Queen Hereafter (45 page)

“Woman,” he said, “your friend has betrayed you.”

His words struck her to the heart. Stunned, Margaret allowed him to escort her up the slope. She had never imagined such betrayal
could exist in her own household from a friend she had come to love. Her prayers and meditations, not even heaven itself, had warned her of this.

“Malcolm, that cannot be?”

“Trust my judgment in this,” he replied. “I know too well what a viper Lady Gruadh can be—and now we see her granddaughter is the same. I should have known,” he went on. “I should have suspected when Eva sang of her father. I only blame myself. You might have been lost to me this day.” He took her hand.

H
aving betrayed her two queens, one to the other, herself to each, she was a hostage in earnest now. Malcolm had ordered her brought to the sole dungeon at Dunfermline, a dingy place deep in the stone foundation of the tower, where no noble prisoner had been held but for those who lingered a day or two during the king’s annual moot courts. She was reminded of the dungeon she had visited in Dun Edin with Margaret, where Malcolm and Tor had threatened to leave them—that had been teasing, then. This was grim and real, and she was alone.

Margaret came to see her once and went away angry and haughty, the gentle face of the friend gone. Eva mourned the relationship she had never expected to find or to value so much. Lady Gruadh had warned
her that no one in Malcolm’s court would wish her well. That was proving true now, with even Margaret turned against her.

The guards told her that her trial would be within the week, and had hinted that her execution might well follow. Another said the king alone would decide what was just. But Eva knew that they all believed she had committed treason by deliberately leading Margaret into danger. That she had not known, had not intended any of it, did not seem to matter.

The queen’s ladies visited her briefly with little to say, though they left linens and food. Lady Juliana lingered, though she, too, looked at Eva with a questioning gaze. “I know your loyalty to your kin was stronger than your loyalty to the queen,” Juliana said. “If my father, Cospatric, had needed my help, though it harmed another, I think I might have chosen him.”

Eva had been grateful for her attempt to understand, but Juliana had left and had not returned. At night, Eva dreamed of Edgar, and then wished she had explored more of her heart with him—she did care about him, and thought him her friend. But if he heard of her plight, he, too, might no longer trust her.

Most surprising to her was Tor’s visit one evening, when he sat with her and took her hands, spoke to her of redemption and priestly matters, and then questioned her closely on her reasons for taking the loose pages from his manuscript.

“The account is wrong,” she said. “I tried to tell you before. My step-grandfather was a just and fair king, my grandmother a good queen.”

“Tell me more,” he said, and she did. He listened in silence as she recounted the tale of her grandparents’ reign and the bitter conflicts between Malcolm and Macbeth, and later Malcolm and Gruadh. When she was done, Tor made little comment, only knelt with her and prayed, absolved her sins, and left.

Her trial came on a bitter cold autumn day, when she was brought across the bailey to the tower, the familiar hall that had felt like home
to her once, yet no longer. She stood before Malcolm, faced him with as much bravery as she could muster, and heard the list of her crimes read aloud by De Lauder, another friend turned cold. He sat with Malcolm, Brother Tor, Ranald mac Niall, and others, all of them stone solemn, after the litany of her betrayals had been read.

She had intended no harm beyond taking the manuscript pages, and she had been unwise in some of it. Perhaps she should admit to foolishness, she thought, and to loyalties that ripped her in two. She wondered what a fair penalty would be for that.

“We will have done with this quickly,” Malcolm said then. The hall was crowded, the silence dense with a noise of its own—a hum of anticipation, of curiosity, accusation. “I welcomed you here in my household, in agreement with your kinswoman. You once showed your defiance by singing praises of your father in my presence. Treason then, and I let it go. But now you have committed the worst sort of betrayal, that of the snake in the nest of those who have loved you.”

“I have shared my music and befriended your queen, as you yourself asked of me,” Eva said. She saw Margaret cross the dais, having entered the hall after the king had begun proceedings. Eva wondered if Margaret’s hesitation to watch this came from sympathy or bitterness. Now she sat in a chair a little apart from the king, observing rather than judging. She wore pale blue and cream, her long braids golden as the crown set upon her veil, her face pure. She looked angelic—but her eyes held anger and hurt. Eva knew that the queen might berate herself for being uncharitable and unforgiving, but she knew her temper, too. Loyalty was all to Margaret, and that trust had been broken.

Yet Eva, too, felt abandoned and hurt. Margaret had betrayed her by believing Eva capable of such heartlessness. Margaret followed rules, loved discipline and strict routine and the lessons of her faith. So perhaps it was not surprising that she had accepted what the king, as authority, had said of Eva.

So be it, Eva thought. She would endure on her own whatever came.

Malcolm conferred with the mormaers gathered near him, along with Brother Tor, Father Otto, and Brother Micheil. Margaret sat calmly and silently, waiting, as did Eva.

“Aeife inghean Lulach,” Malcolm said when he turned back. “The decision to be made here is not of your guilt, as that wrongdoing is clear. The question is what to do now. Given the charges, your crimes might merit a burning.”

Eva felt suddenly faint. Margaret, too, had hinted at that when she had visited Eva in the dungeon. Yet witches were not burned in Scotland as they might be in England, as Eva had pointed out to the queen.

“It is unworthy of you, King of Scots,” Eva said, “to apply Saxon law in Scotland.”

“We learn from Saxon law, and it behooves us to adopt some of that wisdom in our laws. You may have done more than treason. It is possible that magic may be involved.”

“Magic!” She nearly laughed. “I have no knowledge of that.”

“They do say of Eva the bard,” Father Otto said, “that her harp music is magical in itself.”

“And you believe that means witchcraft?” she asked, incredulous.

“You have been defiant and devious, exerting influence over the queen,” Malcolm said. “In your company, she was involved in thievery and deceit. Now I believe it was you who stole gold from my treasury while the queen stood by. You released prisoners to deprive me of income, and let her be blamed. And you took the pages that Brother Tor created for my book.”

Whatever they thought of her, she would not give up Margaret. “I never intended harm to the queen, nor would I commit treason or witchcraft. I think kindly of Queen Margaret.”

“Few in Moray support the queen. It was a mistake to welcome you into our household.”

Eva lifted her chin at that added blow; she cared that much for Margaret, the children, most of the others. And she felt Margaret’s continued silence keenly. The queen could have spoken in her defense and did not. Hurting, Eva could not, just then, look at her.

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.