Queen Hereafter (27 page)

“Eva, why are you standing there? We must summon the ladies to their prayers,” Margaret said briskly. “They are doubtless still in bed this morning.” Drawing her skirts into her hands, she walked away.

T
oday, my lady,” Brother Godwin said after the door of Margaret’s solar was opened to him, “the king says you are to be crowned queen before supper.”

Astonished, Margaret realized that Godwin was in earnest. The young Benedictine was new to the household, having arrived shortly after Brother Tor’s visit. He and another monk had been sent north by Archbishop Lanfranc, who had learned that Margaret wished for more Benedictines to come to Scotland to help spread Roman teachings there. Lanfranc had written glowing letters to Margaret from Canterbury, so warm that she felt his almost fatherly approval and support, and she welcomed the monks Godwin and Brand, who had arrived with another letter from Lanfranc. Although Malcolm had cautioned her to beware any French archbishop appointed by King William, Margaret
was pleased with Brand’s competent clerical assistance and Godwin’s youthful spirits, and she thought that both young men added much to her household.

“Malcolm is convinced that they were sent here as William’s spies,” she had told Eva only a few days earlier. The Scottish princess had blinked at her with wide gray-blue eyes, her expression echoing Margaret’s own disbelief. “I could never imagine such a betrayal in my house!”

“They do seem sincere,” Eva had responded quietly.

“I trust them as well as I trust you, with my very secrets,” Margaret had said, smiling as she helped Eva, who had dropped a basket of yarn skeins.

Just now, Godwin stood inside the doorway, flushed with the excitement of his announcement. “Crowned, Lady,” he repeated. “Malcolm has just returned from his travels and has brought with him Fothad of Saint Andrews. There will be a ceremony today, a traditional Scottish crowning.”

Margaret, still stunned, finally found her breath. “I had no idea,” she managed. “Today?”

“It is an honor,” Eva said. “Few of the queens of Scotland have actually been crowned.”

“But I am a foreign queen, and so I never expected this.”

“Malcolm worries that the Scottish people still resent your foreign birth, despite your deliberately good deeds,” Cristina said. “He must think a crowning will help.”

“Surely by now the Scots accept Margaret more than at first,” Lady Agatha said. “She has given Scotland a strong little prince.”

“Another prince,” Cristina corrected. “Who knows if small Edward will ever gain the throne in the future, though he ought to have the right over his Scottish half brothers, whose bloodlines are not nearly as good as his.”

Knowing her sister’s penchant for stirring trouble, Margaret ignored that. “Malcolm did say he wished to mark his gratitude for our new son,” Margaret said. “I thought he would found a monastery or a church.
This had never occurred to me. But what should I wear?” she added then. “I have had no time to consider the ceremony! Malcolm has been gone a fortnight—and returns ready to do this!”

“The king says, Lady,” Godwin said making himself heard as the ladies spoke, “that while you cannot be full queen here due to your foreign blood, you should and will wear a crown. Bishop Fothad will explain all to you before the ceremony.”

“I must have my own priests there as well,” Margaret replied. “Father Otto and Brother Brand, and you, Brother Godwin.” She was glad to have three Benedictines in her household, a step toward the religious strengthening that she felt would be good for Scotland now. Lanfranc’s kind letter—
Truly
, he wrote to her,
He has spoken with thy mouth … Learn from me because I am gentle and of humble heart
—had flattered her overmuch, she thought. But she was grateful that the archbishop had understood her best intentions.

I would consider it a great honor if you would advise me as my most kind and benevolent father in the Church
, she had written in reply.
Heaven has seen fit to place me in Scotland, and so I will do my very best for the Scottish people
. Lanfranc, as the highest authority of the Church in Britain, was therefore greatly interested in establishing the tenets of the Roman Church in Scotland. And he agreed with her that news of the goodwill and good works of the king and queen of Scotland should reach the wider world. Malcolm needed an improved reputation outside the bounds of his country—within it, too, she knew.

Brother Brand was a surly fellow who had earned Cristina’s loyalty straightaway by agreeing with her on every point, hearing her confessions and giving her so little penance that she felt vindicated in her opinions, which pleased her no end. Brother Godwin, fair-haired and freckled, sometimes forgot his Latin and had a huge appetite. He also had a knack for ball playing and would scamper around the bailey with Duncan, Donald, and the children of servants and nobles in packs, scooting a feather-stuffed leather ball around, keeping the young ones out of mischief. And he sometimes made Margaret laugh, too, which few could do. She took her confessions to him rather than
to lecturing Otto, and though Godwin did not always have the wisdom to counsel a queen, he was a frank and loyal friend.

But she wished more and more that Tor had stayed at court. He would have been her choice for a personal confessor—she felt a natural harmony between them, both spiritual agreement and the ease of friends. In the past weeks she had received two letters from him telling of his work in the border area at Melrose. He wrote of the satisfaction of renewing a Benedictine house in an area where the farm could help some of those who were without food, with so many poor wandering out of England into Scotland. Her heart ached to hear again of the plight of so many—and she felt a swelling of pride, too, that Tor felt moved to help them.

She had written to him quickly, eagerly, in her own hand rather than asking Brand to write it out for her. Praising Tor’s efforts, she knew that his humility would not accept the compliment for himself, but she wanted him to hear it from her. Then she had waited with almost girlish anticipation for a return letter, brought at last by a king’s messenger, who also carried a report from Tor to Malcolm and De Lauder, detailing his work on Malcolm’s commissioned manuscript.

Margaret had shown part of her letter to Eva, for in a postscript Tor had asked that Eva write out a list of the kings who had preceeded Malcolm. Eva had agreed and had set to writing the names out—Margaret was pleased to see that the girl had a good, clear hand and could compose in Latin as well as Gaelic.

Tor’s latest letter was still tucked in the little purse of necessaries at her belt, and now Margaret wished that he could be there for her crowning. She looked forward to writing to him about the event.

“We had best hurry,” she told her ladies as Godwin left the room. “I have had hardly enough warning to change into a fresh gown! Finola, quickly,” she told the little Scottish maidservant, “my sky blue silk gown would be lovely for this, the one with the silver thread embroidery. Please shake the creases from it and freshen it with a warmed stone. I will be there soon.”

Once changed, thankful for Finola’s efficiency, for the girl had also smoothed a gauzy white undergown and had laid out black silk slippers and stockings, Margaret slipped two wide silver bracelets on her wrists, and went to the great hall with her ladies and kinswomen to find others already gathering. Malcolm waited with a few members of his Scots council, whose Gaelic names Margaret found so difficult to pronounce, though Eva was helping her with such things lately. Fothad stood with two Celtic priests, one who had accompanied him and Brother Micheil, along with the Benedictines of the queen’s household.

Tantalizing smells of supper filled the air, though she knew Dame Agnes had little time to prepare a proper coronation feast. But no matter: the king wanted this and so it would be done. The fire basket crackled with flames as Margaret took a seat on a leather-slung stool on the dais, her pale blue silk gown pooling at her feet. Folding her hands, she sensed her pounding heart.

Fothad explained what would be required: she must only sit, wait, repeat a vow, and provide her head in graceful manner, doing all with the sincere and pure intention befitting her station. Malcolm stood waiting, arms folded, legs wide in the tough stance common to him.

Hands pressed in prayer, Margaret bowed her head while the Scottish bishop spoke blessings over her in Gaelic. Then he gave a benediction in Latin and asked her to repeat a vow to act as a fair and good queen to her king and his people. Father Otto spoke prayers, which she said with him. Then Malcolm beckoned, and Margaret expected to see the crown carried forward by one of the priests.

Instead, Eva stepped out between the priests and walked toward her, while Brother Micheil carried a pillow with a narrow golden circlet on it. Margaret sat straighter, astonished to see Eva. The girl wore a pale gown, her black hair shining loose, her eyes vivid. She emanated purity and power, and seemed to strangely belong. When she began to recite in Gaelic, her voice melodious and rhythmic, Malcolm nodded approval. Margaret realized that Eva recited a list of
the names of the King’s predecessors—some of whom were the girl’s own deposed and murdered kinsmen.

Minutes later, the list complete, Eva turned to Margaret and pronounced her a queen, all in the Gaelic tongue, and then lifted the small chaplet of beaten gold and set it on Margaret’s head, which was bare of its usual veil. The sharp-pointed leaves along the golden base pricked her scalp. Eva lifted her hands and stood back.

“Queen Margaret,” she said. “Lady of Scotland.”

Malcolm stepped forward to take Margaret’s hand and brought her to her feet. Those watching clapped and smiled, though Margaret saw that some of the Scots nobles stared, arms folded. The occasion did not please all of them, apparently. But she smiled as suited her role.

As soon as she had a chance, she turned toward Eva. “Thank you,” she said. “How did you come to be involved, rather than the priests? Is it because you are a bard? I do not understand.”

“It is a hereditary right through my mother’s Macduff kin, and through my grandmother, too, who is also of that line. And bards are part of the ceremony to ensure that previous kings are named and honored. The one who is the current crowner of Scottish royalty could not be here, so it fell to me to do this for you.”

Margaret touched the golden fillet on her head. “Who should have done? Your uncle?”

“Lady Gruadh,” Eva said. “She has the right to crown Scottish royalty.”

Margaret paused, staring at Eva.

Malcolm took her arm then. “Come, Margaret. Supper is served. I am hungry.”

DEEP WINTER SNOW
kept them inside Dunfermline for days, with the household growing so restless that many gathered in the silvery snow light to eat at midday. Hector the Saxon told of a hero long gone; though the story was vivid and exciting, he seemed to drone on.
Malcolm and his comrades spoke of battles and victories. Eva, restless, too, and thinking often of home again, grew attentive when she heard the name Macbeth put about a good deal. The men recounted tales for dark-haired Donald, curious and rambunctious, and Duncan, his father in miniature, though calmer and almost stony at times.

Malcolm asked Eva to play her harp while Hector took a draught of ale to soothe his throat. She played a string of melodies, some of Margaret’s favorites, for the queen was there, too, looking pale and weary. Snow and cold did not suit the queen, who looked very thin lately; she thrived better with sunlight and warmth, though Eva never heard her complain.

Malcolm had enough to drink that afternoon that he must have forgotten Eva was there, for he suddenly boomed her father’s name, laughing, in conversation. Hearing that, she looked his way, still plucking through the fingerings of a song.