Queen Hereafter (9 page)

“
IN THE SOUTH
, Malcolm struts and rules and calls me witch, and now he wants a favor!” Lady Gruadh paced the floor, clasping the folded page with the king’s latest missive. Her hand shook a little as she felt, and hid, her near panic. “He orders Eva to act as a harper in his court because he has guests. What do I care about that? She might never return from that place.”

“If she went to court for a few weeks, her visit could be useful to us,” Ruari mac Fergus said quietly. “She could be the eyes and ears of Moray in the south.” He leaned his hip against a table, arms folded, watching as Gruadh walked the length of the hall and back again with a swirl of skirts.

“I will not allow it,” she said bluntly. “Witch, I am told he calls me in
private, though here he properly writes ‘Lady of Elgin’!” She brandished the page. “Most call me Lady of the North now.” Secretly she liked that term. “I will not stand for ‘witch’ from anyone, especially—”

“You are no witch, Rue. Go easy,” he added.

“Malcolm Ceann Mór, Big Head, wants our girl-bard for her talent and renown.”

“The letter is polite. I think he fears you a little.” Ruari smiled.

“So he should.” She handed the page to Ruari. “I do control Moray as regent mormaer for my grandson.” She felt calmer. Ruari, once a member of her father’s guard and later head of Macbeth’s guard, was not only her advisor but her lover now. His steady, imperturbable manner—and private tenderness—soothed her ire. “Malcolm cannot ignore the importance of this vast province with all its resources and seaports.”

“And its thousands of warriors not keen on Malcolm,” Ruari added with a warrior’s spark in his hazel eyes. He had fostered the resistance that still survived in Moray. “The king never knows what we are thinking or doing up here in the north.”

“May that uncertainty keep him awake at night.” Gruadh folded her arms.

“Lately they say he has a new distraction—the fugitive Saxon royal family, the prince and his pretty sisters and others, who fled the Normans over the North Sea only to be shipwrecked on a beach in Fife. Malcolm gives them sanctuary, no doubt to suit his own ends.”

“But what does he want? We have heard the reports of William’s attacks in northern England, the loss of Danish support, the hunt for the Saxon royals. And now Canmore goes into Northumbria to thrash the poor Saxons further, even with the Aethelings supping at his own table. Malcolm has always been a brute. Macbeth would never—”

“We cannot know what he would have done to prevent the Normans from gaining Scotland,” Ruari pointed out. “Malcolm will protect his borders, yet he also hungers to expand his territory in Northumbria. He still means to reclaim his lands there.”

“Why shelter the Saxon royalty in his court? That only invites Norman wrath.” Gruadh shook her head. “Malcolm soaks up Sassenach ways and diminishes the Celtic traditions that thrived eons before him, back to the ancestors he and I have in common. And now he harbors a Saxon prince to taunt a Norman king. This is too much risk for Scotland.”

“If he lends the Saxon prince his military support against William, thinking to tip the balance and flush the Normans out of the north, it will never happen.”

“Once again Malcolm backs the losing cause,” Gruadh murmured. “It would be nearly impossible to drive the Normans out now.”

“True, but with the young Saxon royalty in his debt, his lands and importance could increase. Perhaps he wants a wife in one of those virgin princesses hiding in his household.”

“Hah! Saxon blood in Malcolm’s heirs would dilute the Scottish blood of generations!”

“More so than the Viking and Irish blood already in the line?” Ruari nearly smiled. “Besides, Malcolm has needed a queen since Ingebjorg’s death.”

“She wasted away in that southern priory,” Gruadh said. “Her gentle spirit was never suited to the south, or to be Malcolm’s queen. That sweet girl should have stayed here as Lulach’s widow, mother to his children who needed her. She could have married again, could have—”

“Malcolm claimed victor’s rights, just as Macbeth did when he wed you. It is that simple.”

She caught her breath at the reminder. Years ago, tragedy had finally led to contentment, and then … but she would not think on it. “What has become of the two little sons he got upon Inga? Fostered out already, they say, though they are so young!”

“Your bitterness would best you if not for your tender mother’s heart,” Ruari murmured. He leaned forward until his shoulder touched hers. She tilted toward him a little. “Forget what is past, Rue. See what has been gained in your life. You have power and
respect in Moray, worthy grandchildren, and my unworthy heart if you want it. Let all that change you for the better. Else you will always be snappish as an old hawk,” he said wryly.

She sucked in a breath. “Let me linger with my old joys and grievances. When I am ready, I will have done.” She paused. “I thought you liked hawks.”

“I do.” He lifted a brow.

“I do have power and responsibilities here until Nechtan is old enough to take over,” she agreed. “And you,” she said, resting a hand on his arm, “you are my strength.”

“Many in the north will support you for as long as you care to rule here,” he murmured.

“My grandson is of an age with that Saxon princeling, not yet a blooded warrior. His sister will make a good marriage someday, and their half sister …” She sighed. “Eva is a tricky treasure to protect.”

Trapped emotions rose in her chest, beating wings to be free. She turned away to pace the room again, folding her arms tight over her chest. Sometimes she felt a little wise, but today she felt fearful. Malcolm might never let her or her family be.

She thought of the spring day that Drostan, abbot of Loch Leven in Fife, had brought Eva north to Elgin fortress. He had lifted the child down from the horse and Gruadh had led her inside to give her some soup. When the little fledgling had finished, she had smiled, mouth dimpling at one corner. Glimpsing Lulach there in her face, Rue was lost to sudden love. The girl’s royal blood was unmistakable—and she was enchanting.

A quicksilver child, Eva wore her grandmother’s patience brittle, but jigged and giggled her way into all hearts at Elgin. She showed her paternal grandfather’s gifts too: Lulach’s father, Gruadh’s first husband, Gilcomgan, had been a warrior who should have been a bard. His gifts lived on in his granddaughter.

Ailsa was quiet and pretty, Nechtan sober and studious, and their grandmother loved them deeply. But Eva, older than her half siblings, was like sunlight dissolving shadows, luring her grandmother
back from the edge of grief that year, scarcely a twelvemonth after the deaths of Macbeth and then Lulach.

Dermot, the
seanchaidh
who had entertained so often at Macbeth’s court, returned to Elgin one winter and, sensing the girl’s natural talent for singing and harp playing, offered to stay and teach her. Her little fingers were deft and nimble on the harp strings, and her voice was sweet and strong, even so young. Eva had trained for years with Dermot, entertaining those at Elgin with her gifts. At eighteen, she was now a lovely creature with a shining talent. Visitors came away from Elgin’s hall praising the young female bard of the Moray court, a rarity for her gender in that calling, as well as for her uncommon beauty and skillful music.

Gruadh sighed and returned to Ruari, who waited silent and patiently. He was her opposite in some ways and her blessed match in so many others, though she had never told him so. He knew, she felt sure of that. He was strong, brown, and as sturdy as a rock. She needed him. As she approached, he stretched out his hand to her and she took it.

“Some say that Eva, the girl-bard of Moray, plays music with the power to enchant,” she said. Ruari inclined his head, listening, waiting. “Not a rumor to encourage, that, though there may be some truth to it.”

“So you will send her to court after all?”

“Perhaps. We can delay through the winter.” She looked down at the folded letter again. “Eva is young for that fox’s den, but she is strong and clever, and as you say, she could be a help to us there. Let Malcolm wait until spring to please his guests. Let us see what else he offers for the privilege of Eva’s music.”

“Do not think to trust him,” Ruari reminded her.

“Only when he was a pup, but after that—never. Ruari, whether or not we obey this order from Malcolm, I want you to send word to the men of Moray to be on guard for a summons from us, should we need their support in arms and might.”

He looked at her steadily. “If the Saxon rebellion fails, and Malcolm
fails, too, and if the Normans come up into Scotland—we may have to marshal our forces and pull away from lower Scotland.”

“Just so,” she said quietly. “The day may come when my grandson will rule the north while another king rules in the south. Macbeth did that for a time—but Malcolm was not content and made sure of his death.” She sighed.

“We will spread the word to be ready should the Normans set foot in any part of Scotland. Rue, there is something more to consider. Drostan mentioned a rumor that Malcolm has ordered a history to be written in which Macbeth’s rule is described in Malcolm’s terms rather than the whole truth of the matter. Drostan does not know which scriptorium has been commissioned to create the book. It was not his own workshop at Loch Leven.”

“If Malcolm dictates the contents, neither Macbeth nor Lulach would fare well.”

“Nor any of us. But if Eva could learn the whereabouts of that book by going to court, we could find it, even destroy it so that it could never be read or copied, or taken as truth in future.”

“If I could but hold that book in my hands, I would correct the entries quick enough myself.” Crumpling the king’s letter, Gruadh tossed it into the fire basket, where it caught flame, burned bright, vanished.

MARGARET WAS NOT USED
to much merriment at Christmastide, which was a string of lighthearted days at Dunfermline. The air was filled with the fragrance of pine swags over doorways for protection from spirits, while music, good food and drink, and cheerful camaraderie swelled in the king’s hall.

She laughed once, watching the fun at supper, and was pinched for it by her mother. “It is not seemly,” Lady Agatha scolded her. “This is a time of reflection and charity, not a time to act foolish!”

In Hungary, Yuletide had been marked by fasting, prayer, incense, and the sheen of Byzantine gold; King Edward’s Christmas court had
been somber despite his queen’s generosity with small gifts. In Scotland, Lady Agatha admonished Margaret and her siblings to keep apart from any pagan folly. They said extra prayers and fasted, while Margaret watched the celebrations with fascination, smiling to herself, bouncing to the music, then sobering if she caught her mother’s shrewd gaze.

Winter brought bone-chilling damp, sleet, and snow, and Margaret sat in bright nooks with the women as they all tucked in to sewing and stitchery. Suppers were served early due to the failing light, and after stories—Hector enthralled them with good deliveries of old tales, such as the long poem of the Geats and Beowulf—and after music and table games, the court retired to bed.

Peat blocks in fire baskets gave off a sweet, comforting scent, mingled with pine and fruit woods, and Margaret indulged in more food in cold weather, the fare enticing and satisfying. But her mother urged both daughters to mark the season of devotion and gratitude with fasting. Yet though Lady Agatha kept her royal Saxon offspring apart and aloof, Margaret felt at home in Dunfermline, where she enjoyed freedoms she had never known, such as wandering the glens with a maid and a guard, or strolling the weekly market in the town. She felt safe there, too, knowing that the Normans were not likely to pursue them northward so long as Malcolm was their protector.

That winter, she sensed Edgar falling away from the hold of his kinswomen. Surrounded by warriors and leaders in Scotland who regarded him as a rightful but banished king, he rode with Malcolm and hunted, trained at arms, tossed bones and dice, raced horses, and debated war strategies with his Scottish and Saxon comrades. He grew taller, roughening into a man, and the changes Margaret saw tugged at her heart; at times she felt more like his mother than his sister.