Queen Hereafter (29 page)

What troubled her even more than her disgrace, Eva realized one day, was that her music was suffering since Malcolm had limited her playing. She had believed, however foolishly, that she would have the privileges of a court bard in Dunfermline. Instead, she was housed like a servant and watched like a prisoner, and now for the most part silenced.

She knew that Hector profited by her eclipse, making a show of playing after supper, even adding more Irish melodies to his performances. “Hector is an evil man, to gloat so over your fall from favor,” Wynne told her. “Do not let that bother you. We know who is the more gifted!”

The Saxon poet knew no Gaelic and had not mastered the old tunes as Eva had done, so that sometimes she wanted to stand and walk out of the hall when he struck the beginning chords of an Irish tune, for he did not always capture its spirit. But the king’s stern gaze discouraged her. She would not cross him again until there was more to gain from it.

One evening as Hector was beating the life out of one of the Irish tunes, Ranald mac Niall and Angus of Mar joined Eva at the table and spoke to her kindly, saying they missed her music. And Angus shook his head.

“If that poet were a Scot,” he remarked, “he would know the code of honor that binds
seanachaidhean
to each other in loyalty. He would help you regain favor with the king.”

“He does have an exalted position in this court,” Ranald agreed.
“But we have influence with the king as well. We will speak to him about this.”

“No one need help me,” Eva said. Her fingers itched so to play that she curled them into fists in her lap. “I made the choice to sing of Lulach, and I will bear the consequences.”

“Ah, you are the granddaughter of Macbeth and Gruadh,” Angus murmured, smiling.

As Hector finished the Irish tune and began to tell a story from the oldest Irish cycle, Eva sighed. She wanted to play, and needed to practice. Both were essential to her art, and that routine was as important to her as prayers were to the queen. The intricate notes and fingering patterns of music could vanish from the mind without due practice, and callused fingers could lose toughness and strength.

Nor could her work of remembering be neglected for long. Bards did not capture music and verses on parchment but stored them in memory, to be refreshed and elaborated on during solitary hours of review and creation. She had little freedom or solitude, and at times she felt desperately that she must practice or wither; play and sing, or go mad.

MARGARET CLIMBED INTO BED
, wondering if Malcolm would suggest some robust intimacy before sleep—if so, she would tell him what she now suspected, that she was carrying a new child. Feeling weary and sick that day, she had eaten little and had spent hours with Dame Agnes in the musty storerooms beneath the main tower, going through crates, sacks, and barrels as they inspected the stored goods that had lasted through the spring. Then she had soaked in a bath to take away the dust of the day, and had ordered a warm tub left for the king, the water freshened with herbs. Now, seated on the bed in her shift, her hair over her shoulder like rippling gold, she drew her fingers through the tangles. When Malcolm entered the room, his hair in dark ringlets from the bath, she stood.

“Sire, I will take to bed early tonight. I am tired,” she said.

He slipped a hand to her cheek. “I have just been to see our little Edward,” he said. “He is a fine boy. I would not mind if there was another child soon.” He glanced down at her figure, which she knew was already thickening.

Margaret felt herself blush. “There will be … by year’s end, I think.”

“Good. I did wonder, though ladies keep such things to themselves. And you keep too many secrets, Margaret. Unnecessarily so.”

“I will try to do better in future,” she promised. Some of those secrets, she thought, she would never reveal. For an instant, she thought of her letters to and from Brother Tor, for she sensed that Malcolm would be displeased to know that his queen corresponded with a mere monk who had angered him by settling in Scottish territory without permission. But it was friendship, only that. All her deeds were known and counted in heaven, and that was enough, she assured herself.

Malcolm leaned down to kiss her, drawing her into his arms. He rarely kissed her outside of their encounters in bed, and now she expected his usual advance to follow—a hand to her breast or the hard press of his body—but he only turned and left the room.

At sunrise, she heard the sounds of men departing in the courtyard—hooves on packed earth, the clatter of armor and weapons, voices calling out. She rose from bed and drew aside a shuttered window, peering out as riders cantered through the gate. Malcolm rode in the lead under the fluttering blue banner stitched with a boar’s image, which he favored.

She sank to her knees to pray, her stomach queasy again. Thin sunlight glowed over her hands and tousled hair as she gave thanks for the well-being of her family and begged forgiveness for her sins, each of them, as she did every day. Then she begged intercession from the warrior saints George, Mercurius, and Julian for her husband. Malcolm did not pray often enough, and she had rarely seen him earnest at what prayers he made.

Since the first weeks of her marriage, she had begun fervent, secret appeals on his behalf, and now she feared to abandon her effort if it kept him safe. Perhaps her faith could be stronger, she told herself.
Perhaps prayer, once expressed, took on a life of its own in God’s ear and did not bear repeating, yet she did not know for sure. If she relaxed her diligence, dangerous forces might slip through her net of prayer, like icy cold through chinks in a wall, and let grief back into her life. Beginning to feel glimmers of happiness, she feared that it would not stay.

E
va drew her lightweight cloak snug despite the warmth of the summer morning. Tucked inside the silk lining was a parchment for Lady Gruadh, which she would soon give to the one who would send it on to Moray. By midday, she would be at Saint Serf’s monastery—and then her only challenge would be to find some moments alone with Abbot Drostan so that she could discreetly hand him the letter.

She had not sent a message to her grandmother in a while, and so this one contained the news of the last several months—the birth of the queen’s first son and the news that she was expecting already; and the arrival of Brother Tor, the author of the manuscript Lady Gruadh wanted to possess. If her letter was discovered, Eva would face serious questions, but the folded page was safe inside her cloak. She
smiled and raised her face to the sunlight, happy to be outside and traveling again—the queen’s condition and sedate activities had kept her ladies confined, too—and Eva looked forward to seeing Abbot Drostan.

She rode with the other women in a van fitted with cushions and a canopy with linen curtains now open to allow sunlight and wide views of the green hills and summer meadows of Fife. Seated between Margaret and Cristina, she felt every bump as the wooden vehicle moved along a rutted road north toward Loch Leven. The queen’s condition prevented her from riding, but she had been determined to make the journey that day. Soon enough they reached a wide, cobbled stretch of old Roman road, and the way became easier. While the other ladies crowded in the van—including Cristina, Juliana, and Gudrun, with Wynne and Finola, too—chatting together, Margaret turned the pages of her little Gospel, mouthing the words. Eva rode facing outward, savoring the air and the beauty of Fife, where she had spent her childhood years.

Brother Micheil had offered to escort the queen and her ladies to Loch Leven, an island monastery well north of Dunfermline. The party was guarded by several housecarls riding alongside the wagon, and Prince Edgar had decided at the last moment to go, too. Eva saw him now, riding beside Micheil, in pleasant conversation.

“Eva, tell us again the name of the place we are visiting,” Cristina said. “Why must we ride out to see yet another Scottish church? They are all alike—nice little chapels, yet some have pagan features. It might be sinful to pray in such places!”

Eva was glad Brother Micheil had not heard that. “But Saint Serf’s monastery is not pagan in its origins. The first priory on Loch Leven was built long ago when Saint Serf—Saint Servanus, who was a pope of Rome—traveled far north to settle in Scotland, once he saw the beauty of that place.”

“A pope!” Christina said, while Margaret looked up, her attention caught.

“A pope,” Eva said. “We are not so far removed from Rome as you may think.”

“Ladies,” Brother Micheil said as he caught up to them. He gestured. “Rome would indeed approve, for this road is part of the pilgrimage road that leads to Saint Andrews, and is part of the larger route that begins in Spain. The devout come from all places to follow this Scottish road, and they visit our other holy sites along the way, including Loch Leven. The pilgrimage routes are the drove roads in Scotland, too, so they can be crowded on market days. We are fortunate to have it to ourselves today.”

The road cut between golden moors and rumpled hills beneath a bright sky, leading onward. As the day grew warmer, the escort stopped in small villages once or twice for refreshment. Later, as they continued, Brother Micheil rode beside the wagon and named native saints who had once lived nearby, here and there.

“I would like to see the cells and caves where the holy ones lived and prayed,” Margaret said. “It is a boon for Scotland to have a pilgrimage route in Fife. One day soon I would like to walk it myself, at least through Scotland.”

“Next year, Margaret,” Edgar said, riding close to the wagon, “when you are fit for it, after the babe.”

As they traveled, Margaret asked Eva to correct her pronunciation of the Gaelic names of the Celtic saints, though Eva admitted to knowing little about their lives. Margaret shook her head. “I do worry about the state of your soul, Eva,” she said. “You should know your saints!”

“If there are songs about saints, I know those.” Eva laughed.

Margaret smiled, then turned to speak to her sister. Eva saw Edgar riding beside the van again, mounted on a pale stallion with a braided mane, a tall Saxon-bred horse. She thought the human rider equally beautiful.

“It is a good day for a tour,” he said. “My sister seems pleased.”

“Aye. She has been confined overmuch lately.”

He nodded. “Malcolm has insisted that she remain hidden for her own protection.”

“Protection against the Normans?”

“Aye. There is always the danger that they could come north. King William still demands the return of the royal Saxon fugitives. But he has gone to France for now, so Malcolm gave permission for Margaret to travel if inclined. Fortunately Saint Andrews is too far for a day’s journey,” he added. “I fear she would go there on her knees, even in her state.”

“She will enjoy Saint Serf’s. Loch Leven is a very peaceful place. I lived in Fife as a child with my kinsmen, before I was sent to my Moray kin.”

“Ah. Your Fife uncle helped convince my sister to marry the king.” He looked sideways at her as he rode beside the wagon.

Eva gazed at him in surprise. “What coaxing would a princess need to marry a warrior-king? The only ones who might hesitate would be from Moray,” she suggested wryly.

He laughed. Eva liked the warm sound. “My sister refused at first, too, saying she would rather live in a convent than be queen.” He spoke in a low tone so that only she would hear. “But heaven’s will brought us to Scotland. And from here I must win back a kingdom, if it can be done.” With that, he urged the horse to canter ahead.

She sighed. Her heartbeat quickened whenever Edgar was near, however inexplicably. True, he was a fine and heroic young warrior, as in songs and tales; he was charming and attractive, and near her age, even younger. But no Saxon prince would be interested in a deposed Moray princess, and neither would her kin welcome him. She tilted her head to watch as he brought his horse in line with the accompanying guards. Edgar’s Saxon cause was impossible, but it was noble as well, and she admired his conviction. Besides, as he was Margaret’s brother, Eva had reason enough to like him.