Queen Hereafter Read online

  Duncan and Donald stayed on, dividing their hours between tutors at the table and wooden swords in the practice field, and played with the children of nobles and servants, while Lady Edith and Cospatric’s son, Dolfin, became like a brother to Malcolm’s sons. Margaret found time each day to read to the boys herself, and she pointed out to Malcolm how well they got on with each other.

  “A child’s affection is without guile,” she told him when he complained about too many young ones underfoot, chasing about the great hall and the bailey or fussing during supper. “The one who nurtures them is nurtured in return. And we learn good charity from little ones. We benefit by keeping them close.” She eagerly awaited the birth of her second babe, now tumbling and lively within, and wished for more babes in the future, if heaven willed it so.

  Sometimes she fed little Edward herself, asking Dame Agnes to bring boiled gruel thinned with goat’s milk for him. Other mornings, Mirren brought Edward, Dolfin, and other small children to the hall and Margaret would cuddle them one at a time on her lap and feed them from her own porridge bowl, though her women scolded her for not eating enough herself.

  “If I forget to eat sometimes, it is fine,” she said. “The company of children is food for my soul, and better for me than a little salty porridge.” They did not agree with her, but she carried on as if they did.

  The children did not provide an escape from other matters that clouded the days. Reports of King William’s continued wrath and Malcolm’s retaliations made it clear that her marriage had invited more violence upon the Saxon people. Messages reported ravages in the north country, homes and fields burned and destroyed, skirmishes and brutalities, evictions, rapes, murders: the annihilation of a people and a future. The Scots herded thousands more north to be taken in as slaves; no matter their previous rank. It was better than dying in a ditch, as Malcolm had once hinted.

  Yet Margaret could not help but feel that the destruction was partly her fault, and that awareness sickened her deeply. Her mother said she was ill because she was brewing a babe within, but bad news from England too often gave her knotty nerves and a rocky stomach. She could neither sleep nor eat, thinking of Saxons hungry and suffering, their children without shoes or cloaks, without porridge, without mothers to reach for them. Her own family had so much, and the contrast made her prayers more fervent. But she did not know how, as Queen of Scots, to help the Saxons.

  MACDUFF CAME TO COURT past harvest time and greeted Eva with a brief kiss and tentative affection—he told her she looked well and, holding her hands, asked after her harp playing.

  Unexpectedly she teared up, touched that he’d thought of it. “I have not been permitted since you were here last,” she said, and her uncle frowned.

  “I will speak to Malcolm of it. We have much to discuss with or without that,” he said when she protested.

  He met with the king and stayed for days as they joined with others in heated debates behind closed doors. When Angus of Mar and other Scottish leaders arrived, the king took the discussions out on horseback or on foot with hawks and hounds. Their daily hunts were so profitable that meals were generously supplemented with fresh roast venison and stewed hare, and grouse as well. Although Eva enjoyed the fresh dishes, the queen pushed most of her servings away, citing either a tender stomach or the need to fast.

  The last night that Macduff was there, planning to leave before dawn, he leaned toward Malcolm. “I would like to hear my niece play for the company,” he said. “We spoke of this.”

  Malcolm was silent for a moment, and Eva held her breath. “Very well,” he finally said, and she heard the begrudging in it. “Eva, have your harp brought down.”

  She gestured to Wynne, seated nearby, and the girl went up to their shared bedchamber to fetch the harp. Eva had kept to her room that day, practicing a few melodies, and so she knew the instrument was tuned. She settled the harp against her left shoulder, thought for a moment, then glanced toward the king. He looked tense, his face drawn. She bowed her head.

  “Here is a song,” she said, “that I composed in praise of my mother, Lady Leven of Fife, who was kinswoman to good Macduff. She first taught me to find the music hidden in the harp strings.”

  Her love promised her a mirror

  So her beauty she could see,

  A veil of silk and a silver ring

  And a harp-tree for melodies

  Eva sang all the verses, some of them sad with longing, and played the delicate tune that so reminded her of her mother’s grace. When she finished there was silence, and a few people dashed away tears, including the queen. Malcolm, looking grim, said nothing. He could not gainsay a song made for her dead mother, though Eva knew he would note the implication that her mother had loved Lulach, whose song had caused such trouble for Eva several months ago.

  Before she left the hall that night, having lingered to bid her uncle farewell, Eva was surprised when Kenneth Macduff offered her a purse of coins. “Your song for Leven was beautifully done, and took courage. You are a bold girl.”

  She shook her head at his gift. “Please, I cannot accept this. A bard should not trade music for coin.”

  “This is not for your music. It is from me in trade for years of neglecting you.”

  “You gave me a dog and a pony,” she reminded him, half smiling.

  “I did. Use this for your keep here, or for your dowry.” He pressed the soft leather bag, heavy and full, into her hands. “I will grant you the rents from a parcel of land in Fife. You will be a wealthy woman and will marry well. There are fine young warriors here in the king’s court.”

  “And not one of them would marry a daughter of Moray, for fear the kinship would ruin his good name.” She guessed this would be so for Edgar the Saxon, too. No matter, she told herself, lifting her chin. But no one could quicken her heart or make poetry spin in her head as Edgar could.

  “I will discuss the matter of your marriage match with the king,” Macduff said.

  “Discuss it with my grandmother.”

  “I would rather negotiate with a trained bear,” he replied. “Now give this sack to the king to hold for you, rather than keep it under your bed.”

  “He might not give it back. I will entrust it to the queen.”

  “That one? She might give it away.”

  “Then you keep it for me.” Eva thrust the bag back into his hands. “I trust you. I do,” she said in a rush, knowing it was true, as if the years of mistrusting and resenting him for dumping her out of his household seemed to vanish in that moment. She was older, wiser—so was he. Forgiveness flowed in her unexpectedly, and for a moment she wondered if it was some magic from her mother’s song; she had not sung it in years, and it filled her heart.

  Macduff seemed caught for words, and leaned down to kiss her brow.

  IN ALL THE TIME she had been in Dunfermline, Margaret had never set foot inside Malcolm’s treasury, the locked room adjacent to the king’s bedchamber. Discovering from De Lauder that Malcolm was there one day, she made an impulsive decision and boldly climbed the stairs to knock and announce herself. After a moment he came to the door and turned the iron key from within so that she could enter.

  The room was small, dank, lit by the bright flicker of an oil lamp and the rainy light that came through the oiled parchment of a very small window. The space was crammed with chests and fitted with a table and stool, and Malcolm resumed his seat to hunch over the parchment sheets and rolled documents scattered there. He opened one and Margaret saw a long list written in a cramped hand, perhaps his own or that of a cleric. Rain drummed against the shutters. Poor weather was often the only reason the king stayed indoors.

  She turned. Arranged against the walls were large, locked chests and several small, metal caskets banded and engraved, with hinged, peaked tops—the sort used for containing relics, jewelry, or personal items. Two reliquaries were open, and Margaret saw the gleam of gold and silver: coins, jewels, and chains, literal handfuls, inside. Imagining what treasur
e the larger chests might hold, she tipped her head, contemplating. So much wealth sitting here, simply counted and stored; it would be better used for those in need, she thought, folding her arms.

  “The chests are not all stuffed with coins and jewels, if you think so,” Malcolm said, as if he knew her thoughts. “They hold other items—vessels and dishes, relics of ancient kings, some swords and daggers. And hundreds of documents—deeds, writs, lists, in rolls or as books.”

  She looked about. The walls were hung with embroidered panels, the floor covered in a thick woven tapestry, so that the room seemed hushed, dark, cushioned, protecting its secrets. “Nonetheless, the King of Scots appears to be wealthier than some would think,” she said.

  “There is wealth here, I grant. Not so much as once was, but less than in the future, if we are fortunate. Did you come here to tell me something?”

  She folded her hands. Seeing proof of his wealth excited her suddenly, gave her a sense of hope as the idea dawned. For weeks, she had been thinking about ways to do more charitable acts, partly because it was expected of her rank and position, and partly to lighten her own sins.

  “Dear husband,” she said with careful flattery, “I think often of the poor and suffering. Do you?” She did not let her gaze wander toward the gold and silver. Though she had immediately decided some of it must be shared, she dared not be too obvious.

  “If this is one of your frequent confessions, not that you have much wickedness in you,” he said, “I am not a priest. Or is it the woebegone mood of a woman with child?”

  “It is only a thought. Daily we hear of stragglers and survivors coming out of England. Some have found safety in Scottish households, but others still need our help.”

  “Then pray for them. It is the best you can do. Or does your tender heart long to spend the crown’s gold on more than silver spoons and curtain cloth?” He perused his account rolls.

  “Some of this treasure is mine, too, from my dowry,” she reminded him, indicating the chests. “And what I speak of is not tenderheartedness but simple strategy, sire. We must show Scotland’s charitable throne. Almsgiving will help make good your name in places far flung from Scotland. Our generosity would be smiled upon in heaven, too, on Judgment Day.”

  Malcolm cocked a brow. “I suspect you would give all we have to the poor, just to earn that.”

  She ignored that. “We could do even more if the court was in Dun Edin,” she said.

  “You, my dear, are safer in Dunfermline.”

  “I have been here ever since my family and I arrived, while you travel about place to place. I hear that many Saxon fugitives go to the town of Dun Edin. Most do not come this far north. We have been protected from the war here in Dunfermline.”

  “For good reason,” he said. “King William may yet bring Normans into Scotland, and he still demands your return to England, even now.”

  “I thought the threat of invasion was gone. We heard he went back to France, leaving his generals in charge in England.”

  “Lessened but not gone. He is in France for now but will return, and he may yet try to come into Scotland with his swords and fire arrows. I will not endanger you or our children.”

  “Dun Edin is one of the strongest fortresses in all Britain, I hear, and you are improving it further with stone walls and additions. It is secure. How can I be an effective queen if I am restricted to one place?”

  He paused. “I did plan to go to Dun Edin for a while, but first I mean to visit Saint Andrews to confer with Bishop Fothad and tour some of my northern properties. I might take you with me,” he said, glancing up from his columns of items and numbers, “when you are unburdened of your child.”

  “Soon enough,” she said, resting a hand on her high, rounded abdomen. “The babe kicks freely but no longer turns. The time is approaching. Take me on progress once he or she is born.”

  “I suppose you could sail to Saint Andrews with me. We could go from there to Dun Edin. Perhaps you are right. It is time the Scots saw more of their queen.”

  “Sail?” Suddenly the plan was much less appealing. She had taken ferries here and there for necessary local travel, but she held firm to her vow not to sail in a longship on the sea—besides, her stomach quailed at the very thought. Beyond the window, a hearty boom of thunder reminded her of storms and sinking ships. “But I do not want to sail.”

  “It is the fastest way to travel from here to Saint Andrews, and from there to Dun Edin.”

  “Surely there is a landward way.”

  “There is, if you go on pilgrimage, but that takes time, which I do not have.”

  Or patience, she thought. “I do not want to travel to Saint Andrews by ship.”

  “Margaret, it takes too long to cross the whole length of Fife on land, with a full entourage.”

  “When I arrived in Scotland, I vowed that if God brought us safe through those storms and to land, then I would keep away from the sea, and aid others in their own sea journeys.”

  “Woman,” he said, “that is a foolish vow. We must often travel by water in Scotland.”

  “I did not think of that at the time,” she admitted. “Still, I made the vow and will keep it.”

  “Stubborn!” He turned another page in the accounts. “At least you will not be sailing back to Hungary.” He seemed amused. “The faster route to Dun Edin is also by ship. What of that? Will you stay away?”

  Margaret shook her head, always serious; truly she did not know how to be otherwise. “But Scotland has a pilgrim’s route available to all. Saint Andrews houses the relics of the very first apostle. I must go on foot out of respect and devotion.”

  “If a queen walks a long pilgrimage, she will be said to be burdened by sin and guilt. Do you want that rumored of you?”

  “Piety is admirable. I will walk the last miles only.”

  “I suppose that will suffice.”

  “And I will only travel over land to Dun Edin,” she added, suspecting she had lost ground.

  He made an impatient gesture and she knew that he was done listening to her, intent on his documents, peering at a list of taxes recently paid. “After you are lighter of the child and recovered, we will make the journey. Margaret,” he added as she turned for the door. “Order spare cloaks and shoes made, in case you feel a need to give them away on your travels. And do not think about my treasure chests,” he warned, as she glanced at those again.

  “Of course not, sire,” she said, smiling.

  WITHIN THREE WEEKS, Margaret rose from her bed at the sound of bells, before it was light, to kneel at a little altar set in a corner of the bedchamber for her use. But her back ached as she prayed, and had ached all night. She had gone up and down stairs too much lately, she thought. But soon she felt the undeniable constriction of her womb, again and again within several minutes. Her time had come, and would soon be in earnest.

  Hearing that word, Malcolm left to dispatch a rider to fetch Mother Annot, who had been the midwife for the last babe and had been granted a cottage and plot of land closer to Dunfermline, giving her comfortable quarters while she waited out the weeks with the queen. Margaret sent Finola to wake her ladies and her kinswomen, but their chatter and company soon tired her and she sent some of them away, allowing her mother and Eva to remain, asking the latter to fetch her harp. If she could hear the music of sleeping, the soft melodies she loved best, Margaret reasoned that the birth might go easier.

  The waters burst just after Mother Annot arrived. Eva kept to a stool in the corner, playing, and Margaret labored quietly, intensely. At times she felt as if she floated on the delicate, soothing sounds, as if the harp strings were plucked by the angels of heaven itself, and as the pressures in her body grew more insistent, stranding Margaret in a storm she could not escape, she clung to the music as if to prayer.

  Hours passed, deep into the day, while she fought, surrendered, lost to all but the grinding demands of her body, the only relief the airy music lifting around her. Pushing, and pu
shing again, she threw herself fiercely into it by late afternoon, and finally felt the deep release as the child was born, but twelve hours from when she had first felt the twinges.

  “A beautiful boy,” Kata said, taking the bundle from the midwife. “Another fine prince!”

  Laughing, exhausted, Margaret took the new little one into her arms to gaze at his tiny face—flushed deep pink, eyes squinting and mouth already pursing, he had a wizened yet familiar look. He was fair and delicate—and she realized that he looked like her, as if she gazed into a tiny mirror and saw herself, years ago. Her heart nearly burst with the expanse of love she felt in that moment, for him and for herself, small like this once. She nuzzled him against her bare breast, holding up a hand to Lady Agatha when she began to protest, still believing that caution and fear were better than risk and love.

  “Tell Malcolm,” Margaret said, though someone had already been sent to find him in the great hall or in the bailey—he had sworn not to go far. “Tell him that his Edward must soon give up his cradle for a new brother.” Tears sprang to her eyes then, for she thought, too, of Edward, growing too fast from babe to child—but she would never say that aloud, or risk her mother’s snappish disapproval, even now, for being too attached to her children.

  Eva came forward, smiling as she looked at the babe. “He is a very pretty babe, and strong,” she added as his tiny fingers curled around her thumb. “What will you call him?”

  “Edmund,” Margaret said decisively. “I decided that if it was a boy, he would be Edmund for my grandfather, who was called Edmund Ironside. He was a king and a warrior.”

  “But Edward has a Saxon name. Should not this one be named for his Scots lineage?”