Queen Hereafter (41 page)

W
illiam,” said Edgar breathlessly, standing in Dunfermline’s dusty, summer-baked yard, “has sent his troops marching into Lothian to burn fields while he has gone to Berwick, where his ships are waiting.” Grim, weary, he looked at Margaret and De Lauder, who stood at her side. “He could reach the shores of Fife in a day or two.”

Margaret clenched her hands, her heart beating fast. She had dreaded this, prayed against it, yet it was here. “What of Malcolm?”

“He is in Dun Edin, mustering troops and ships. They are trading messages by fast rider. William threatens to cut a swath through Scotland unless Malcolm surrenders and offers recompense.”

“For what?” Margaret asked sharply.

“William is furious about the continuing Saxon rebellion, and still
holds me accountable for that—Malcolm, too. And he wants the Saxon royal family returned to his custody, including you, Margaret. He claims you could not marry without his permission.” Anger sparked in his eyes.

She raised her chin. “I did not need his approval. When will Malcolm be here?”

“He will soon depart Leith before William’s ships even sail out of Berwick. He sent me ahead with the news.”

“We will wait for my husband, then decide what to do.”

Edgar shook his head. “Malcolm wants you gone from here quickly. Robert,” he said to De Lauder, “you are to escort the queen and her party north to Loch Leven. Malcolm sent a messenger to the abbot.”

“Drostan would welcome us,” Eva said, walking forward. “But why must we go there?”

Seeing her friend, Margaret tucked an arm into Eva’s. But she sensed tension thrumming in the slender girl, and noticed that Eva trained her gaze solely on Edgar.

“You will have sanctuary on the holy island,” Edgar said. “There is mortal danger if William comes here. He would take us all captive if he could.” He wiped a hand over his brow where sweat dripped, and glanced over his shoulder as his horse, glossy after a fast morning’s ride from the coast, was led away by a groom. “You must go, while I stay here and wait for Malcolm.”

Edgar looked exhausted, Margaret thought, his face so drawn that he looked years older. She touched his arm. “All will be well. Should it come to battle, Malcolm will prevail on his own ground.”

“Not everyone has such faith in him.” Edgar’s solemn gaze flashed toward Eva. “We cannot know what will happen.”

“We can only try to ensure the safety of the queen and the princes, so long as we move quickly,” De Lauder said.

Margaret sighed, but felt a calm acceptance begin to fill her. “So be it. Dame Agnes”—she turned toward the housekeeper who waited nearby—“we must ready the children and the household to leave this afternoon. Edgar, surely you need some refreshment.”

“I will see to it,” Eva said, and Edgar nodded gratefully.

Commotion soon filled tower and bailey as Dame Agnes called out orders like a general and servants packed and toted what would be taken along, while the nurses readied the children and gathered their things. In the midst of the activity, Margaret sought out the little chapel beside the great hall. She wanted to pull a weaving of prayer like a blanket over herself, her loved ones, the whole of the situation. Entering the room, she saw Brother Tor there, kneeling. He glanced up as she sank to her knees beside him.

“The Normans are on their way here,” she said, clasping her hands, bowing her head. “Tor, I am frightened. When they came to Winchester and took us away—and you were taken, too, in Lincoln—”

“Years ago,” he whispered. “Now William must acknowledge that you are queen. If he treats you otherwise, show him who you truly are.”

She drew a quick breath. “Come with us to Loch Leven.”

“Aye,” he murmured.

Relieved, she began to whisper a round of Pater Nosters. When her shoulder pressed Tor’s, for they knelt that close in the small space, she did not lean away. His solidity and wisdom were comforting, and she needed that now.

LATE AFTERNOON SUN TURNED
the meadows golden as an envoy of mounted guards, carts, and two vans conveyed the queen, her children and kinswomen, her ladies and servants, northward. As Eva rode on horseback, she was aware of the silent, wary mood among them all. Edgar had remained in Dunfermline, and suddenly Eva missed him keenly—his calmness and vitality, his humor and compassion, would have been welcome today. Except for a few moments in the bailey and later in the hall, they had said little earlier, though he seemed glad for her company. His gaze had sought hers and lingered, and in a dim corridor he had taken her hand—but De Lauder and Ranald
mac Niall had come out of the hall then, and Edgar had stepped away quickly.

She wanted to ask Margaret if Edgar had expressed any feelings toward her, but she could hardly do that now even though Margaret sat in the cart beside her. The queen held her oldest son, Edward, in her lap, while she turned the pages of her Gospel with the elaborate silver cover as Edward looked at the pictures. Lady Agatha held baby Edgar wrapped in swaddling, while Edmund slept in Gertruda’s lap. The mood inside the van was somber even among the children, and the ladies were especially quiet.

In the distance, rounded hills couched Loch Leven like a jewel. Eva was anxious to meet Drostan again, for she had written another letter for her grandmother, this one tucked in the seam pocket of the blue tunic gown that she wore beneath her plaid of five muted colors. Her harp was wrapped and carried safe in another cart, though she expected that its strings would be silenced for quite a while.

If only she were free to deliver the note herself to Lady Gruadh, she thought. A quick pang of loneliness pulled at her. After a few years away, she wanted desperately to go home to Moray, yet could not leave the king’s custody until he released her. At Saint Serf’s she might find a chance to get away, even escape. If the Normans came north as expected, Malcolm would not care about his hostage. He would have far greater troubles.

But then the queen, who was reading aloud to Edward, looked up and smiled at her. Eva felt the heart-tug of the trusting friendship that bound her further to the court. If she left, she would worry about Margaret—her health, her state of mind, the way she demanded perfection of herself. Without Eva, the queen would have no accomplice for her small rebellions and adventures. She might succumb to her strict disciplines of prayer and fasting, listening more to the somber priests, with no more music to lighten her spirit and carry her through.

Under a deep violet evening, after being welcomed at the island monastery and shown to the guesthouses, Eva left chapel after prayers
with Margaret and some of the others. While they went toward their beds, she saw Drostan beckon to her, and turned to walk with him in the darkness.

“I have a note for my grandmother,” she said. “Will you send it on to her?”

“We may do better,” he replied. “She wanted to be told if you came here again, so I sent word to her. She will be here within the week.”

“Here!” Eva stared at him. “But—”

“You will meet in secret.” He turned in the shadows and was gone, leaving Eva to walk back to the guesthouse alone, her thoughts spinning. He had not taken the note she had offered. That night she did not sleep, pacing and fretting, and by the first glimpse of morning light, she was again at prayers with Margaret.

“You are very quiet,” the queen remarked later.

“I cannot play my harp here,” Eva said, shrugging. “It sets me ill at ease.”

Days passed, near a week, while Eva counted hours and endured the peace in the monastery, which made her more anxious than relaxed. Near one spot by the outer wall, she could see the widest view of island, loch, and mountains, while warm summer winds pushed at her. Day after day, rounds of prayers and chores continued, beginning with matins and lauds, then terce and sext, and so on. Eva often went with Margaret, pretending to be intent on her prayers. Late one afternoon, she heard whispering among the two monks who kept the gate, and saw Brother Tor and the housecarls hurrying there.

“The ferryman is crossing the water,” one of the monks called out, and Eva started in surprise. Would Gruadh arrive so openly? She began to hurry toward the gate.

“Malcolm has arrived,” Tor said, turning to Eva. “Fetch the queen, quickly.”

Eva whirled and ran, her heart pounding in dread.

“
WILLIAM HAS COME
into Scotland at last,” Malcolm told Margaret grimly. They strolled the lush green gardens in private while some of her household stood waiting in the yard for whatever word the king had brought. Eva seemed most nervous of all, so pale and tense that Margaret had taken a moment to reassure her that although Edgar was not with the king—her brother had ridden ahead, Malcolm had reported—he was safe. Still Eva did not seem comforted. Something more bothered her and though Margaret did not know what it was, she knew that every step northward was a step closer to Moray. Perhaps that weighed on Eva’s mind.

“What matters most is that you are well, and here now,” she told her husband.

“William marched through Lothian, burning crops at first, but met no fight to fuel his temper. So he sent his troops over land toward Fife, and met his ships to sail the firth. So far, the Scots have shown him little resistance.”

She set a hand to her chest. “What does that mean? Have we surrendered in defeat?”

“We have not met in battle, nor will we. The people decided this—they surprised him at every turn with hospitality, greeting his men, offering food, cattle, oats. Cleverly done, as it took the wrath and purpose out of him. Yesterday he sent a new message, proposing to meet with me, and soon.”

“Surely not here, where we have sanctuary and peace!” Margaret cried out.

He shook his head. “I suggested Abernethy, an afternoon’s ride north of here. Kenneth Macduff is lord there. Margaret, I will do this,” he said fiercely, taking her arm as she began to speak. “I will not let Scotland fall into ruin and tyranny. I will not have Normans here as in England—and so I must meet with him.”

“Will you sign a truce? What other reason to meet, but war or peace.”

“I will pay him homage.”

Margaret felt her temper flare. “But you are not his vassal!”

“He and his troops will not leave Scotland otherwise. No King of Scots has ever been a subject of England, and I will continue that, I swear it.”

“How, if you will kneel as his subject?”

“It will be an homage for my properties in Northumbria, not for Scotland,” he said. “This I will insist upon. Other than that, I will grant his requests within reason, and promise to leave the borders be. Once he is gone and we see the back of him,” he said, “I will do as I please. I am no vassal, nor a fool. I will protect Scotland and gain land and coin by this, or be damned for it.”

“What more does he ask?” She feared for the safety of her sons.

He looked away. “We will soon know. This is the best we can do. This, or war.”

“Then you must go,” she said quietly. “When do you meet?”

“In two days,” he said. “You must be there with me, you and the rest. It is one of his requests. He comes by ship, so we must leave immediately, to be there before him.”

“As his hosts?” She laughed, though it was hollow.

“Order the packing done again,” he said. “I cannot say when we might return here.”