Queen Hereafter Read online

  “They are sons of a Saxon princess, descended of West Saxon kings, as well as of a Scottish king,” Margaret said, and looked up as Malcolm entered the room. “Come see our new prince, sire.”

  As he came forward gingerly, the child set up a lusty squalling. “Ah, this one is a warrior,” Malcolm said, smiling. “Were you just talking of a name to suit him?”

  “Edmund.” Margaret drew back the swaddling to better show his face.

  “Crinan is a proud name,” he suggested. “My grandfather was called so. I wanted it for our first son.”

  “Prince Edmund,” she said firmly, “will benefit from carrying the name of his Saxon great-grandfather, who was known to the wider world for his courage. Ironside, they called him. Our new son must be Edmund. I will not be gainsaid on this.”

  “Aye then,” Malcolm murmured. “The mother of such lusty princes shall have whatever she likes of me.”

  “Gold?” she asked eagerly. “A special almsgiving in honor of the new prince?”

  “I will think about it,” he said, and kissed her hand.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sagacious in spirit, elf-lovely lady

  —ANGLO-SAXON, EIGHTH CENTURY

  Two healthy sons!” Gruadh walked with Drostan and Ruari, gesturing, the March winds sweeping at her linen veils, whipping at her dark green gown and her cloak of pale plaid wool. Together with the men, she crossed a sloping meadow toward Elgin, having walked to chapel that morning and now back again. Whenever Drostan came to Elgin, which was not often, Gruadh made an effort to show pious ways—sincere enough, though there would be no competing with the southern queen. “How soon before she breeds another son? Fertile as a hare, she is, though she acts all but a saint. And her Scottish princes have Saxon names! Where is Malcolm in this?”

  “According to Eva’s latest note, which came last week with a messenger, the babes are healthy and Malcolm is improving into a fine Saxon king,” Drostan said.

  “As for the sons, if the queen’s babes are thriving, we can only be glad of it,” Ruari said.

  “I do not begrudge any woman joy in her sons,” Gruadh said. “But I am weary of reports of her beauty and intelligence, her charity and mercy. She gives away her own cloaks and shoes. She prays like a nun. Her hospitality is a marvel, with foreign foods on golden plates, foreign wines in precious goblets. She dresses Malcolm like a French king and teaches him courteous ways. He is content with pretty, praying Margaret and the wee Margaretsons, as Eva says the princes are called by some.”

  “When they are grown warriors, they will be the sons of Malcolm.” Ruari was pragmatic.

  “She has no Scots blood in her, this queen, and dilutes the royal Gaelic line in her sons. Drostan, you say she wishes to change the Celtic church, and has invited Benedictines north. The black-robes will reform us all, quick-like. Bless Eva for sending news at last,” she said, patting the leather purse at her belt, where she had tucked the parchment Drostan had delivered that day. “For all it is a catalog of praises. I want truth.”

  “There is much to praise in Margaret, and that is truth,” Drostan said calmly.

  “Even Eva hints at the queen’s perfection and saintliness. It is much to bear,” Gruadh said.

  “She has shaped the court to be more English, I vow, or French,” Ruari admitted, “but it is good for the Scottish court to learn the ways of the larger world. More ambassadors will be willing to visit. We will have more allies—and more support, should we need it against William one day.”

  “And we will be less Gaelic.” Gruadh had seen something of that in her visions, but she would not say it aloud. Drostan did not want to hear of the old methods, and Ruari paid them no mind.

  “The Gaels will always honor and protect the traditions of this land,” Ruari said. “Nothing that can happen in the south will change that.”

  “The Englishing of Scotland,” she remarked. “We knew it would come. Macbeth knew it, too, years gone.”

  “And did not fear it,” Ruari said gently. “He welcomed what was good for Scotland.”

  “That is the crux of it.” Gruadh paused on the hillside to gaze across the moorland toward Dun Elgin, which crowned the steep-sided hill that supported and protected it. “What suits lower Scotland does not always suit upper Scotland. As Malcolm adopts more Saxon ways, he stirs more thoughts of rebellion in Moray and elsewhere. We in Moray would be better off without this king if he continues to favor Saxons and lets the Normans in.”

  “There are many in Moray and elsewhere who would see the back of Malcolm,” Ruari said. “But if King William pushes north into Scotland, I believe Malcolm would resist with all he can muster, and if luck goes with him it would be enough.”

  “He has more luck than might,” Drostan remarked. “He is not as strong a leader as he thinks.”

  “Nor does he have the whole of Scotland at his back, and never did,” Ruari agreed. “He has sided with the wrong party too often in the past, even before the Normans—he supported the wrong Saxon leaders, and the Danes who supported only themselves. Now he backs a prince no older than Nechtan and no match for William. Only a warrior with passion and talent and thousands of troops at his beck could win against William the Norman. Edgar is not that man.”

  “To be fair, that can be said of young Nechtan, too.” Drostan looked at Gruadh.

  “But if William comes into Scotland, we cannot trust Malcolm,” Gruadh said. “Rather, we must protect Moray however we can. And if Malcolm holds William at bay but continues to make Scotland into a Saxon land, I think we find a way to put Nechtan on the throne for the good of all the Gaels. He is young, but he is still the rightful blood leader of Moray as well as Scotland. And he can be ready.”

  “The lad has a scholar’s mind,” Drostan said. “He dreams of a monk’s life. You know that.”

  She did. And she knew that Nechtan was not the warrior his kinsmen had been—but now that Moray teetered on the sharp sword edge of rebellion, his bloodline was too significant. “He has a clever mind for strategy, and he understands the need.”

  “I believe that William would first demand Malcolm’s homage to him as king of England before he would attack,” said Drostan. “If Malcolm were to refuse that, there could be war on Scottish soil.”

  “Either way, those who once supported Macbeth have long memories,” Gruadh said. “If we must rebel against Malcolm, we would have the strength of other mormaers behind us. It is this push to let in Saxon ways or Norman forces that could bring Malcolm down in the end.”

  “But rebellion may not be necessary,” Ruari said calmly. “We need only show strength and threat if Malcolm makes a foolish move to endanger Scotland. That would bring others away from Malcolm and behind us.”

  “Before it comes to that,” Gruadh said, “we would have to bring Eva north again.”

  “Having a hostage makes the king feel safe, so he does not train his wolf’s eye this way,” Drostan pointed out.

  “True,” Ruari agreed. “And Malcolm will never let her go if he sniffs even a hint of rebellion from us.”

  THE KING WAS IN A TEMPER, Eva heard it said, because they must proceed to Saint Andrews by cart, horse, and foot rather than hasten south to Dun Edin. The journey could be rushed in a day if needed, but he had promised the queen that she could make part of the pilgrimage. Margaret held him to that, even though the Saxon lords and Edgar the Aetheling, too, had ridden south a fortnight earlier to Dun Edin, then farther into England. Rumors flew of a new, fierce rebellion forming, and Malcolm seemed anxious to reach his southern capital.

  But moving the household to a new royal center meant going slowly regardless, although Malcolm was used to riding quickly. The things of the household, such as garments, bedding, dishes, furnishings, and so on, had to be packed and taken along. Eva knew that part of his treasury had been taken, too, for Malcolm did not know how many months they would stay in Dun Edin. Those things had already gone by merchant ship across the firth to Leith harbor and from th
ere to the fortress of Dun Edin. The king’s party would head northeast through Fife, a lighter escort but for the cart loaded with some precious things, including Margaret’s best garments, and an exquisite gold cross that she planned to give to the bishop of Saint Andrews.

  Having wrapped her harp in leather and fur, Eva kept it slung on her horse’s saddle or tucked in the van when she traveled with the queen. Although she liked most of them, she did not relish sitting with the queen’s kinswomen, who found much to complain about. Another van carried the nurses, children, and maidservants. Duncan and Donald proudly rode with the king and his guards, that group in more of a hurry than the queen’s party.

  Before leaving Dunfermline, Eva had sent a messenger to Loch Leven with a note for Abbot Drostan intended for Lady Gruadh. She narrated for her grandmother mundane details of packing for Saint Andrews and Dun Edin, but chiefly Eva wanted her to know that the court was moving south. She kept to the facts, sensing that if she seemed excited about the adventure or happy to travel with her friends, the queen, Juliana, and others—let alone any interest in Edgar—then a phalanx of Moray men might be dispatched to snatch her home, hostage or none.

  THEY FOLLOWED THE COASTAL route toward Saint Andrews, for the pilgrimage roads were wide and cobbled there. Eva rode a white pony some of the time, enjoying the wide sky overhead, the vast expanse of the sea to the right, and the blue hills of Fife to her left. A few pilgrims walked the same wide road, intent on their missions, easily identified by the scallop shells and clay or metal badges they wore pinned to their cloaks and wide-brimmed hats.

  At times the queen ordered the escort to stop so that she could kneel and pray with the pilgrims. Moved by the plight of the poorest ones, she freely gave away her own things: her blue cloak to one woman, shoes to another, linen shifts, pretty gowns, embroidered purses, and silver coins to others. Inspired by the queen’s charity, the other ladies relinquished some of their things, too, giving veils, gloves, stockings. When Margaret looked pointedly at Eva, who stood by, she took the nod and gave her hair comb to a curly-haired child who needed not only that but a bath. Later, Margaret slipped into Eva’s hand a beautifully carved ivory comb, and would not take it back.

  Saint Andrews lay at the opposite, easternmost end of Fife, and they plodded toward it like a bunch of noble pilgrims, replete with cushioned vans, good saddles, and baskets of hearty food for when they halted in the shade. The king chafed at the pace and rode back impatiently to hurry them along, but Margaret took her time, stubbornly insisting on meeting pilgrims as well as stopping at chapels and tall stone crosses along the way for a prayer. By nightfall, quite late in the summer months, they were welcomed into the home of a thane whose wooden fortress perched on a hill behind a palisade. Malcolm had sent riders ahead to ask for shelter.

  On the second day, they made faster progress in sunshine and sea breezes, and met a large group of pilgrims, for they were drawing closer to Saint Andrews. As Margaret stopped to kneel with them for prayers, Eva realized that she had never seen Margaret quite so happy except when she played with her little sons. When some of the pilgrims pointed out a cairn of stones along the road as the place where a Scottish saint had once rested on pilgrimage, she seemed exhilarated.

  Had Margaret been free to live a saint’s life herself, Eva was sure she would have done so, and would have been worthy. Within Margaret’s heart was the seed of an extraordinary life not lived. She had a true acolyte’s ability to commune in ecstasy with God. Margaret still yearned for that, Eva thought, watching her, feeling humbled by her genuine, heartfelt devotion to all the daily demands and promised rewards of her faith. Margaret craved something, Eva saw, in her piety, an appetite that grew more fervent, even as her earthly appetite seemed to diminish.

  Within a few miles of the town of Saint Andrews and the little church at Kilrymont where the relics of the apostle Andrew were actually kept, Eva saw another crowd of pilgrims ahead, and the royal escort slowed. Though she respected the pilgrimages of others without interest in doing the same herself, she took more delight in the adventure than she had expected.

  Margaret then asked the driver of her van to stop. She climbed out despite the protests of her women, lifted her skirts slightly, and began to walk. The king turned to ride toward her, stretching out an arm, offering to lift her up to his saddle if she was weary of the wheeled vehicle. She shook her head.

  “I am within miles of the relics of an apostle,” she told him, within Eva’s hearing. “There are only two other places with such treasures—the traces of Saint Peter in Rome and Saint James in Santiago. I may never see either of those places, but I am here now, and humbled. I will walk.”

  Without waiting for Malcolm to answer, Margaret lifted her skirt hems out of the road dust and tramped ahead at a brisk pace to catch up to the other pilgrims.

  Malcolm turned in his saddle, saw Eva, and beckoned. “You, Lady Eva,” he said. “Go with the queen. She speaks little Gaelic, and her manners are too fine—no matter how humble she thinks she is, she will give herself away, and there will be the devil to pay with a crowd. She only wants the peace of this place. Walk with her.”

  Nodding, she dismounted and handed her horse’s reins to one of the guards. When the king called out after her, she turned.

  “Aeife,” he said, “tell a maidservant to bring Margaret a straw hat and a flask of water. She will be sick from sun, fair as she is. I vow she has not eaten much today.”

  “Sire,” she said. “I will do it myself.”

  “Thank you,” he answered. “I am indebted to you. She wants to do this on her own, but I—” He stopped.

  “But you are concerned for her well-being, as any good husband,” she finished. He nodded.

  Eva fetched two hats and water flasks from Wynne inside the van, and hurried to join the queen. Margaret seemed in a fever to get to the church of the apostle, and they walked for nearly two hours, the escort following slowly and discreetly behind. Margaret stumbled to her knees more than once, for she had eaten and sipped very little that day. The king rode close once or twice, and Eva thought he might simply snatch up the queen and lift her to his horse.

  But she saw, too, though Malcolm had little tolerance for the pace of the journey and very little interest in pilgrimages, he showed much patience for his queen.

  “WE LEFT THE BISHOP in quite a contented mood,” Margaret confided happily to Eva as they waited for Malcolm and the rest of the escort outside the little church at Kilrymont. “He has a coffer of gold from the king and a special gift from me—that gold cross, all bejeweled, once belonged to my great-uncle, King Stephen of Hungary, who may be named a saint by Rome someday. It is not the cross Bishop Fothad hoped for, but he says it will do.”

  Eva nodded at the smiling queen. She had passed an hour in prayer with Margaret, kneeling before a stone sarcophagus and an altar that housed a metal reliquary inset with crystal so that relics within were partly visible: part of an arm, a foot bone, and a few toenails of Saint Andrew were enough to create miracles, according to some, having been brought all the way to Scotland by Saint Regulus, or Rule. A great church in honor of Andrew and Rule would soon be constructed now that heaven, via the king and queen of Scotland, had helped to fund it.

  When the escort appeared without Malcolm, De Lauder, who had ridden along with them, informed the queen and Eva that Malcolm waited for them along the road southward. Then he led them a short way to the coast, where Malcolm waited, pacing on board a longship.

  Eva stood by awkwardly as Margaret protested, despite hours and days of prayer and penance. And the king’s inherent impatience, long suppressed, erupted.

  “We will not travel by land, which would take weeks at your pace,” he nearly shouted, “but by good Norse-built ships—fast, efficient, and safe, Margaret. Your gear is on board already,” he went on, “including your gowns and your crosses, your women, my housecarls, the servants, the dogs, the horses—and our sons in their nurses’ arms!”

  �
��But you know I have vowed never to travel by sea!” The queen, standing up to her husband, looked slight beside him, and in such a fury that her cheeks went deep rose and her hands fisted. “I must travel by land.”

  “Alone?” he demanded.

  “Eva would come with me,” Margaret countered. Malcolm flicked his gaze toward Eva, who stood wary and silent.

  “Margaret, this ship will follow the coast, and will not head out to sea. At Dun Edin, we will cross like the damned ferry that goes back and forth there. Your vow is for ocean travel.”

  “I cannot divide my vow into particulars, in sight of holy Saint Andrew himself!”

  “He cannot see this. Only his toenails are in that church,” Malcolm said, as Margaret gasped. “I am done with girlish oaths said in haste. We must reach Leith harbor and Dun Edin today.”

  Within the quarter hour, they sailed, and though Margaret refused to speak to her husband, she was soon too ill to speak at all, for her stomach plagued her. By turns, Eva helped to hold her head and her hand and wipe her brow.

  “Leave me be,” Margaret said, wan and slumped on a bench, the sea air whipping at her veils and cloak. “I told the king I must not sail. See, it is punishment for breaking a holy vow. And it is the child.”

  “The what!” Malcolm said, turning around, for he stood nearby.

  “The child,” Margaret said, and leaned over to retch into the bucket Eva held for her.

  “Jesu.” Malcolm smiled. “That is a remarkable woman. I never thought to have so many sons to carry my name.”

  “The people are calling your princes the Margaretsons,” Eva said, unable to resist. He grunted at that.

  Later, as the longboat sheared across the water with Leith harbor in sight, Malcolm approached Eva where she stood by the prow, the wind heavy in her face, blowing her unbound black hair as free and loose as whips. She tamed it back with a hand as he stood beside her.