Queen Hereafter

by Susan Fraser King

  —SCOTTISH GAELIC CHARM, FROM ALEXANDER CARMICHAEL, Carmina Gadelica

  Within days, the queen became quiet, pale, and drawn, though she had been confident and glowing recently at Dun Edin. Eva assumed she had exhausted herself while supervising the unpacking of the household and the settling of the children at Dunfermline.

  “You have Dame Agnes for that, and Gertruda and Mirren for the children,” Eva reminded her. “Trust them to see to all, and rest.”

  But Margaret rarely rested body or mind for long; her devotional routine alone could make a lesser soul quail. Concerned, Eva rose even earlier each day to accompany Margaret to prayers, and she played music while Margaret went to bed each night. But a week after their return, seeing the queen walk slowly and stiffly, then pause with a hand pressed to her back, Eva knew.

  “Margaret, has this endured all day?” she asked. “You said no word of it.”

  “It is too soon for the birth,” Margaret said, looking weary. “I hoped it would stop.”

  Taking her arm and guiding her to the bedchamber, Eva sent Finola to find the housekeeper and the queen’s mother, then sent a housecarl for Mother Annot, hoping she would arrive soon.

  “Please, fetch your harp,” Margaret told Eva when she returned to find the queen tucked in the bed wearing a linen shift, while Dame Agnes went about the room untying any knot she found in garments, shoes, curtain ties, to ease the babe’s arrival. “The music will help to play this little one out of me, though it is too soon for him to come—this will not take long, I think.”

  Not long at all, Eva discovered. Dame Agnes barely had time to tuck rowan branches at the threshold and stow a knife under the bed to cut the pain when the midwife appeared and Margaret strived to push. Fingers shaking, Eva played a tranquil song as Margaret’s third son slipped, small and slightly blue, into the world.

  His hold on life seemed fragile, though Mother Annot stroked and swaddled and cradled him in her strong, gentle hands, and baptized him quickly with a vial of holy water she kept, like all good midwives, in her satchel. Then she placed him in Margaret’s arms, and turned to Eva.

  “This one may not survive,” she whispered in Gaelic. “Too early, too small. I will sing a charm for his healing.” As she began, Eva plucked the strings of the harp softly so that the woman’s prayerful chant would seem just another song.

  Margaret drew down her shift and began to suckle him, her breasts heavy. She looked up at her mother. “No wet nurse has been found yet, for we lingered in Dun Edin too long, and this little one came early. I will be his nurse—and he will thrive,” she added fiercely. “I will see to it.”

  Expecting Lady Agatha to continue to pray fretfully in Latin and German over her black prayer beads, Eva was surprised to see the woman set to work helping Mother Annot to change the bedding and create a small, safe nest for the babe on the queen’s bed. Eva admitted Brother Tor, who had been pacing outside, into the chamber to baptize the child again and offer a prayer and a word of comfort to Margaret, holding her hand until Lady Agatha shooed him away.

  Margaret gave herself to the child from the first hour, going without rest herself unless the child slept. Mother Annot stayed, with her mystical charms and her practical sense, as did Lady Agatha, and they hardly left the queen’s bedchamber for a fortnight or more. Eva stayed, too: the softest harp music lulled the babe to healing sleep, and she played day and night. Margaret slept, too, now and then.

  Though christened, the child had no true name beyond the first one Mother Annot gave him: Leanabh, or Baby. Margaret would not name him formally, and Eva realized that his mother still feared he would be lost.

  WEEKS PASSED, SIX AND MORE, while the babe slept, fussed, fed weakly. Then he spent two hours awake, alert and peaceful, and again the next day, and so on; his color grew pinker, his suckling and grip stronger. Margaret began to feel sure in her heart that he did indeed thrive, despite what she had told her mother, for the fears had been great within her, and the need to pray profound. Grateful, needing solitude, she left him with her women and for the first time in weeks walked out into the April sunshine. She sought Brother Tor for confession and blessing and the comfort of his unquestioning spirit; and she asked Father Otto to conduct Mass in the anteroom chapel.

  Within days, she ventured into the glen, Eva at her side, along with a few of her ladies, to attend Mass for her churching in the hillside chapel. Afterward, as she lingered alone, she wept as she prayed, glad for the child’s health as well as the day’s freedom. But the ache in her breasts soon urged her to return to her little one, and that very night she asked Mother Annot to find a wet nurse. Her small nursling would be fine now, she reasoned—but she had neglected her duties as queen and had all but abandoned the strict routine of fasting and prayer that simply, utterly, sustained her in all ways.

  Weeks passed before riders came with Malcolm’s blue silk banner, sewn with an image of a boar in white—the insigne of the king, who followed their advance. Seeing that blue flashing in the distance, Margaret hurried down to the courtyard just as the larger party entered the gates. Malcolm, dismounting his horse, looked up.

  She felt a burst in her heart, some need and emotion that she had contained all this time, and she bunched her skirt in her hands as she ran toward him. He looked well and robust, so much so that she sobbed out, lifted her arms, touched his face, let him kiss her even though others stood watching.

  “My son, the little one—I had your message but could not come away until now. Where is he?” Malcolm clasped her hand in his, and Margaret turned to lead him toward the tower and the great hall, where the cradle sat in a warm shaft of sunlight. The child, wrapped in blankets, was small and golden-delicate, as fair and pretty as Edward and Edmund, who played nearby with their half brothers, Duncan and Donald, who had remained in the king’s household. Lifting the infant into her arms, Margaret showed him to Malcolm.

  “We call him Leanabh,” she said.

  “What! ‘Baby’ is no name for a warrior-prince. At least it is Gaelic,” he muttered.

  “Now that you are here, we will have an official christening. I want to call him Edgar. It is English,” she added in apology, “but—”

  “It is a worthy name and I would be proud to give it to our son,” he replied solemnly.

  Margaret’s breath caught in her throat. Malcolm’s quick approval worried her. “My brother—is he well? Has something happened?” Edgar had accompanied them to Dunfermline but had ridden south since to join Malcolm, and there had been no word from him.

  “He is well enough,” he answered grimly, “for a prince who will never reclaim his kingdom. William marches north again with vigor and temper. It is only a matter of time before he comes here.”

  JUNE BROUGHT WARMTH and the soft fragrance of flowers as Eva walked out with Margaret and Brother Tor one morning. The queen was eager to see the site of the new church she had convinced Malcolm to build with funding decided from a portion of the queen’s gold, the income from Margaret’s rental lands. Though construction would take years, Margaret was excited by each small step. Ground had been broken, plans were drawn, and stonecutting rang out in the air.

  “After the birth of small Edgar, Malcolm finally agreed to this,” she told Tor as they walked. “He was so thankful for the child’s health that he promised me my church out of gratitude.”

  Eva strolled behind, listening but not much interested. The new stone church was Margaret’s dear project, all she talked about lately. More and more, as another year slipped past, Eva wanted only to return to Moray. She let her gaze drift northeast, where in clear weather she could just see the crests of the faraway mountains that bordered that province.

  She had not sent word to her grandmother for months, after dispatching a note to announce the birth of the third prince, followed by another to report Malcolm’s fears that William might yet come north. But Lady Gruadh would not want to hear about flourishing babes or the building of churches. Eva had mentioned the releas
ing of the prisoners and the stealing of the king’s gold—she thought it might make Gruadh laugh, and perhaps approve of Margaret more, knowing that the young queen was capable of mischief as well as tedious piety.

  “Three sons to hold his kingdom would make any king proud and thankful,” Tor now told Margaret. “He would agree to anything you asked of him.”

  Masons, an architect, and laborers had already begun the work, as De Lauder had been quick to find an accomplished master designer in a displaced Saxon doing masonry work at Dun Edin. Before leaving England, the architect had assisted in the designing of a new cathedral at Durham, its construction still under way. The design he had recently suggested for Dunfermline would echo and rival Durham’s powerful design of stout, carved columns springing upward into vaulted ceilings, and clerestory windows filtering light downward to lessen the stone’s visual weight.

  Now, as Margaret and Tor looked over ink drawings with the master designer, Eva stood listening to the natural rhythms of hammer and chisel upon the stone in the newly designated churchyard at the top of the narrow glen. The builders had estimated a year to frame and enclose the structure, and many years beyond that to finish the walls and roof and see to the elaborate carvings and interior details. Would she still be a captive in the royal household then?

  When they bid the mason good day and walked ahead, Eva followed, unnoticed as Margaret, cheeks flushed pink, talked of her church with Tor. “You must consider staying here in Dunfermline,” she told him. “Surely your bishop would agree to a request from my husband.”

  “My lady, you have permanent priests and monks in your household already. And I have my own work to do at Melrose. The king’s manuscript is nearly done, and there are others I will do. Malcolm wants another history of Scotland, and I am completing a life of Saint Cuthbert as well.”

  Eva’s attention was caught. “So Malcolm’s manuscript is at Melrose? Will you finish it soon?” she asked.

  “I will, but I cannot risk keeping it there, with the Normans so close to the borderlands. I travel with it and have it with me here. I sometimes find time to work on the pages.”

  “Excellent!” Margaret said. “I am eager to read it as soon as it is properly bound. To read it before then might damage the pages. There is a skilled binder in Dun Edin. We will send it to him.”

  “Brother Tor, what will you do with the finished book?” Eva asked.

  “That is for the king to decide, Lady Eva,” he answered. “He may keep it with his other books, chained to a shelf, or he may donate it to a religious house, since it is a valuable history.”

  “Our new church here at Dunfermline would be an excellent place for it one day,” the queen said.

  “May I see the book sooner than later, Brother Tor?” Eva asked.

  “I look forward to your opinion later, Lady Eva.” Tor smiled. “You supplied the accurate list of names, though I have yet to complete the final pages. I am still scribing the information.”

  “Ah,” Eva said, disappointed. She desperately wanted to see the book—what if Lady Gruadh had been wrong? Tor’s manuscript might correctly describe reigns and battles and outcomes. But if it was indeed a concoction of lies meant to ruin others to make Malcolm seem the better king, she would have to act, even steal it, if need be.

  The thought stunned her so that she stopped along the path. Tor had been kind to her, praising her music, even one day stopping to thank her for befriending the queen. To take the work he had created with such dedication would feel like a worse betrayal than simple thievery.

  But if she did nothing, Malcolm would have the manuscript, and order it copied to share its contents further. That would betray her kin and the whole of her lineage. First she must see the manuscript. Then she would know better what to do.

  “I would be happy to look at it as soon as you would like,” she said, and Tor nodded.

  “Brother Tor,” Margaret said then, turning toward the monk. “I would dearly like to found a house of Benedictines here at Dunfermline, especially with the new church under way.”

  “I thought the church might be dedicated for Scottish use. It is Malcolm’s choice.”

  “Benedictine makes sense if Scotland is to improve its standing in the world. Would you agree to supervise a Benedictine house here? I will write to Lanfranc in Canterbury myself about it.”

  “It would be a great honor, but the king—”

  Margaret smiled like a cat at the cream. “He will agree, if it is what I want.”

  “What of Father Otto, Brother Brand, and Brother Godwin?”

  “They will be here to help you. Surely Melrose can be left to the direction of Brother Aldwyn, who is doing a fine job there. Come up to Dunfermline, if it can be arranged.”

  “Lady,” he said solemnly, “if you so desire it, we will ask for permission.”

  Margaret rested a hand on his arm briefly. “Your presence would be a boon to me, Tor. You would truly counsel me, correct me, assign me penances. You know my shortcomings almost as well as Eva does,” she said, smiling over her shoulder.

  “Lady, you have no shortcomings,” Tor spoke quietly.

  Something flashed between them, soft gaze and deep spark, and Eva saw for an instant an aware, silent exchange that friends share—even lovers. The queen and the monk had a rare spiritual bond, Eva thought. Friends early in life, they accepted each other now as fervently pious and dedicated to their ideals. Tor and Margaret had found a perfect mate of the spirit, a keen communion of minds. Neither would cross the unassailable boundary between them—neither would dare even think it.

  Surely that was so, Eva told herself, watching them smile, hesitate, then walk on.

  Chapter Twenty

  King [William] will not cease from attacking them … he will discover that he had better make peace with them than continually attacking them and prevailing nothing.

  —De Gestis Herwardi Saxonis, ANGLO-SAXON, TWELFTH CENTURY

  William,” 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.