Queen Hereafter (13 page)

Margaret hesitated. “You are … an abbot?” she asked. “Of the Celtic church?”

“In a way, lady. I am Kenneth Macduff, lay abbot of Abernethy, mormaer of Fife. Abbot is a hereditary title in my Fife,” he explained when she looked confused. His English was slightly accented.

“I see. Greetings, sir.” She glanced at Edgar and avoided Malcolm’s stare; he leaned a shoulder against the wall, arms folded. She drew her cloak closer around her. “I came here to pray and did not expect to see anyone. I will leave you to your meeting.”

“Stay,” Malcolm said, a barked command. She did not look toward him.

“Lady,” Macduff said, “we would speak with you about the matter of marriage.”

“Let the king address me himself if he has something to say.” She lifted her chin.

Malcolm came forward two or three paces to face her directly. “I do have a question for you, Lady Margaret. I understand you refuse to marry me. Why?” he demanded.

She felt an urge to back away, but did not. “I cannot condone your actions in England,” she said. “It put my mind off marriage, along with other considerations.”

“What I do in wartime is not your concern, and neither should it be part of such a decision.”

“Should I be eager to wed a man whose actions are cruel and sinful?”

“The match is imperative for your family, for England, for Scotland, too,” Macduff said.

She whirled. “The decision is made. There is no need to revisit it.” She turned to leave.

Malcolm reached out, his hand descending on her shoulder, a paw so large she nearly stumbled backwards; yet he was gentle, if firm, in turning her.

“I prefer that truths be known in all matters,” he said. “You will learn that of me.”

“Then learn me this,” she said, facing him now, standing straight, feeling herself fill with an ire that strengthened her backbone, made her bold. “Why were you untruthful about your deeds in the south? You went there to help—yet you created havoc, made slaves, took prisoners.”

“You do understand matters of warfare,” he said.

“King William marched against the English, not the Scots. What reason did you have to attack Saxons already victimized by Normans? And you with Saxon royalty in your care!”

“I had the right to exact revenge for attacks on my lands.”

“Vengeance after wrongdoing has some merit. But raiding a suffering people is heinous. Perhaps you should find yourself another bride. Good day, sir.” She began to turn, but he tugged at her arm.

“Shall I defend my suit?”

“It is indefensible, sire.”

“So a heinous sinner has no right to claim such a prize as yourself?”

“I do not presume to judge a king,” she said, breathing quickly, cheeks hot.

“Yet you do.” He stood over her, seemed to dominate the room, even with two other men there. “You wrong me, lady, when I think so well of you.”

“How have I wronged you?” Indignant, she glared up at him.

“Tell me this.” He leaned close. “What did you think would become of the Northumbrians once William’s troops were done burning, wrecking, raping, and slaughtering?”

“Those people needed mercy. They were injured and helpless, deserving of aid—food, shelter, fuel, physicking, and absolution. You brought further attacks.”

“I admit, I burned their homes,” he said. “I attacked parts of Northumbria, returning my cousin’s blow by burning lands in Cumbria. And I took slaves. I admit that, too.”

“Thousands of slaves,” Margaret insisted.

“Should I have left them to starve?” he asked. “Would that have been more merciful?”

She stared up at him. “What do you mean?”

“We led people out of there and made slaves and prisoners of them. Why would we do that? Did you consider it?” He looked at Edgar and Macduff. “Some of them were forced to eat their own dead, flayed and salted. We saw human shanks hung to dry like beef.”

“Dear God,” Margaret gasped, setting a hand to her throat.

“They seasoned that meat with salt taken from their own fields—the
Norman troops put it there to ruin the land so nothing would grow there. Did you not listen to the messengers, lady?” he demanded.

“We heard about the devastation. We received slaves here by the hundreds, and gave them what relief we could. But you drove them up here!”

“What else was I to do? We burned their homes to cleanse the villages of disease and to drive out the demons of war and pestilence. If that was a sin, so be it. We brought Saxons north as slaves so that they would have shelter and
food
”—he nearly shouted, face reddening—“and if that is sinful, too, then send me to hell and damn my men with me. It was far worse to leave those people there!” He was breathing like a bull now, red-faced, leaning.

“Dear saints. W-we did not know,” Margaret stammered, stunned. “We did not hear that.”

“We did not put our reasons about, but only a little logic would see it,” Malcolm said. “Death or slavery was the only relief we could give those people. I chose for them. It is my doing.”

“Sire,” she said, and swallowed, thinking. “I … judged you unfairly. I should have seen it as an act of charity. The fault is my own.” Now that his actions made such sense, she felt remorseful, humbled. “You were merciful, after all. The saints themselves could not have—”

“I am not one of your blasted saints, woman!” Malcolm roared, looming in the small, candlelit room. Behind her, Edgar and Macduff stood silent. “I avenged my cousin’s raid upon my lands in Cumbria by burning his fortress black. I have committed many acts of violence, and I own freely to that. But I do not abuse or slay the helpless. I only do what is necessary.”

“I was wrong. I will admit that,” she said. “About the marriage—”

“Marry me or not, as you will,” Malcolm said. “But give me none of your martyrish sentiment.” He pushed past her and shoved through the curtain, leaving the room.

“
Jesu
,” Edgar said under his breath as the king departed. “No man
speaks to my sister in such a manner.” He stepped forward, but Margaret grabbed his sleeve.

“Stop,” she said. “He spoke honestly. Let him be.”

“I will have words with him later,” Edgar said, his forearm tense under her hand.

“Malcolm does what he must,” Macduff said sternly, crossing his arms. “On Judgment Day his soul may be forfeit for his wicked deeds, but he acts with good purpose. And he is a canny man who knows the benefits of this marriage.”

“This marriage alliance,” she amended. “He wants kinship with the royal Saxon line.”

“He needs the marriage as much as the political alliance,” Macduff said. “You, Lady Margaret, will bring benefit to him and to Scotland as well, with your good breeding, your good sense and manners. He knows that well.”

Margaret looked down at her hands, where golden candlelight pooled. She had thought Malcolm a ruffian with no more intent than to ruckus where he pleased, with no interest in improving his character. She drew a breath. “Sirs, I am chastised and proven wrong. I had condemned the king’s deeds and his motives. I have been haughty and unwise.”

“This marriage could prove the wisest decision you may ever make,” Macduff said.

Margaret sighed, realizing that she must find the courage to accept her fate—she had sought an answer, even a rescue, in her prayers. Now marriage seemed the path she must take.

“Aye, then,” she said, turning away. The curtain shushed as the men left the room.

She knelt before the simple altar that her mother had ordered erected from a table and a cloth. Lady Agatha had already placed the cherished black rood, the most precious item in Margaret’s dowry, upon it. Bowing her head, hair sweeping down like a golden curtain, she prayed. Yet her thoughts spun and would not quiet.

Having just met Malcolm will for will, not for the first time, she knew now he would challenge her again to match him for wits and stubbornness. She was years younger than he and little experienced in the ways of warriors and the harsh world they inhabited—yet she must somehow prove herself a strong and capable woman, as fearless in her way as he was in his. That, or she would be regarded as no more than the foreign queen, a pawn, the sacrificial lamb she so dreaded being.

Life had whirled her earlier dreams about like leaves in a wind. Once she had planned to spend her days in prayer, study, and good works. Instead, she would be a queen—and so she must be an exemplary one. In all things, she could accept no less than the utmost from herself.

Pride was no stranger to her, for she often fought it. This time, she would grant it freedom.

SHE DREAMED THAT NIGHT
that Malcolm came to visit her—in the dream she had a humble cottage, tidy and plain—but he was a giant, so large that he filled the room when he stepped inside. His head and shoulders bowed against the ceiling; his voice was like distant thunder as he greeted her:
Margaret, when you are my queen, we will make so many princes that you will be too busy for prayers!

She could not get past him to escape through the doorway. Beyond, past the cottage, she saw a sunlit meadow with mountains in the distance. Several small boys and girls played in the field, tumbling and laughing. Suddenly she worried that no one was watching the children and one of them would get hurt in the game, and so she felt an urgent need to protect them.

Malcolm held out his hand for her to go outside with him.
Come with me—we are needed now
. And this time she was on the verge of agreeing, for it seemed her only route to freedom from that confining little house when she longed for sunshine. Then she awoke.

SHE DID NOT SEE
the king for days, and received no message of thanks from him accompanied by a gift, as a more worldly prince might
have done. When he returned, a quick and plain-spoken betrothal was performed in Dunfermline’s great hall, with a midday meal and some awkward merriment. Malcolm did thank her then, in his way, with gruff good wishes, and he provided a good new French wine, pale red and crisp, in celebration of the betrothal. Then he went outside to meet his men, and the group rode off with a clatter of hooves and creak of armor and weaponry. That was his true world, she knew, rather than courting or marriage.

Once again he was gone for a fortnight, while Margaret, with the help of her kinswomen and Dame Agnes, planned the royal wedding for whenever he returned. That the ceremony would be performed in relative haste and therefore could be an embarrassment to the bride did not seem to matter. Impatient by nature, the king saw no reason to wait.

T
he sun hung pale and bright over the northern mountains on the morning Lady Gruadh sent Eva south. A day after the lady had decided to obey the king’s demands, Eva sat bundled on the back of a garron pony, her harp in a fur-lined leather bag slung on the saddle. A few possessions were contained in pannier baskets on the back of another pony; she had not wanted to take much, but the former queen had given Eva some of her own things.

“My robes are fine enough even for Malcolm’s Sassenach court,” she told Eva. “I am taller than you, but if you sit with the ladies hemming robes with your fine hand for stitchery, you will hear some of the news at court. Send messages to me about whatever you learn.”

“I thought I was to act as bard there,” Eva said. “It sounds better than hostage.”

Lady Gruadh looked up, an assessing spark in her cool blue gaze. “Then hem the things during the day, and sing at night. Either way, keep your ears keen.”

Eva looked away, seeing the men in the yard mounting horses, among them Moray men as well as housecarls sent by the king, who had demanded her presence as a royal hostage, a turn of events that had shocked Eva. “I do not want to go,” she told her grandmother.

“I know. This time you must. Even I cannot gainsay the king to this extent, or show my hand in war. Aeife, my girl,” Gruadh said fervently, wrapping long, slender fingers over the pommel of Eva’s saddle. “You must do this for me, and for Moray. Sing for Malcolm and his new bride. You will be given preference, for you are both princess and bard.”

“Hostage,” Eva insisted. “Prisoner. I could be thrown into a dungeon.”

“Nonsense. Even Malcolm would not do that—he has no reason to punish you, though reason enough to keep you, I admit. Send word of how you fare, and send word of anything that Malcolm would keep from me.”

“You want me to be your spy,” Eva whispered.

“Just so.” Gruadh smiled, a dimple quirking the corner of her mouth, fine wrinkles gathering around her eyes. She was beautiful still, her eyes luminous, skin pale and smooth, cheekbones taut, chin firm and stubborn. Beneath her silken veil, her hair, Eva knew, was the color of copper threaded with silver. She was fierce and gentle all at once; exasperating, too. “I have faith in you,” Gruadh went on. “You can do this.”

“How can I have faith in you, if you agree to my capture?” Eva felt sullen.

“You are so young,” Gruadh said, patting her hand. “It is not a capture. You will not be ill treated. Malcolm has promised so, according to his guards and messengers. Eva, I delayed Malcolm as long as I could, but we have no choice. He sent his own guard to fetch you south. Just know that I would never send you into harm.” She smiled, then turned away, her red cloak and gray gown whipping
with the whirl, head veils floating lightly over her shoulders as she approached Ruari mac Fergus to speak with him.