Queen Hereafter (35 page)

They followed the queen out the entrance and down those steps, and across the bailey to a small square wooden building. Inside Eva saw a tiny chapel with a simple altar, a carved ivory cross hung above it. For a while they knelt in prayer, and then Father Otto, who had come with them to Dun Edin, entered to conduct Mass, though the place was crowded. When they departed the chapel, Eva stepped outside into the fresh, sweet air just as the sun rose over the sea. She paused to watch the light bloom, while Margaret joined her.

“That is a peaceful little chapel,” Margaret said. “But old. Perhaps as the king is rebuilding, he will consider replacing it with stone. I will suggest it.”

In the great hall, a separate one-story building adjacent to the tower, breakfast waited on a table for the queen and her ladies. Margaret had requested that her custom at Dunfermline of hosting a simple meal after morning prayers be continued. They were greeted by Sir Parlan, Dun Edin’s steward, a red-bearded man with a limp, the injury acquired when he had saved Malcolm’s life in a skirmish; the deed had elevated him from housecarl to steward. His daughter, Ella, helped her father to oversee the daily needs of the household.

Now, Eva saw a trestle table filled with platters of steaming oatcakes, an iron kettle of porridge, a platter piled with sliced wheels of cheese. Pouring a cup of golden ale, already diluted with water for morning consumption, she gave it to Margaret and poured another for herself.

“Will you eat, Lady?” she asked. “There is a great deal of food here.”

“It truly is a generous amount,” Margaret said, and accepted an oatcake from Kata, who spread it thick with butter. But when Kata handed her porridge in a small rock crystal bowl, along with a small golden spoon, Margaret shook her head.

“Eat some for the child then,” Kata urged.

“Oh, very well,” Margaret said, and swallowed a spoonful.

Eva nibbled some cheese, noticing that the queen seemed distracted, looking at the table. When Wilfrid entered the room, Margaret hurried toward him, the crystal bowl and spoon still in her hands. She spoke earnestly to him, and beckoned Parlan into their discussion. Bowing his head in assent, Wilfrid escorted her to the door, while Parlan summoned the servants to speak to them.

“What is it?” Eva asked Juliana, who came to stand beside her.

“The queen’s almoner says there are several people at the gate asking for charity. Parlan said their alms are generally whatever is left after meals, but the queen says that is not enough, on her first day here in
Dun Edin. There is Wynne—she was just speaking with Parlan.” Juliana turned toward Eva’s maidservant, who came near.

“The queen says the poor are to have whatever is here,” Wynne told them. “She says our souls will be cleansed by giving, and we can wait for the next meal.” Looking sour, she began to gather up food with Matilda’s assistance. They wrapped oatcakes in linen cloths and stacked empty porridge bowls, and Wynne took hold of the wooden handle of the small black kettle that held hot porridge.

“We can help,” Eva said, and Juliana joined her to pick up wrapped cheeses and gather cups and a jug of watered ale.

Outside in the cool air and sunlight, Eva and the others crossed the bailey and proceeded down the slope toward the entrance gates. Nearly two dozen people had already been allowed inside, she saw, and more waited for the housecarls to admit them.

Margaret stood with Wilfrid as the strangers, mostly women and children with a few older men, came forward. They were shabby, grimy, yet proud—Eva saw not a beggar among them, but heads high as they looked around, protecting their children in their arms or beside them. The queen walked closer, graceful and elegant, her long gown of pale green wool and a cream-colored cloak sweeping the cobbles. Within the group, she looked beautiful and ethereal as she held out her little bowl and spoon and bent to offer a taste of porridge to a small girl. When the girl’s mother thanked the queen, Eva heard English rather than Gaelic.

Margaret looked toward Wynne and Matilda. “Give them alms of food,” she said quietly. “Lady Eva, please help them.” Silently Eva came forward, as did Juliana.

In the midst of the crowd, a small curly-haired child of about a year cried piteously in the arms of an older girl, who jostled her while holding the hand of a toddler who sniffled as she looked up at the women doling out food. Breaking off a bit of cheese, Eva stooped to give it to the little girl, then offered some to the crying child. He buried his face in the oldest girl’s shoulder, who took it
to feed it to him. “Thank you, my lady,” she said in good Saxon English.

“I had not expected to see so many poor in Dun Edin,” Juliana said soberly as she and Eva poured ale into cups that were quickly shared and passed to others.

Lady Agatha and Princess Cristina joined them, watching as others gave out the food and drink. Eva came near to pick up some oatcakes from Wynne. “Lady Eva,” Cristina said, “if your people in the north still think poorly of Malcolm Canmore, send this word to them—the king helps many here.”

“This day’s deeds belong to the queen more than the king,” Eva said.

“Margaret knows the value of charity,” Lady Agatha said proudly. “She honors the old custom of royal almsgiving to the needy.”

“My sister knows the advantage of showing generosity at the king’s door,” Cristina added.

Certainly Margaret was clever as well as charitable, Eva thought as she handed broken pieces of oatcakes to some of the people. The queen walked among the crowd, her veiled head easily visible as she greeted those at the gate. Malcolm and Scotland would indeed benefit from this, Eva was sure.

Nearby, the fussy baby still wept in the older girl’s arms, and the toddler now wailed, too. Eva watch as Margaret offered her spoon to the baby, who mouthed it hungrily and opened his mouth for more. Margaret obliged.

“Dearling,” she told him gently, “you may have as much as you like.” While she fed him, Eva offered a bit of oatcake to the toddler, who took it, sniffling. Then Margaret smiled at the older girl who held the baby. “What is your name, girl?” she asked.

“I am Gertruda. My little sister is Inga, and this is our brother Alfred.” She hefted the baby.

“Ah, Alfred,” Margaret said solemnly to him. “My great-great-grandfather had that good name. Alfred the Great, they call him. Where did you come from, Gertruda?”

“We lived with our parents near York,” she answered. “But they are gone, and our home is burned. I brought Inga and Alfred north hoping I could find work as a servant, but we have been turned away because the little ones are an extra burden. We came to Dun Edin because I was told we could find alms at the gates here. But we have never had alms so fine, and this not even a feast day!” She smiled, winsome, skin freckled, brown hair framing her narrow face.

“Was it Normans that took your parents and your home?” Margaret asked.

The girl looked down, nodded. “My mother told me to bar the door when they came to our house in the night, but I was not quick enough, and they came inside because the bar was not there. They … killed my parents … I hid in the clothes chest with the little ones.”

“Dear God,” Margaret said.

“Then we ran,” she said. “And we met people who were also fleeing, and they took us north with them. A priest said I must seek forgiveness for this wicked punishment, so I pray each day.”

Margaret gasped and handed the empty bowl to Eva. “None of this is your doing, Gertruda. Do not think it.” She touched the girl’s shoulder.

“I know,” Gertruda said, but her lip quivered. “But we are doing fine, Alfred and Inga and me, and a priest in the town says he will find a priory to take us in.”

“Gertruda,” Margaret said. “You see that man over there, with the white beard? He is my almoner. Go to him and tell him that the queen says you are to stay in the queen’s household. You are good to your brother and sister,” she said, “and you would be good to my little ones. We need another maidservant in the nursery, where these two little ones will be welcome, too. Go, now.” She turned the girl toward Wilfrid, who watched them now. “Talk to my steward.”

As the girl walked up the hill, Margaret glanced at Eva. “I could not let them leave,” she said. “I could not have slept in my bed, wondering where they slept.”

“Mirren will be glad of the help. And the girl speaks refined English. She will be a help to your sons, since so much Gaelic is spoken around them.”

“I had not thought of that. Good!” Margaret seemed relieved. “Oh, there is Malcolm.”

The king, Eva noticed, now stood high along the slope, fists at his waist, brow furrowed as he surveyed the activity at the gate. Then he and a few of his guards walked downhill, where he met Margaret, greeting her softly, taking her hand to escort her with him. He paused, placing a hand on her arm, leaning down to listen to her.

Now as they stood together, Malcolm nodding solemnly, as if taking a lesson from an advisor. His queen’s act of almsgiving would be perceived as his charity, too. He only benefitted from her deeds, both on earth and in heaven, and so he would have to approve.

MOST NIGHTS, MARGARET ROSE
with the distant bells of Dun Edin to pray before dawn, but now she too often dozed over her needlework in daylight while Eva played harp melodies. One of her ladies would take the work gently from her hands and let her sleep. Some of her fatigue was due to the new little one stirring in her womb, and with this third child, her state became obvious more quickly. She laced her gowns more loosely and let out, once more, the deep side seams.

Other days, Eva would play lively tunes when the nurses, including sweet-tempered Gertruda, would bring the children to the queen’s chamber, where the ladies would read to them and show them the paintings in the queen’s books. Flaxen-haired Edward patiently listened, while redheaded Edmund was a rascal more likely to tear a page than sit quietly in a lap. Lady Agatha said such a child must be whipped as he grew older if he would not behave. Margaret would never give such an order, but instead encouraged Gertruda to play with Edmund, who did well with calm and affectionate attention.

Within a fortnight of the royal household’s arrival in Dun Edin, Malcolm and Edgar gathered a host of men from Lothian and elsewhere to ride south, armor glinting and weapons spiking the sky. So far they always returned safely from such forays, and Margaret had learned to accept the comings and goings of the warriors in her household. But often she would stop to gaze from a window as she passed, searching in the distance for riders returning.

Only messengers came and went, bringing reports she did not want to hear—skirmishes along the border, Normans beating Saxons, burnings and tyranny continuing. The messengers brought little word of Edgar or Malcolm, and no direct word to ease her mind.

K
nights arrived at the gates one September evening, setting up such a ruckus to be admitted that Margaret awoke from early sleep, hearing the shouts. She bounded from bed and went to the window, panicking when the torchlight showed men running across the bailey, ordering the gates opened, calling for arms, for assistance. Malcolm had left De Lauder in charge of the royal residence, with Edgar and the rest south in England.

Wriggling into a loose-cut tunic over a shift, then grabbing a cloak, for the air was chilly, she shoved her feet into slippers, left her hair loose and uncovered, and hurried down the steps. In the bailey men dismounted from horses and grooms led weary animals to the stables to be rubbed and watered.

Ranald and other housecarls gathered about the men who had newly
arrived, and in the light of torches through the darkness, she saw Edgar on horseback, his hair gleaming golden as he shoved back his chain mail hood. He slid from his horse and spoke to the king’s men, then walked with them toward other men dismounting, a group having arrived at once. Her heart beat fast with the relief of seeing her brother well, on his feet and safe. She turned to Finola nearby.