Queen Hereafter

by Susan Fraser King

  Yet as she watched the others, she felt new understanding, even sympathy, blossom in her heart for them. She had done what her grandmother had asked out of love and loyalty, and she knew that, because of loyalty to his patron the king, Tor had written down what Malcolm wanted. And Margaret, too, must feel the hurt of a broken trust.

  As for Malcolm, who had murdered her father—Eva understood with better clarity that he had done only what he thought was right. Canny, ambitious, he kept Scotland’s welfare in mind as well as his own. Each of them had acted from loyalty and belief in rightfulness, and each saw the truth differently, like the many facets of a jewel.

  Eva stood straighter, hands folded. She would not bow her head. She was royalty, her blood as pure or more so than the rest. “I have erred,” she said, “but not against you or the queen.”

  Malcolm grunted at that admission as if surprised. He leaned to listen as some of his men conferred with him. While they spoke, Eva heard a commotion behind her as the doors to the great hall were opened. When others in the room turned to look, Eva did so as well.

  Lady Gruadh entered the room, escorted by a few of her men, though they were held back at the door by Malcolm’s housecarls. The lady proceeded on her own. Eva stared—she never expected her kinswoman to appear here; Gruadh took her life in her hands to face Malcolm.

  Moving deep into the room, Gruadh paused beside Eva, her green gown and black cloak swinging gently. Eva could smell the fresh air of spring around her. The lady raised her head, draped in pale silk, her face strong and beautiful, eyes snapping like crackling blue ice.

  “Malcolm,” she said.

  “Gruadh,” he returned warily. “Come to defend your duckling?”

  “She is capable on her own, but I will not abandon her to you. I came here to tell you that you are making a terrible mistake. Another,” she added.

  “She betrayed the queen and myself.”

  “How is it betrayal to meet with kinfolk after a long separation, or wrong to bring me pages with the names of my husband and son, which I had a right to see? Pages that never should have been written.”

  “Destroy them if you like,” Malcolm said. He picked the parchments up from a table where they sat in evidence, crinkled them, tossed them at her feet. Gruadh did not move. “I will have them written again, and again. Ruin as many pages as you can find. You will never know how many copies exist. Whatever tales I choose to put forth about Macbeth, and about you, witch,” he said, sitting forward, voice lowered, “will survive. You cannot stop that.”

  “Some of us know what happened. Truth is an obligation in a king.”

  He bristled. “I have my own truth.”

  Tor cleared his throat. “Sire,” he said. “In these past several weeks, I have rewritten the ruined pages.” He looked at Eva directly and nodded once, as if to convey an unspoken message. “I will make more than one copy as well for safekeeping.”

  Eva caught her breath. Had Brother Tor revised the pages to reflect the very truths Malcolm meant to avoid, the fair account of the lives of Macbeth and Lulach? If so, he would make sure that the truth survived, protected somewhere, no matter what version Malcolm himself saw. Eva wanted to tell her grandmother her thoughts, but that was impossible with Malcolm glowering over them.

  The king stood. “Good,” he told Tor. “Now let us be done with this. Lady Eva—”

  “You cannot burn her, so do not think to declare it,” Gruadh said bluntly.

  “If a law needs to be instituted, I can do that.”

  “You have no authority to execute her under any circumstances.”

  “I am king here! And you are not on my council, to advise me so.”

  “Nor would I want to be,” she snapped. “As king, you ought to know that Scotland is bound in part by the ancient Irish laws set down by holy Adomnán, who recorded the Brehon laws for Ireland that are still used now, even in your own reign,” Gruadh pointed out. “And that law states that no woman born of noble or royal rank can be executed, no matter her crime. She can only be reprimanded or banished. Thus goes the law that every King of Scots must follow.”

  Malcolm looked stormy. “So you remember those old laws, do you.”

  “Of course. I was queen here. And those old laws are still in force, if forgotten in your reign.”

  “Not forgotten,” he said. “But not always needed these days. Very well. Then I will banish her out of Scotland entirely.”

  “Sire,” Margaret said, standing then, breaking her silence. She glided across the dais. “Hear me, husband. This is wrong.”

  “How so?” He turned to look at her. Eva noticed, as always, that his tone gentled a little.

  “Lady Eva never committed treason. Nor did she betray me, either, on the day we met the Moray party. I followed her there myself that day, and so I was not lured into danger. And you sent arrows out first, if you recall,” she pointed out.

  “To stop the Moray folk from harming you!”

  “No one threatened her,” Gruadh said. “Trust that.”

  “Can I ever trust you, lady?” Malcolm sounded resigned.

  “You could have, years back, before you betrayed my husband and then my son. When you were a small boy in court and took my hand as I minded you, we liked each other well. I am a loyal friend to those in whom I have faith.”

  “What of my claims, Gruadh?” he asked. “What of my rights? I am always your enemy. Never a fair enough king interested in justice for his people and forced to defend what should belong to him and his. Never seeking the right thing, eh?”

  “This is not your trial,” Gruadh said, “nor mine. Our concern is this one.” She placed a hand on Eva’s shoulder, the grip strong, warm, a comfort. Eva stood beside her, silent.

  “That concern we all share,” Margaret said, stepping closer. “Regarding theft, sire, I told you at the time that any wrongdoing was mine in taking the gold and releasing the prisoners. Eva tried to stop me but I acted rashly.”

  “You would never—” the king began.

  “I did. As for the manuscript pages, they fell into the river when my book went into the water, which some now call a miracle. What does it matter about a few pages? Other pieces of Brother Tor’s book were lost that day, and he must remake those, too.”

  Malcolm frowned. “It is a setback and a delay. And more cost to me.”

  “But he can add the truth that belongs in that history. As Lady Gruadh said, truth is our obligation, is it not?”

  Malcolm stared at her as if speechless. Margaret smiled and stepped down from the dais to walk toward Gruadh and Eva. Bending, she picked up the fallen pages and handed them to the older woman, who accepted them. Then Margaret stood between Eva and Gruadh.

  “Much of this is my fault, too,” she then said to Malcolm. “Will you accuse me as well?”

  “There is no need for this,” he replied sternly.

  “I was wrong to mistrust my good friend Eva. And I believe that you yourself misunderstood, sire, and did what you thought was just. Lady Eva is innocent and Lady Gruadh is brave to come here for a reconciliation, considering her grievance with you.”

  Malcolm glowered. “Reconciliation!”

  “What!” Lady Gruadh said sharply. Eva stared from one to the other, uncertain what might come of this.

  Margaret linked arms with Eva and Gruadh. “A little peace between us all is needed. Surely you agree, sire.”

  Malcolm narrowed his eyes, displeased, Eva thought—yet he would not gainsay his queen before the court.

  “Since Lady Gruadh is here, she and I will talk,” he said. “In private.”

  “I want my guard with me if we are to speak,” Gruadh said.

  “Best I call my guard, too, if I am to be alone with you,” he returned. “We will talk of Moray and peace in Scotland, with the Normans at our gates.”

  “Politics,” she said. “Not forgiveness.”

  “As you wish,” the king muttered. “Come to my chamber when you are done coddling your gr
anddaughter. Bring as many guards as you like. Margaret,” he said, turning toward the queen. “The girl-bard is yours to rescue, like your orphans and beggars. She will not be the first prisoner you have set free.”

  “Sire,” Margaret said, “it would be a gesture of peace to release her from your custody as a royal hostage. And perhaps you and Lady Gruadh will agree to a truce.”

  Eva looked at her grandmother, who remained expressionless. Gruadh was too proud to cave easily to any arrangement with Malcolm, but she would not jeopardize the moment.

  “I have said what I will say.” Malcolm turned to stride heavily across the dais, beckoning to his men, many of whom followed. Some remained, including Tor.

  Sighing out in relief, her knees near buckling beneath her, Eva leaned against Gruadh, her other arm still linked with the queen’s. They formed a circle for a moment, heads bowed together.

  Margaret laughed, a sound of joy and relief. Then she stepped back. “I must go ask Brother Tor to confess me, for I did not tell all the truth about those pages.”

  “Nor I—for I did take them,” Eva admitted. “And I am sorry for the trouble it caused.”

  Gruadh turned to Margaret. “Lady, you saved Eva out of loyalty and kindness. I think there is much to admire about the foreign queen after all. We are surely in your debt.”

  Margaret shook her head, embracing them both, and Eva felt her heart leap when she saw the two queens leaning together, whispering. Then Margaret stepped away and looked toward Brother Tor, who nodded and followed her from the hall.

  “She will be up all night in prayer,” Eva said. “She will take herself to task for this.”

  “It is not her doing.”

  “She will think so nonetheless. Grandmother,” she said, “perhaps I should stay here.”

  “In Malcolm’s court, rather than come home? If Malcolm lets me go,” she added.

  “He will. He dare not hold you here and risk an uprising in the north. Margaret needs me for now—and I need to make peace with Malcolm myself before I go home.”

  Gruadh sighed. “Just so. Eva, girl—a greater, kinder heart than mine showed you that need. Bravery I taught you, and boldness. But Margaret understands giving and compassion. Forgiveness, too. Stay, then, if you wish,” she added. “Will you wait for her brother to return?”

  “Edgar will never come back. I feel it so. Not for me, at least.”

  Gruadh took her hand. “We cannot know some things until we see them unfold.”

  “I had best fetch my harp,” Eva said as she walked with her grandmother from the hall. “I will play for Margaret later. The music soothes her spirit.”

  “She searches for peace, that one, yet never finds it, though it flows all around her to others. She cares so much, but must take care of herself as well. Tell her so, Eva,” Gruadh said.

  “I am thinking of a praise song,” Eva mused, “just for the young queen, verses to tell of her good soul, with a sweet, quiet melody to suit her. And another song,” she added, “to praise my own heritage. I am the daughter and granddaughter of kings, and granddaughter and friend to the Queens of Scots. What do you think?”

  “I am thinking they do need you here in this court. There is an enchantment in your music to soothe them all—though you must not let them know it,” she added.

  “And if that fails, I will show them the pride and common sense of the north.”

  “Now, that is something we can safely boast! Though I will admit, your foreign queen has a certain magic of her own. She teaches others to be better than they were. Even me, a little.”

  “Best keep that to ourselves,” Eva said, as Gruadh smiled. “Do you want me to go with you to face Malcolm?”

  “He and I have much to say, but we must say it alone. I do not forgive easily, and I will make that clear. But I will tell him that I am grateful.”

  “For what?”

  Gruadh did not reply, but tucked her arm in Eva’s to draw her close as they walked.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  There is perhaps no more beautiful character recorded in history.

  —W. F. SKENE, Celtic Scotland, 1895, ON QUEEN MARGARET

  A medieval fairy tale: a princess, the eldest child of an exiled prince and an exotic noblewoman, raised in a pious royal court, sails with her family to the land of her father’s birth and the throne promised there. The father dies within a week of arriving, possibly poisoned, and his widow raises their children alone—two princesses and a small prince who is to inherit the throne. When the aging king dies a decade later, his enemies invade and the royal family must flee. Sailing over raging seas, they are shipwrecked along a northern coast belonging to a barbarian people.

  That king, known to be a brute warrior, offers the fugitives sanctuary; he soon falls in love with the eldest princess, requesting her hand in marriage. Devout, educated, a beautiful young creature of a virtuous and charitable character, the princess intends to become a nun. But for the good of all she is persuaded to marry the warrior-king.

  Their marriage of near opposites produces eight healthy children—six boys and two girls—and the queen works tirelessly to bring charity, refined culture, and religious reform to her adopted nation, earning the love and trust of the people. The king and queen adore each other: she teaches him to read and turns his plain fortress into a palace; he translates for her when she lectures his foreign priests on theology; she feeds orphans with her own golden spoon and establishes a free ferry for pilgrims; she steals the king’s gold to give it to the poor and releases his ransomed prisoners, for which he affectionately calls her a little thief. He orders a cover of precious metal and gems made for her favorite old book; she gives away her garments; he adores her, and she loves him, their children, and her faith more than life. Their enduring affection for each other is widely admired.

  Twenty-two years later, the king is killed in battle alongside his eldest son, and the queen dies of heartbreak within days. Their royal dynasty lasts generations, the queen is declared a saint by her descendants, the king is immortalized in literature, and their memory is still revered.

  Fairy tales and romance, indeed—yet this is Margaret and Malcolm’s story in a nutshell, handed along by generations of historians and supported by medieval documents. Historians know a good deal about them by now, but their romantic story remains a solid foundation beneath both new and accumulating facts.

  Margaret of Scotland has long fascinated historians as one of the most complex women in medieval history. What adds to her uniqueness is a rare detailed biography written by her personal confessor, along with annals and records by other chroniclers and historians both in her lifetime and after. More is known about Margaret than about most medieval queens. Her biographer, confessor, and friend, Bishop Turgot, was an Anglo-Dane who escaped Norman captivity in Lincoln to join the exiled Saxon royals in Scotland; he later became Bishop of Saint Andrews (at the time called Kilrymont or Cill Rimhinn), and he was also prior of Durham. Margaret regarded Turgot as a close friend, and he was another who adored her. Several years after her death he wrote about her life for her daughter, Edith, known as Queen Matilda after she married Henry I of England.

  Despite stilted medieval language and ideals, Turgot’s Vita S. Margaretae, which has survived in medieval copies, was based on his personal memories and brings Margaret to life as an intense young woman of piety, conscience, charity, compassion, and intelligence. “There was gravity in her very joy and something stately in her anger,” he wrote. She gave birth to eight healthy babies who thrived to adulthood (Edward, Edmund, Edgar, Aethelred, Alexander, David, Edith, and Mary—four kings of Scots, an abbot, and a queen of England among them) at a time when too many infants were lost early; that Margaret survived eight births was remarkable as well. As a mother, Margaret was attentive and affectionate, teaching her children lessons and manners but recommending that her beloved brood be whipped “when they were naughty, as frolicsome children will be,” Turgot tells us.

  And she
had a feisty side, pilfering her husband’s treasury and springing his prisoners loose, and disguising herself as a boy to enter a church forbidden to women. After losing her temper, she would ask for more penances, and she pressed Turgot to rebuke her if he saw fault in her behavior. When he said he could find no flaw, she gently chided him for negligence.

  A certain mythology has developed around Margaret, in part due to the information gathered for her sainthood 150 years after her death. She kept an altar in a hidden cave near Dunfermline where she prayed and meditated; she fed and clothed the poor and provided for pilgrims; she lost her silver-cased Gospel while crossing a river, but by some miracle its delicate painted pages were unharmed (even more miraculously, the manuscript survived the ages and is now preserved in the Bodleian Library, Oxford).

  So much of Margaret’s life is known—almost too much to pack into a novel that covers just a portion of her life—and only some of it can be real, the rest exaggeration. Certainly her medieval chroniclers applied to her the ideals of perfection that measured most medieval queens and noblewomen, based on the model of the Virgin Mary (the Marian cult was already developing in the eleventh century). Yet any woman with eight young children and several households to run was simply too busy to spend hours praying each day, which may be closer to the truth than some of the tales about her.

  Turgot’s Margaret conveys as genuine, her charitable deeds believable, such as giving away the clothing on her back to the poor on outings (her courtiers did the same, embarrassed into it by her example), feeding orphans from her own dish, and creating Scotland’s “queen’s ferry,” free to pilgrims (bishops could pay or walk). She prayed, admonished, and celebrated with fanatical intensity, fasted frequently, and lost sleep to devotions, benefitting her soul and ruining her health.

  Modern historians accept that Margaret was that good and more, but they point out her other side, too: a complex, highly educated woman obsessively driven by demanding socioreligious standards, regarding herself as an unworthy sinner (she loved bright colors, fine clothing, fancy tableware). She was proud and determined, elegant and compassionate, but the darker side of her character is seen in the demands she made of herself, including apparent anorexia in excessive response to the tenets of her faith.