Queen Hereafter (31 page)

“Now made more difficult,” she rushed on. “I have come to know the queen so well—and so my earlier promise feels like a betrayal of her, too.”

“Ah. So you wonder which course is right.”

She nodded glumly, head bowed. “When I first came to court, it seemed clear that Margaret and Malcolm could be harmful to Scotland and that my kinfolk were right and just. But now … I do not know. If I spy and send reports to Moray, even if I am not caught out, it is a betrayal of Margaret’s trust in me, as well as a betrayal of my trade.”

“And if you do not, you betray your grandmother’s trust.” Drostan sighed. “I cannot sort this tangle for you, Eva girl. You must decide what seems right.”

“What seems right is tending to my music—but it also seems right to love both my grandmother and my new friend the queen. But what seems most wrong, Father,” she added, “is for Malcolm to ruin Macbeth’s memory with his false history. If I can help change that, surely I must, even if my grandmother has set me an impossible task.”

“You are answering your own questions,” he said, smiling a little. “Come, they will be looking for you soon. Here,” he said, tearing off a thick handful of petaled lavender fronds. “Give these to the queen if you wish to explain your stroll through the gardens with me.”

“I will say that I needed your spiritual advice.” Eva breathed in the fragrant oils on her fingertips. “Lavender is good for headache and fosters a tranquil spirit. Margaret will appreciate that.”

“Lavender also invites the protection of the angels, which you may sorely need the longer you remain in the royal court,” he said.

M
alcolm kept his end of the bargain. He took Edgar’s cause as his own, raiding into England to defend the Saxon claim, knocking spear butts into Norman helmets, burning Norman-held lands, as if enough war and recklessness would gain back England. But the Norman foe was not dissuaded by attacks or rebellion, and more effort was needed, much more. Margaret heard Malcolm and others debating and passionately arguing it at night when the men were there; often enough they raided south, with scant word of their whereabouts or well-being.

Margaret had honored her part of the marriage bargain, bearing a healthy son before they had been wed a year and breeding again soon after. Small Edward stayed in the care of his wet nurse and the
maidservants, but Margaret visited him each morning after prayers and in the evenings, and whenever her heart and her arms missed him. He thrived. She was proud and grateful, and glad that her mother saw him flourish and relaxed her doubts.

Duncan and Donald stayed on, dividing their hours between tutors at the table and wooden swords in the practice field, and played with the children of nobles and servants, while Lady Edith and Cospatric’s son, Dolfin, became like a brother to Malcolm’s sons. Margaret found time each day to read to the boys herself, and she pointed out to Malcolm how well they got on with each other.

“A child’s affection is without guile,” she told him when he complained about too many young ones underfoot, chasing about the great hall and the bailey or fussing during supper. “The one who nurtures them is nurtured in return. And we learn good charity from little ones. We benefit by keeping them close.” She eagerly awaited the birth of her second babe, now tumbling and lively within, and wished for more babes in the future, if heaven willed it so.

Sometimes she fed little Edward herself, asking Dame Agnes to bring boiled gruel thinned with goat’s milk for him. Other mornings, Mirren brought Edward, Dolfin, and other small children to the hall and Margaret would cuddle them one at a time on her lap and feed them from her own porridge bowl, though her women scolded her for not eating enough herself.

“If I forget to eat sometimes, it is fine,” she said. “The company of children is food for my soul, and better for me than a little salty porridge.” They did not agree with her, but she carried on as if they did.

The children did not provide an escape from other matters that clouded the days. Reports of King William’s continued wrath and Malcolm’s retaliations made it clear that her marriage had invited more violence upon the Saxon people. Messages reported ravages in the north country, homes and fields burned and destroyed, skirmishes and brutalities, evictions, rapes, murders: the annihilation of a people and a future. The Scots herded thousands more north to be taken in as slaves;
no matter their previous rank. It was better than dying in a ditch, as Malcolm had once hinted.

Yet Margaret could not help but feel that the destruction was partly her fault, and that awareness sickened her deeply. Her mother said she was ill because she was brewing a babe within, but bad news from England too often gave her knotty nerves and a rocky stomach. She could neither sleep nor eat, thinking of Saxons hungry and suffering, their children without shoes or cloaks, without porridge, without mothers to reach for them. Her own family had so much, and the contrast made her prayers more fervent. But she did not know how, as Queen of Scots, to help the Saxons.

MACDUFF CAME TO COURT
past harvest time and greeted Eva with a brief kiss and tentative affection—he told her she looked well and, holding her hands, asked after her harp playing.

Unexpectedly she teared up, touched that he’d thought of it. “I have not been permitted since you were here last,” she said, and her uncle frowned.

“I will speak to Malcolm of it. We have much to discuss with or without that,” he said when she protested.

He met with the king and stayed for days as they joined with others in heated debates behind closed doors. When Angus of Mar and other Scottish leaders arrived, the king took the discussions out on horseback or on foot with hawks and hounds. Their daily hunts were so profitable that meals were generously supplemented with fresh roast venison and stewed hare, and grouse as well. Although Eva enjoyed the fresh dishes, the queen pushed most of her servings away, citing either a tender stomach or the need to fast.

The last night that Macduff was there, planning to leave before dawn, he leaned toward Malcolm. “I would like to hear my niece play for the company,” he said. “We spoke of this.”

Malcolm was silent for a moment, and Eva held her breath. “Very well,” he finally said, and she heard the begrudging in it. “Eva, have your harp brought down.”

She gestured to Wynne, seated nearby, and the girl went up to their shared bedchamber to fetch the harp. Eva had kept to her room that day, practicing a few melodies, and so she knew the instrument was tuned. She settled the harp against her left shoulder, thought for a moment, then glanced toward the king. He looked tense, his face drawn. She bowed her head.

“Here is a song,” she said, “that I composed in praise of my mother, Lady Leven of Fife, who was kinswoman to good Macduff. She first taught me to find the music hidden in the harp strings.”

Eva sang all the verses, some of them sad with longing, and played the delicate tune that so reminded her of her mother’s grace. When she finished there was silence, and a few people dashed away tears, including the queen. Malcolm, looking grim, said nothing. He could not gainsay a song made for her dead mother, though Eva knew he would note the implication that her mother had loved Lulach, whose song had caused such trouble for Eva several months ago.

Before she left the hall that night, having lingered to bid her uncle farewell, Eva was surprised when Kenneth Macduff offered her a purse of coins. “Your song for Leven was beautifully done, and took courage. You are a bold girl.”

She shook her head at his gift. “Please, I cannot accept this. A bard should not trade music for coin.”

“This is not for your music. It is from me in trade for years of neglecting you.”

“You gave me a dog and a pony,” she reminded him, half smiling.

“I did. Use this for your keep here, or for your dowry.” He pressed the soft leather bag, heavy and full, into her hands. “I will grant you the rents from a parcel of land in Fife. You will be a wealthy woman and will marry well. There are fine young warriors here in the king’s court.”

“And not one of them would marry a daughter of Moray, for fear the kinship would ruin his good name.” She guessed this would be so for Edgar the Saxon, too. No matter, she told herself, lifting her chin. But no one could quicken her heart or make poetry spin in her head as Edgar could.

“I will discuss the matter of your marriage match with the king,” Macduff said.

“Discuss it with my grandmother.”

“I would rather negotiate with a trained bear,” he replied. “Now give this sack to the king to hold for you, rather than keep it under your bed.”

“He might not give it back. I will entrust it to the queen.”

“That one? She might give it away.”

“Then you keep it for me.” Eva thrust the bag back into his hands. “I trust you. I do,” she said in a rush, knowing it was true, as if the years of mistrusting and resenting him for dumping her out of his household seemed to vanish in that moment. She was older, wiser—so was he. Forgiveness flowed in her unexpectedly, and for a moment she wondered if it was some magic from her mother’s song; she had not sung it in years, and it filled her heart.

Macduff seemed caught for words, and leaned down to kiss her brow.

IN ALL THE TIME
she had been in Dunfermline, Margaret had never set foot inside Malcolm’s treasury, the locked room adjacent to the king’s bedchamber. Discovering from De Lauder that Malcolm was there one day, she made an impulsive decision and boldly climbed the
stairs to knock and announce herself. After a moment he came to the door and turned the iron key from within so that she could enter.

The room was small, dank, lit by the bright flicker of an oil lamp and the rainy light that came through the oiled parchment of a very small window. The space was crammed with chests and fitted with a table and stool, and Malcolm resumed his seat to hunch over the parchment sheets and rolled documents scattered there. He opened one and Margaret saw a long list written in a cramped hand, perhaps his own or that of a cleric. Rain drummed against the shutters. Poor weather was often the only reason the king stayed indoors.

She turned. Arranged against the walls were large, locked chests and several small, metal caskets banded and engraved, with hinged, peaked tops—the sort used for containing relics, jewelry, or personal items. Two reliquaries were open, and Margaret saw the gleam of gold and silver: coins, jewels, and chains, literal handfuls, inside. Imagining what treasure the larger chests might hold, she tipped her head, contemplating. So much wealth sitting here, simply counted and stored; it would be better used for those in need, she thought, folding her arms.