She saw Edgar standing on the pebbled shore with Eva, taking her hands in his, speaking to her, their heads close together. When Eva nodded and stepped away to hurry past Margaret, the girl’s silverblue eyes were impossibly sad.
Edgar walked toward Margaret. “I told Malcolm to gather his gold and his men, for I will be back. We can still ride into England to help the Saxons. I will not give up, Margaret.” He wrapped his arms around her, and she returned the embrace. Then he moved away to wade out to the Saxon-built ship afloat in the lapping surf.
As the oarsmen drew the longboat into deeper waters, Margaret fought such grief that she could scarcely breathe, as if the pain in her chest were physical. But then she turned to see Malcolm standing beside Tor, a little distance away.
They had let her say her farewells alone, and she blessed them for it, and realized for an instant how much she loved both men, how deeply—and how differently. Smiling through tears, she went toward them.
Chapter Twenty-One
Wounds inflicted by a friend are better than a flattering enemy’s kisses.
—BISHOP TURGOT, Life of Saint Margaret, TWELFTH CENTURY, QUOTING QUEEN MARGARET
It is nearly gloaming, Lady.” Eva looked over at Margaret from her perch on horseback. “Will you read your book in this light?”
“I memorized every page long ago.” Margaret smiled, though she looked weary as she rode in the van with the group traveling from Abernethy back to Loch Leven, where they would stay before moving on. “But I will put it away for now.” After buckling the book’s cover shut, she wrapped it in supple leather to protect the silver casing from scratches. “If you please, put this in your saddlebag. It is heavy to hold, and we are crowded in the wagon.” Although Lady Agatha and Lady Cristina and the others were no longer with them, the van was full enough with the children, maidservants, and the other women.
As Eva took the book, which was heavy indeed, another horse neared hers, and she turned to see Brother Tor on a gray palfrey. “I will take that, Lady Eva. I have room for it in my satchel.” He indicated a leather bag strapped to the front of his saddle.
Eva had a sudden thought. “Do you have the king’s book with you?” Given all that had happened recently, she had nearly forgotten the offending pages.
“Aye, as unbound leaves—rolled tightly, and safe enough. Would you look at a page or two now to give me your opinion? We are riding slowly enough for that.” His tone was wry.
“Certainly,” she replied calmly, her heart thumping. Though the light was fading, she would not refuse this chance. Tor took the silver-covered book from her hands and slipped it inside the leather bag, then removed a cylindrical shape, wrapped in leather and tied with thongs. He opened it to remove some sheets. “Please look at these pages quickly.”
Here, handed to her without ceremony, were the very pages her grandmother wanted. Eva slowed and stopped her horse, and Tor did the same, mounted beside her.
Transfixed, Eva uncurled the pages, which were of good size, though they would be folded and sewn into quartos when the volume was bound, so that the final pages would be much smaller than what she held. Tor’s script in black ink was neat and small. She saw lists of names and dated item entries, as in some annals she had seen. She recognized the names Duncan, Malcolm, Macbeth, Lulach—even Gruadh.
Eva stared. Ahead, the escort reached the banks of a flowing burn, so that the vans and carts must be guided carefully across first, while the horses—Eva’s and Tor’s included—came last. She paid little attention as they went ahead. Silent, intent, she studied the pages in her hands.
On Lammas Day in 1040, she read, King Duncan was unjustly slain by the hand of the usurper Macbeth …
Eva glanced up at Tor, caught her breath, then read on. Pressed by his wife, Gruadh, daughter of Bodhe, to do harm to others to gain the throne for himself, Macbeth was a poor king. Righteously Malcolm pursued him, and when his uncle Siward was killed cruelly by Macbeth, the kingdom was divided north and south. Malcolm killed Macbeth in the year 1057 on the anniversary of his father’s murder.
Included was an annotated list of battles that her Moray kin had mentioned. She saw her own father’s name, too: The luckless King Lulach ruled for seven months until Malcolm had him slain in March of the year 1058.
Eva breathed heavily, resisting the urge to weep or to nurse her growing anger over such unjust comment. She rolled the parchment pages again and looked at Tor. “Some of this is correct,” she said in a tight voice. “Some of it is very wrong.”
“I thought you might say so,” he replied.
“Will you have your name on what is a wrong accounting?”
“King Malcolm dictated what he wanted in his history. He was adamant about part of it.” He held out his hand for the parchment.
Hesitating, Eva did not want to give it back. Here in her hands were the pages her grandmother wanted stolen and destroyed. But even then, the monk could write another one. “Should false history be preserved and taught to future generations?”
“Lady Eva, no event can be preserved as it was. Every recounting depends on a memory, and changes with every telling. Every bard and storyteller alters the old tales and songs over time. So it is with history.”
“Bards are trained for their memories. Mine is good and fair. Malcolm’s is not.”
“This is not an annal based on reports, but an accounting by a king. It is an important work.”
“Aye, that does ill to good people. My kin.”
“I was not there,” he said. “Were you? Though I understand your desire to protect your kin.”
“He has long held a grudge against my own. I could ruin this page,” she said suddenly, holding it. “It would be done.”
“I could write it again,” he said. “My obligation is to my patron.”
“Truth and history are better patrons!”
Tor held out his hand in silence, beckoned. Sighing, Eva handed the pages to him at last. He slipped the roll back into his satchel. She felt furious with him, with Malcolm—with herself, for not destroying the parchment then and there, regardless of the consequences.
“Your lady grandmother,” Tor said then, “could commission a history, too, as she likes.”
“Which would survive? Hers, or one belonging to a King of Scots?”
The line of horses was moving now, and Eva urged hers ahead toward the water, glad to get away from Tor, from all of them. Tears dripped down her cheeks now, and she dashed them away. All of her waiting, her patient effort, wasted in but a few moments, for she could do nothing about the pages, giving them back like a coward. By the time the party returned to Loch Leven, her grandmother might already be there, and Eva could not bear to tell her the truth.
Her horse crossed steadily, and just as he reached the bank, Eva heard shouting and a heavy splash behind her. She whirled to see Tor’s horse stumble in the water, sink down to its knees. The monk, a trained warrior, eased his horse upright again, speaking calmly, his hand firm on the reins. Yet the fall had twisted the leather satchel, which slid into the water, opening, its contents spilling out. The queen’s silver book, the monk’s roll, floated then sank out of sight.
Crying out, surging her horse onto the bank, Eva leaped down and turned to wade into the water, lunging for the satchel and its contents. She wanted to save Margaret’s silver book—and she would not miss the chance to snatch Tor’s pages as well if she could retrieve them. Wet to her skin, sinking to her knees on rocks in the cold, rushing water, she groped about, gasping, reaching, missing. Tor had jumped down into the water, too, as did two housecarls, all of them grabbing for the pages that floated, separated, spun in the current. They splashed about, too, looking for the book, which seemed to vanish in the sparkling moving water.
Then Eva saw a silvery flash like a trout under the water and she lunged, her hand finding the book’s hard metal casing. She brought it up, water sluicing from the cover, and handed it to Tor, who took it and mopped at it with his black
woolen sleeve.
Seeing one of the loose pages float by, Eva grabbed at that, then saw two and three more. Like the men near her, she, too, reached for the pages, shaking water from them as she caught them like fish, as a dozen and more parchments swirled and flowed over rock and through fast-moving currents. Tor waded downstream, snatching at pages, too, black robes floating around his legs.
Just as she turned to go toward the bank, Eva saw two more pages skim past, and she picked these up—and recognized the very pages she had been holding only minutes ago, the two she had separated from the roll. Quickly folding these, she crammed them into the deep pocket of her wet tunic gown with the letter for her grandmother, still there. Picking up her soaked skirts, she waded toward the bank.
One of the men reached out a hand to pull her up, wrapping a dry cloak around her shoulders. She turned to look for her horse, but the man guided her toward the queen’s van, where he helped her inside. She was shivering as Juliana and Wynne shifted to make room for her, and Margaret reached over to drape a blanket over her lap. Tor stood by the wagon and handed Margaret her silver-cased book.
“I am sorry. I fear it is ruined,” he said.
Margaret accepted the book, gently drying it with part of her cloak. The leather cover was partly around it, and she peeled that away to undo the latches as water slid from the silver cover. Carefully she turned the pages.
Eva leaned closer, astonished, for water had only beaded on the parchment sheets. The scraped and polished skins had survived the soaking, the pages only a little damp. Fanning the book open, Margaret dabbed at the wet areas. “It is not much harmed,” she said. “I thought it would be ruined!”
“That’s quite miraculous,” Juliana said, looking over the queen’s shoulder.
Tor examined it when Margaret handed it to him. “The silver casing saved it, I think, along with the fine quality of the vellum,” he said pragmatically. “The leather wrapping and silk sheets between the pages also helped to protect it against the water.”
“Miracle or not, Eva saved it.” Margaret set an arm around her shoulders. “I am in your debt,” she went on, pressing her cheek against Eva’s.
Aware that two wet pages were stolen and secret in her pocket, Eva said nothing.
“HAVE YOU HAD word from Lady Gruadh?” Eva whispered when she saw Abbot Drostan at Saint Serf’s that evening. They stood in a corner of the refectory as the others ate at a table in the monks’ dining hall.
“She is nearby,” he said. “She will not come to the island with the king and queen here, but she wishes to see you. I sent a message to her—she knows you have news for her.”
“I do,” Eva whispered, thinking of the pages folded in her pocket. Returning to Loch Leven that evening, she had found a few moments in the guesthouse to dry the parchment sheets more thoroughly. The ink was smeared but legible, and the contents clear. Holding those pages might ease Lady Gruadh’s heart some, Eva thought. That much she could do toward fulfilling her promise to her grandmother.
Then she meant to go to Margaret and tell her that she could not stay, even if she had to escape, like the prisoners who had slipped away from Dun Edin with Margaret’s help. More and more, she felt compelled, even desperate, to return to Moray and the life that suited her best, though her heart near broke to think of deserting or disappointing either of her two queens now. Years had passed, and Lady Gruadh had been unable to win her back from Malcolm’s custody—and with Edgar departing Britain, she felt one more tie to Malcolm’s court slipping free. The need for home burned in her heart, and yet her loyalty to Margaret had grown as strong as her love for her own kin in the north.
“We had word that the Moray party was headed this way just as you left to go with the royal party to Abernethy,” Drostan said. “Lady Gruadh is staying nearby, and waits for you.”
“When can I see her?” Eva glanced over her shoulder, hoping others would assume that she was listening to her spiritual advisor and leave her be.
“You will find her by the falls just west of here,” he replied quietly. “There is a forest among the hills three miles to the west. A waterfall there can be seen from a distance. The property came to Lady Gruadh with her first marriage dowry, and she granted it to Loch Leven when she was Macbeth’s queen. We give her use of it whenever she likes. Her message to me said that she would wait by the falls for three mornings, hoping to see you before she returns to Moray.”
Eva smoothed a hand over the cloak that Margaret had given her in place of her still damp plaid. Securely hidden in the lining pocket were the two pages that had floated free in the water. Brother Tor had asked her if she had seen the same pages she had been reading after the spill into the water that day. She had made no commitment, and he had concluded that the parchments were swept away and destroyed. “I will write them again,” he had told Eva.
“If you do remake them,” she had replied, “please consider first what is true and what is false. What would you want future generations to say of Thorgaut’s history?”
Thoughtful, frowning, he had not replied, and had resumed his monkish sober expression. Little could ever be read, she knew, in those elongated, handsome features.
FOLLOWING PRAYERS the next morning, Eva announced that she would ride out to see her kinfolk in Fife. “I was born near here,” she reminded Margaret, “and I have kin nearby.” She hoped Margaret would assume she referred to her uncle.
“I will ride with you today,” Margaret replied, to Eva’s sudden dismay. “It is a pretty morning for a ride, and the abbot mentioned that a little cave in the area was once the cell of an early Scottish saint. It is only a few miles from the shore. I suppose it is worth taking the ferry over the water,” she said with a little grimace, “to visit such a holy place.”
She could neither refuse nor leave without the queen, Eva thought, so she waited while Margaret changed to sturdy shoes for the ride into the hills. They left with an escort of several housecarls—even worse, Eva thought, for her secret plans—and Margaret mentioned that she had told the king of their day’s journey. Now Eva fully dreaded the day.
A capable horsewoman, Margaret nonetheless set a leisurely pace, pausing to take in the stunning views as they headed west toward the hills. Eva was in an agony of impatience. Somehow she would have to slip away to meet Lady Gruadh to quickly hand over the parchments, without time even for a true reunion.
When they found the saint’s cell at last, it was a small turf-covered cave in the side of a hill, unimpressive but for its history. Sitting her horse while Margaret ventured inside, Eva felt a knot of anxiousness in her gut—the morning was dwindling, and her grandmother might not wait.
Impulsively, she took up her horse’s reins and turned to a housecarl who sat nearest. Her horse sidestepped, picking up her nervous state. “I have kin who live near here,” she said. “I want to visit them for a little, while the queen is still at her devotions. You know she could be another hour at her prayers,” she added, hoping the guard would agree. “I will be back soon.”
“One of us should go with you,” he said, looking doubtful.
Eva hesitated. As a royal hostage she needed permission from the king or the queen to go off on her own. The risk she took was great, for secretly meeting her Moray kin could be treason. “I will be fine,” she told the guard. “Meet me in an hour or so, a few miles north of here. There is a waterfall in a grove between two hills. I will meet you there.”
“I know the place,” the man called as she turned her horse and left.
“REBELLION WILL COME—we do not know when,” Lady Gruadh said. Eva listened as they walked among the trees, arms about each other—though her grandmother was not often affectionate, she had a warmth and a strength that Eva craved to absorb in this brief reunion. The sound of the nearby falls and the rush of the summer winds softened their words as they spoke. “My men lately rode about to tally the men in Moray and other provinces who would be willing to march southward, if needed. The numbers reach
into the thousands.”
“Men discontent with Malcolm Canmore?” Eva asked. “But it is true that he has changed some of his ways for the better, with Margaret’s influence.”
“Let her remake him all she likes,” Gruadh said. “He has displeased many in the north by paying homage to William at Abernethy for the price of a few English farms. At least he has booted out the queen’s brother. That is a hapless one whose cause has come to naught.”
“Edgar put his heart into leading the revolts,” Eva insisted. “He is earnest, a good man. He reminds me a little of my father.”
Gruadh paused. “Then he is a caring young man? A good king, if given the chance?”
“He is. And he has been unfairly treated by fate, and by William.”
“Ah. Do you have feelings for him, and he for you?” Gruadh looked at her sharply.
Eva sighed. “I thought I did … but we are not suited. I do care for him, and I wish …”
“Marriage to a Moray princess would not further his cause,” Gruadh said gently.
“I know,” Eva said. “He has gone over the sea,” she added low. “I will not see him again. That is done.” She breathed against the regret.
Gruadh hugged her close for a moment and kissed her head.
“As for Malcolm,” Eva said, “at least he took the oath in the shadow of the Irish tower.”
“Just so. But he has had little luck in military matters, for all his storming about. Better he harasses the borderlands and leaves the rest of Scotland to those who are more interested in building its wealth, protecting its traditions.”
“So you still think Nechtan should rule Scotland someday.”
“Some of us think it the best solution, but the lad remains unconvinced. He is young yet, and will come round. Tell me more about the queen—so she prays at all hours, and deprives herself with fasting? I cannot understand it. Her little ones are healthy, her husband treats her well—why does she torment herself?”
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