Queen Hereafter (42 page)

“
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 her, 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.

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.

I
t is nearly gloaming, Lady.” Eva looked over at Margaret from her perch on horseback. “Will you read your book in this light?”