art, and that routine was as important to her as prayers were to the queen. The intricate notes and fingering patterns of music could vanish from the mind without due practice, and callused fingers could lose toughness and strength.

  Nor could her work of remembering be neglected for long. Bards did not capture music and verses on parchment but stored them in memory, to be refreshed and elaborated on during solitary hours of review and creation. She had little freedom or solitude, and at times she felt desperately that she must practice or wither; play and sing, or go mad.

  MARGARET CLIMBED INTO BED, wondering if Malcolm would suggest some robust intimacy before sleep—if so, she would tell him what she now suspected, that she was carrying a new child. Feeling weary and sick that day, she had eaten little and had spent hours with Dame Agnes in the musty storerooms beneath the main tower, going through crates, sacks, and barrels as they inspected the stored goods that had lasted through the spring. Then she had soaked in a bath to take away the dust of the day, and had ordered a warm tub left for the king, the water freshened with herbs. Now, seated on the bed in her shift, her hair over her shoulder like rippling gold, she drew her fingers through the tangles. When Malcolm entered the room, his hair in dark ringlets from the bath, she stood.

  “Sire, I will take to bed early tonight. I am tired,” she said.

  He slipped a hand to her cheek. “I have just been to see our little Edward,” he said. “He is a fine boy. I would not mind if there was another child soon.” He glanced down at her figure, which she knew was already thickening.

  Margaret felt herself blush. “There will be … by year’s end, I think.”

  “Good. I did wonder, though ladies keep such things to themselves. And you keep too many secrets, Margaret. Unnecessarily so.”

  “I will try to do better in future,” she promised. Some of those secrets, she thought, she would never reveal. For an instant, she thought of her letters to and from Brother Tor, for she sensed that Malcolm would be displeased to know that his queen corresponded with a mere monk who had angered him by settling in Scottish territory without permission. But it was friendship, only that. All her deeds were known and counted in heaven, and that was enough, she assured herself.

  Malcolm leaned down to kiss her, drawing her into his arms. He rarely kissed her outside of their encounters in bed, and now she expected his usual advance to follow—a hand to her breast or the hard press of his body—but he only turned and left the room.

  At sunrise, she heard the sounds of men departing in the courtyard—hooves on packed earth, the clatter of armor and weapons, voices calling out. She rose from bed and drew aside a shuttered window, peering out as riders cantered through the gate. Malcolm rode in the lead under the fluttering blue banner stitched with a boar’s image, which he favored.

  She sank to her knees to pray, her stomach queasy again. Thin sunlight glowed over her hands and tousled hair as she gave thanks for the well-being of her family and begged forgiveness for her sins, each of them, as she did every day. Then she begged intercession from the warrior saints George, Mercurius, and Julian for her husband. Malcolm did not pray often enough, and she had rarely seen him earnest at what prayers he made.

  Since the first weeks of her marriage, she had begun fervent, secret appeals on his behalf, and now she feared to abandon her effort if it kept him safe. Perhaps her faith could be stronger, she told herself. Perhaps prayer, once expressed, took on a life of its own in God’s ear and did not bear repeating, yet she did not know for sure. If she relaxed her diligence, dangerous forces might slip through her net of prayer, like icy cold through chinks in a wall, and let grief back into her life. Beginning to feel glimmers of happiness, she feared that it would not stay.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The busy cuckoo calls,

  welcome noble summer …

  The harp of the wood plays melody,

  its music brings perfect peace

  —IRISH, TENTH CENTURY

  Eva drew her lightweight cloak snug despite the warmth of the summer morning. Tucked inside the silk lining was a parchment for Lady Gruadh, which she would soon give to the one who would send it on to Moray. By midday, she would be at Saint Serf’s monastery—and then her only challenge would be to find some moments alone with Abbot Drostan so that she could discreetly hand him the letter.

  She had not sent a message to her grandmother in a while, and so this one contained the news of the last several months—the birth of the queen’s first son and the news that she was expecting already; and the arrival of Brother Tor, the author of the manuscript Lady Gruadh wanted to possess. If her letter was discovered, Eva would face serious questions, but the folded page was safe inside her cloak. She smiled and raised her face to the sunlight, happy to be outside and traveling again—the queen’s condition and sedate activities had kept her ladies confined, too—and Eva looked forward to seeing Abbot Drostan.

  She rode with the other women in a van fitted with cushions and a canopy with linen curtains now open to allow sunlight and wide views of the green hills and summer meadows of Fife. Seated between Margaret and Cristina, she felt every bump as the wooden vehicle moved along a rutted road north toward Loch Leven. The queen’s condition prevented her from riding, but she had been determined to make the journey that day. Soon enough they reached a wide, cobbled stretch of old Roman road, and the way became easier. While the other ladies crowded in the van—including Cristina, Juliana, and Gudrun, with Wynne and Finola, too—chatting together, Margaret turned the pages of her little Gospel, mouthing the words. Eva rode facing outward, savoring the air and the beauty of Fife, where she had spent her childhood years.

  Brother Micheil had offered to escort the queen and her ladies to Loch Leven, an island monastery well north of Dunfermline. The party was guarded by several housecarls riding alongside the wagon, and Prince Edgar had decided at the last moment to go, too. Eva saw him now, riding beside Micheil, in pleasant conversation.

  “Eva, tell us again the name of the place we are visiting,” Cristina said. “Why must we ride out to see yet another Scottish church? They are all alike—nice little chapels, yet some have pagan features. It might be sinful to pray in such places!”

  Eva was glad Brother Micheil had not heard that. “But Saint Serf’s monastery is not pagan in its origins. The first priory on Loch Leven was built long ago when Saint Serf—Saint Servanus, who was a pope of Rome—traveled far north to settle in Scotland, once he saw the beauty of that place.”

  “A pope!” Christina said, while Margaret looked up, her attention caught.

  “A pope,” Eva said. “We are not so far removed from Rome as you may think.”

  “Ladies,” Brother Micheil said as he caught up to them. He gestured. “Rome would indeed approve, for this road is part of the pilgrimage road that leads to Saint Andrews, and is part of the larger route that begins in Spain. The devout come from all places to follow this Scottish road, and they visit our other holy sites along the way, including Loch Leven. The pilgrimage routes are the drove ro
ads in Scotland, too, so they can be crowded on market days. We are fortunate to have it to ourselves today.”

  The road cut between golden moors and rumpled hills beneath a bright sky, leading onward. As the day grew warmer, the escort stopped in small villages once or twice for refreshment. Later, as they continued, Brother Micheil rode beside the wagon and named native saints who had once lived nearby, here and there.

  “I would like to see the cells and caves where the holy ones lived and prayed,” Margaret said. “It is a boon for Scotland to have a pilgrimage route in Fife. One day soon I would like to walk it myself, at least through Scotland.”

  “Next year, Margaret,” Edgar said, riding close to the wagon, “when you are fit for it, after the babe.”

  As they traveled, Margaret asked Eva to correct her pronunciation of the Gaelic names of the Celtic saints, though Eva admitted to knowing little about their lives. Margaret shook her head. “I do worry about the state of your soul, Eva,” she said. “You should know your saints!”

  “If there are songs about saints, I know those.” Eva laughed.

  Margaret smiled, then turned to speak to her sister. Eva saw Edgar riding beside the van again, mounted on a pale stallion with a braided mane, a tall Saxon-bred horse. She thought the human rider equally beautiful.

  “It is a good day for a tour,” he said. “My sister seems pleased.”

  “Aye. She has been confined overmuch lately.”

  He nodded. “Malcolm has insisted that she remain hidden for her own protection.”

  “Protection against the Normans?”

  “Aye. There is always the danger that they could come north. King William still demands the return of the royal Saxon fugitives. But he has gone to France for now, so Malcolm gave permission for Margaret to travel if inclined. Fortunately Saint Andrews is too far for a day’s journey,” he added. “I fear she would go there on her knees, even in her state.”