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.”
“SUCH A CURIOUS STRUCTURE,” Edgar remarked, standing beside Eva as he gazed up the length of the seventy-five-foot bell tower in the market square of Abernethy. The bronze bell at the top had just sounded out, resonant in the morning fog.
“Why is it called the Irish tower?”
“It follows an old Irish style. I remember climbing the steps inside with my mother when I was small.” Now Eva and Edgar waited, together with the rest of Malcolm’s party, for King William to arrive.
“Why here, for the meeting, I wonder?” Edgar mused aloud. “Your uncle holds this place, and he is a powerful leader—quite pleased to be host to this, too,” he added of Kenneth
Macduff, who stood now with Malcolm and the rest of the Scottish party.
“That bell tower has a meaning that Malcolm and the Scots recognize,” Eva said, “but William will not—the ancient pride of Scotland, with its Irish and Celtic roots, resides here in Abernethy. A meeting of kings here says that our future will never be Norman.”
Edgar smiled. “Excellent,” he murmured.
When the Norman party arrived, all grand horses and men in fine gear and armor, Edgar moved toward his sister and Malcolm, and Eva stood near them with Lady Juliana. The foreign king, once he dismounted, was shorter than Malcolm, yet powerful, broad-chested, bowlegged, swarthy. He spoke English with an abominable accent, but Malcolm managed French well, so they spoke directly, while Malcolm translated the Gaelic of the priests who stood with him. William seemed impatient throughout the greetings and blessings, and Eva heard him remind Malcolm in rough English, then smooth French, that they could delay no longer.
Without more ceremony, Malcolm soon knelt before William and bowed his head. Though never Malcolm’s supporter, Eva felt a twinge of sympathy for him, seeing that great-headed man, powerful and dynamic, subjugated. She felt helpless, frustrated for him.
In a rumbling voice, Malcolm repeated and promised what William asked, while a cleric produced parchment documents to be signed and sealed. Then the avowing followed, when the terms were formally announced. As William spoke, Malcolm replied in French, but did not translate for the Scots this time.
Eva leaned toward Lady Juliana, who had excellent French. “What are they saying?”
The young woman paused, listened. “William grants Malcolm twelve manors in England,” she replied, “while Malcolm promises to respect the borders between England and Scotland.”
Eva knew he would not, though he took the oath regardless.
“William will pay Malcolm a yearly fee of fifty gold marks,” Juliana said, “which is just cheap of him. Ah, but Malcolm must guarantee that all Scots will give up their ancient, wicked practice of eating human flesh.”
“Their what?” Eva said, so loudly that others glanced at her.
“It is a widespread rumor of the savage Scots,” Juliana whispered. “Hush,” she said then, for with William’s next words, Malcolm looked up sharply, displeased.
Juliana leaned toward her. “Malcolm must give up his firstborn son for a royal hostage.”
Eva looked over at Margaret and saw her blanch and grip Edgar’s arm. Surely Margaret had known this was possible, for Eva herself was a hostage—Edgar had been one as well. Now Edgar reached out to guide young Duncan forward, but Margaret was the one who stepped into the cleared circle to present him to King William and Malcolm.
Just then, Margaret turned and beckoned for all her sons to come with her. Eva caught her breath, seeing Margaret take little Edgar from his nurse to carry him, silk swaddling trailing, while Lady Agatha and Princess Cristina came forward with chubby Edmund and Edward, the older boy’s blond hair shining like sunlight. Together with young Donald they all moved forward. Murmurs ran through the crowd as Margaret and her beautiful family approached.
Eva felt a sob constrict in her chest. When Edgar came toward her and took her arm, she stood in silence beside him to watch.
The queen faced William and spoke in fluent, elegant French. Though Eva did not understand that exchange, she saw that William was touched by it. He looked at the children and reached out to shake little Edward’s hand solemnly, and he spoke to Duncan in French, as the boy squared his shoulders. Malcolm then placed a hand on his eldest son’s shoulder.
Edgar leaned to whisper a translation to Eva. “Margaret says she values kin above all but God, and she trusts that William does, too. She would sacrifice her own soul before she would let any harm come to her sons. She appeals to him as a father—William has two sons,” he murmured, “and she asks for his promise to protect Duncan with his life.”
“Out of honor, he cannot refuse a woman and a queen,” Juliana said.
“William says,” Edgar went on, “that he has rarely met a woman of such beauty and character, and for her sake, he will be merciful—and alter his final request.”
“Final request?” Eva asked, grabbing his arm, feeling his tension. He was silent.
Then William turned and beckoned Edgar. “The Saxon prince,” William called out.
Eva sucked in a breath as Edgar walked forward and stood before William, looking proud, handsome, ready to accept his fate.
“William will take Duncan for his father’s good behavior,” Juliana went on, translating as William resumed in French. “But now he says that Edgar the Outlaw should be tried for treason and executed. But out of respect for Queen Margaret, he asks only”—she paused, while Edgar stood still as a statue and Eva held her breath—“that he be banished from all of Britain for life. He must sail now, today, so William knows he is gone.”
“Oh, no,” Eva whispered, stunned. “No!”
Inclining her head serenely, Margaret turned, her gown swirling as she handed the infant in her arms to her sister. Stepping past, Margaret faltered for a moment, and Malcolm moved toward her. She shook off his hand and walked toward the little church by the bell tower.
Eva turned to follow as the ceremony ended—she did not stay for the rest, concerned for Margaret, though her thoughts were also with Edgar. And within moments he was striding beside her. In the shadow of the church entrance, Edgar took her arm and pulled her toward him.
“Eva,” he said, “listen to me. I will return.”
“But it is banishment for life.” She pressed her hands against his chest.
“I will return and find you. Will you wait?” He leaned his head down, pressed his brow to hers.
“I hope you will come back for your family’s sake. But you will not remember me for very long,” she said. “Besides, I will go north soon, I hope. I cannot stay forever in the king’s court.”
“Will you not wait for me?” His face was close, breath warm, surrounding shadows deep.
“Whether or not I do, Edgar, I do not belong here.” Suddenly, keenly, she felt how very true that was. And just as quickly, she realized that she did not belong with him, either, despite the lovely hope she had fostered for a while. Being in his arms somehow dissolved her illusions—he was a friend and no more. She felt affection for him, felt sadness and loyalty, but no deeper than that, much as she might want it. “I am not a boon to you.”
“You are. Think of me each day, as I will of you,” he murmured, and stroked her black hair, grabbed a fistful of thick braid to guide her head closer to his own. He kissed her then, so quick and tender that Eva nearly sobbed out for the sharp yearning, unmet. What she wanted was there in the kiss, and yet not. She wanted passion, strength, freedom—perhaps he did, too. But she did not feel it there between them now—only desperation, masked as need.
“I will think of you and pray for your well-being each day. Farewell, my friend,” she said, hand lingering on his arm.
He seemed to understand, taking her hand to kiss it. “See to my sister,” he said. “She loves you, trusts you.” Then he stepped out into the sunlight and turned to meet William’s knights, who waited for him.
DEEPLY WEARY, HAVING WEPT and prayed through the night, Margaret watched as Edgar’s things were brought aboard a sleek Danish-built vessel. Her brother was bound for Flanders with notes of introduction from William and Malcolm to the Count of Hainault, and Margaret could only pray that he would be welcomed. Given the strength of trade exchanges—Flemish cloth relied on Scottish wool and flax—surely diplomatic courtesy would follow.
In the space of an afternoon, her world had gone askew. Her stepson would be a hostage in England; her brother, sister, and mother would leave, too. William’s desire to remove the Saxon royal family from Scotland would succeed—and only by virtue of her marriage, and William’s greater respect for her earned that day, would Margaret remain. Since Lady Agatha was of no importance to him, William made no request regarding h
er, though he banished Edgar and demanded that Cristina, being a princess of marriageable age, go to Wilton Abbey in England.
Cristina now walked along the shore, looking both furious and helpless. William had granted English properties to Cristina and Edgar to supply their income, but they were not permitted to inhabit those places. Once the demands were set, Lady Agatha, sad and angry, had decided to go with Cristina and return to the abbey where she had once been banished herself.
The women’s few things, brought from Dunfermline, were now loaded on the ship, which was leaving soon. Cristina turned to Margaret, eyes red with weeping. “Send the rest of our possessions, if you will,” she said. “Our garments and books, our precious crosses and such.”
Most material goods at Wilton would go into storage, Margaret knew, but she nodded. In a daze, feeling caught in a dreadful dream, she embraced Cristina. “You will do well there,” she said, trying to smile. “I vow you will be abbess one day, for you are not shy! And if I have a daughter someday, I will send her to Wilton for her education.”
“See that you do,” Cristina said, and turned away to hide a sob. Lady Agatha, having given each of her little grandsons a kiss, now came toward her daughters. She embraced Margaret in a quick, stiff manner and stood back, head high, chin trembling.
“You are a fine queen, Margaret, a devout woman, a good mother,” she said. “Do not forget us, I beg you.” Tears pooled as she walked down the beach toward the water’s edge.
Though a deep ache within threatened to bring her to her knees, Margaret had learned from her mother to persevere, to endure. She stood still, utterly controlled.
As her kinswomen were carried through the shallows to the ship, Margaret turned to press coins in small purses into the hands of Kata and Hildy, who had chosen to go as well. Hugging them, she could hardly see for tears when they, too, boarded the longship. Not knowing if she would ever see any of them again, she dared not think about it. Hurt ran too deep that day.
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