Queen Hereafter (17 page)

The servants did not seem to be in attendance on anyone in particular, and the women who sat working on stitchery pieces spoke quietly among themselves, watching the visitors. Eva looked uncertainly toward Ruari. “We should come back later if the queen is not here,” she told him.

One of the women stood then, speaking softly to the others. They sat on cushioned benches, their gowns bright splashes of color in the sunlight at the far end of the room. A small child huddled at the women’s feet beside another large dog. Now and again, the toddler pounded on the dog’s haunch, and though the tail flapped, the animal seemed unbothered.

“Dolfin, stop,” one of the women said in English. “Leave the hound be.”

The young woman who had stood now walked toward Eva and
Ruari. Dressed in a sky blue gown with a translucent, creamy veil, she was tall and graceful, her long skirts trailing on the floor, her pointed green slippers showing as she moved. Beneath the veil, her golden hair hung down in long, thick plaits woven with ribbons. Coming closer, she smiled, and her eyes, very blue, sparkled.

“This must be one of the queen’s ladies,” Eva murmured to Ruari in Gaelic, “welcoming us in her mistress’s absence.” All the women appeared to be Saxon, judging by the English they spoke, and by the elegant foreign cut of their gowns, the drape of their veils, and their braided and beribboned hair. Eva lifted a hand to her own unruly black hair, worn loose, and she smoothed, however futile, the skirt of her tunic, its brown linen suited to hard traveling, but not to meeting Saxon ladies. She had not thought to change, and owned nothing so fine as these women wore.

“Welcome!” the woman in blue said in English. Her slight, distinctive accent was not French, Eva realized, but perhaps eastern; she had heard some accents among the merchants and visitors who came to Moray, and she recognized the foreign cadence. “You must be Lady Eva. I understand that the Lady of the North sent you here to perform for us. How kind of her.”

“I am Eva. And I come here as a royal hostage,” she said bluntly. “We were told the king is absent and that the queen would meet us. Shall we come back later for an audience?”

“Please stay.” The woman reached out to take Eva’s hand in hers, then kissed one cheek and the other, drawing back. “I look forward to meeting your Lady Gruadh someday, in the spirit of peace. I am sure I could learn much from her about queenship.”

“Queen?” Eva gasped, realizing, as the young woman smiled. “Oh!”

Ruari bowed his head. “Lady of Scotland,” he said formally, “I am Ruari mac Fergus, thane of Cawdor. And this is Princess Eva.” He nudged Eva’s shoulder.

She had rarely been called princess, but inclined her head. “I am properly called Aeife inghean Lulach mac Gilcomgan, daughter of the late King Lulach.”

“Ay-fa,” Margaret attempted. “Eva. Please meet my sister, Princess Cristina.” She turned as another young woman came toward them. Unlike tall, golden Margaret, Cristina was dark-haired and stocky, though they shared similar high cheekbones and deep-set eyes. Cristina wore no veil and so was unmarried; a yellow ribbon rounded her brow above brown eyes. Her red gown flattered her sturdy figure, and her fingers glinted with rings. Both women wore slippers of green silk, which Eva thought impractical but fetching; she curled her toes inside her own thick woolen hose and sturdy leather shoes. Margaret and Cristina even carried about them the lovely fragrance of oil of lavender and blossoms. Undoubtedly Eva smelled of horses, damp wool, and too many days’ traveling.

“Welcome, Lady Eva,” Cristina said in accented English also. A quick frown as she took in Eva’s appearance indicated that she was unimpressed. Eva drew her cloak close; at least her plaid was very fine, she knew, patterned in muted purple, blue, and twilight colors, edged with wolf fur, and cinched by a round silver brooch set with crystals. Her earlobes were pierced by a pair of golden circlets set with emeralds, brought from the exotic east by a Viking jarl for her grandmother, who gifted Eva in return. She lifted her head and shook back her hair to subtly show them. Grasping her cloak, her hands showed the callused fingertips and long nails of a harper, and her fingers were slim and strong.

“We thank you for your welcome,” she said in English. Her voice carried smoothly in the room, a result of her bard’s training. “King Malcolm invited me here under particular terms, as I am sure you know, Lady.”

“I am aware,” Margaret said. She was very pretty, Eva thought, tall and slender, with delicate features, a long neck, lovely hands. Her hair was thick, striated gold, and her skin was pale, as if she rarely saw the sun. Whether still or in motion, she had a natural grace about her.

“Lady Gruadh sends her compliments on your wedding,” Eva
said. “She bids me sing at the king’s hearth and tell the old tales of heroes and adventures, and serve in all ways that I can as a
seanchaidh
in the king’s household.”

“Shawnkhey.” Margaret tilted her head. “We have one of those already, I think, old Hector, who sings and plays for us. I have heard of your talent, Lady Eva. Tell me, is it usual for Scottish princesses to do such common work?”

“Common?” Eva blinked. “What do you mean?”

“The singing,” Cristina explained. “Do you dance as well?”

Eva stared at her, then looked at the queen. “I am a harper.”

“We know. We look forward to something new. The old man who sings for the court is quite dull,” Cristina said. “At our uncle the king’s court there was a
conteur
who danced and sang, and tossed balls in the air.”

“
Conteur?
” Eva asked, uncertain of the word.

“A storyteller. Sometimes a jester, very lively. He told amusing jests, some quite bold,” Cristina went on. “His daughters danced with ribbons, and there was a dwarf, too, who did clever imitations of the courtiers. He was a little rude, but it was very entertaining. We laughed often.”

“I do not imitate others,” Eva said, growing tense. Beside her, Ruari was silent. “I play harp. I sing. I tell stories. Bards are accorded rank in any Scottish household.”
I have trained for eleven years
, she wanted to say;
I am nearly a
filidh,
which in the old days was revered as just below a king’s rank
. But such a claim would be wasted on these Sassenach women.

Margaret seemed a bit bewildered. “We look forward to your performance at supper.”

“Are you one of the players in the troupe?” the princess in red asked Ruari.

“We are not a Christmas pageant,” Ruari said stiffly.

Eva felt her pride and temper rise up like a banner in a high wind. She turned on her heel suddenly and walked toward the door.
Though she heard Ruari excuse himself to hasten after her, Eva did not look back, but shoved through the embroidered curtain and left the hall.

Ruari caught her arm. “Stop.”

She shook him off. “I will never,” she said through her teeth, “sing or dance like a poppet on a stick, and this Saxon queen will have to beg me on her
knees
,” she went on fiercely, “to have even one of the old Irish tales from me. Her sister, too. Their ignorance makes them unworthy of what any
seanchaidh
offers. We are leaving, Ruari mac Fergus. Gather the men.”

“That is not your decision,” he answered, gripping her arm. “Nor can you leave this court.”

“The king is not even here to see us, and I a princess, a bard, too. And the queen is … a
needleworker
,” she said. “What does she know of what I do? We will go home tonight.”

“We will stay, and you will do your mistress’s bidding.”

“Which mistress?” she snapped.

“Both,” he said, leaning close, hand gripping above her elbow. The guards in the corridor watched them, hands resting on sheathed swords. Ruari spoke low so that they would not hear if indeed they spoke Gaelic at all, which Eva doubted.

“Lady Gruadh is right—this Saxon queen does not belong in Scotland. She is weak and shallow, and knows nothing of our ways, to speak of bardic tradition as if it were a bore. You heard what she said of ‘old Hector,’ whose name I know. The position of king’s bard is not to be belittled, yet the queen gives the tradition little credence.”

“Then teach her.” Ruari gave her a little push back toward the curtain. “Show her what a true
seanchaidh
does.”

“I do not toss balls,” Eva said.

“You can learn,” he growled, “if it serves the purposes of both your queens.”

A NARROW WOODEN BED
with a good mattress, stuffed with feathers and lavender, was Eva’s own in the small bedchamber she was to
share with two maidservants. She stood back as two of her Scots escort carried her basket of belongings and her harp—she would trust its care to no one but herself—into the room. The maidservants entered, too, and Eva turned to greet them.

They were Saxon and spoke only English. Wynne, with messy golden curls and a quick smile, and dark-haired Matilda both welcomed her, insisting that they would share the other bed and blankets. Nodding, Eva reminded herself that since she was given two maids and her own bed, she was not being treated like a prisoner, at least so far.

“The king’s tower is not large and has few beds to spare, so you are indeed fortunate,” Wynne further assured her. “The royal Saxons and their household have taken most of the beds in the tower and in the guest buildings in the bailey. Your Scotsmen will have to find space on the garrison floor while they are here.”

“Above our little room is the queen’s solar,” Matilda said, pointing up. “There is a stair in the corner beside our door. The queen and her ladies work at stitchery there each day for hours, though sometimes they sit in the great hall, too. The queen expects you to join her circle, and we have been told to bring you to her as soon as you are settled here.”

Dreading the prospect of stitchery and gossip for hours each day with Sassenach women she did not even know, Eva smiled tightly. “I am a bard,” she explained, “and my first duty is to my craft. I must tune my harp, and spend some time daily with the remembering of melodies, songs, and stories. Please tell the queen that I will join her when I am able.” If she did not establish her status as a bard and princess early, she thought, she would be relegated to far less.

Her grandmother might chide her for haughtiness if she were here, Eva thought, but pride seemed necessary to her very survival at Dunfermline. And besides, she had learned that pride from Lady Gruadh herself, who had thrust her into this predicament.

“Your first duty is to the queen,” Matilda told her. “It is the king’s decision for you, so Dame Agnes says.”

Eva realized then that needlework was better than a prison cell, for she had best not trust Malcolm to honor his agreement with Gruadh.
“Allow me to rest after my journey. Perhaps tomorrow or the next day I will join the queen’s circle.”

“Very well,” Wynne said. “The queen wishes you and your men to attend supper this evening, and she hopes you will perform.”

“I will do that,” Eva said. But she would not be dancing about with ribbons, she thought.

When they had gone, Eva removed her harp from its leather and fur wrapping. She rubbed the instrument with a soft cloth, sweeping over the carved willow and oak soundbox, the graceful neck and forepillar. After the jostling journey, the brass strings required careful tuning; the two gold wire strings at the center, tuned to the same note, were extremely sensitive to motion, damp, and climate. Using a little ivory key to turn the pins that held each string in place, she closed her eyes, listening for the resonance of each plucked string, matching that with the perfect sounds in her memory. Finally she swept her fingers over the strings, producing harmonies. Then she played a tune, bowing her head as she surrendered her thoughts—and her rising fears—to the sound.

CANDLES AND WALL TORCHES
had been lit against the gloom, and a rainstorm pattered the walls and window shutters as Eva and her Scottish escort entered the great hall. The queen was there, but the king was late, as apparently was his habit, or so Wynne and Matilda had explained. They also pointed out Prince Edgar, the blond young man who sat beside the queen. The Scottish party waited with the others, and the hall had filled with the residents of Dunfermline tower by the time Malcolm finally strode through the hall, three dogs loping at his heels, to take his seat beside his wife.

“We have guests from Moray this evening, sire,” Queen Margaret said. Her voice, though quiet, carried well. “They arrived today while you were gone.”

“So I heard. Bring them forward, Sir Robert,” Malcolm told the Norman, gesturing impatiently.

De Lauder bowed and beckoned to Eva and Ruari, who stood waiting
in the shadows. As they walked forward, many of those who stood or sat in the hall turned to watch with interest.

Seeing the very fine garments worn by the queen and the other ladies clustered near the dais, Eva was glad that she had taken care with her appearance after resting that afternoon. Wynne had brought her a large bucketful of hot water, a fragrant soft lump of soap, and linen; she had bathed and then freshened her clothing. Now her long black hair was combed out in supple waves over her shoulders, snugged with a blue ribbon around her brow, and she held her head high, shoulders square, carriage proud. She wore a simply cut tunic gown of pale gray over a white shift, with a patterned cloak of pale colors pinned with a large, round silver brooch. Her slippers were of brown leather—she owned no narrow colored slippers such as those the queen and the other ladies wore—but her accessories were worthy of any royalty. Her low-slung belt was of hammered silver links, and now her earlobes held twisted silver wires, and she wore a necklace of bright pearls on a black cord. Seeing curiosity among the crowd, she lifted her chin higher. Let them think the Highlands produced rustic Scotswomen closer to fishwives than queens, she thought; she would show them otherwise.

Distant thunder rolled outside, and the flames flickered in a draft. Eva felt a quick chill, as if she had walked into a moment of great import in her life. She heard a few soft murmurs and whispers as she crossed the length of the room. Ruari walked beside her, strong and quiet, neither a step ahead nor a step behind, as it should be.