Queen Hereafter by Susan Fraser King - Excerpt

8/8/2019 Queen Hereafter by Susan Fraser King - Excerpt

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P r o l o g u e

Evaa n n o d o m i n i 1 0 7 4

Bring to me the harp of my king

That on it I may shed my grief

Iris h, thirteenth century

Caught between two willful queens, I am, and should havetaken more care to tread lightlylike crossing a stream overslippery stones when the current is strong and cold. Now that I have

stumbled deep, who can say whether my two queens will forgive me orcondemn me for what I did at each ones bidding. No servant, I am free

to do as I please. Margaret and Gruadh disagree.

I am called Eva the Bard, daughter of a short-lived king. I have been

a devoted student of Dermot, once chief bard in Macbeths court. He

trained me in the ways of a seanchaidh: a thousand songs, a thousand

tales, a thousand heroes keenly remembered through ancient ways

of diligence, and more. Though I do not know my fate, I know mycallingto tell the old tales and coax melodies from the harp strings


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2 s u s a n f r a s e r k i n g

to soothe or excite the spirit. Some now accuse me of scheming, but

my aim has ever been my craft, and honor. So say I.

The king and queen would order some monk with ink-stainedfingers to record my betrayal on parchment, which would crumble

over time; the lady in the north would order the account destroyed

much sooner. Yet I would compose a song-poem to tell it whole, then

take up my harp and sing it to some, who would teach it to others, so

it would never be lost.

One queen might call it treason, the other tradition. But I might

call it vengeance.

Dunfermline, Scotland

Autumn 1074

a s t h e w o o d e n b e a m that crossed the door of her cell was lifted

and stowed aside, Eva rose to her feet. Cold and damp penetrated her

thin wool tunic as she waited. As the guard opened the door and torch-

light bloomed in the gap, Eva blinked, her eyes used to darkness after

weeks of incarceration.

Still and wary, she heard the rumbling voices of the guard and the

Saxon priest who answered, then mellow, clear notes as a woman spoke.

The guard appeared in the doorway and gestured for Eva to approach.

Defiant, she did not. He stood back.The woman crossed the threshold, skirts gathered in long, pale fin-

gers as she stepped down to the deeper floor of the dungeon cell. Behind

her, torchlight illuminated the small space. The lady paused, slender

and lovely, with a veil as translucent as a halo, like some saint or angel

bringing relief and blessings to the prisoner.

My friend, Margaret said quietly.

Lady, Eva replied, watching the Queen of Scots. Daughter of aking, a bard in her own right, Eva also had a privileged rankbut the


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q u e e n h e r e a f t e r 3

Margaret approached, the hem of her blue gown, banded by gold

thread embroidery, sweeping across the straw-covered earthen floor.

Calmly, she clasped her hands before her. Tall and slim, a mother ofthree little sons already, the queen looked girlish still. Her face was

lovely on a long neck, eyes blue as her gown, golden hair woven into

two long braids beneath her veil; perfect, ethereal. Margarets beauty

was as well known as her charitable nature: Scotlands young Saxon

queen, at first reviled, now increasingly beloved.

Yet Eva had glimpsed beyond the saintly virtues to the fears and

flaws beneath. She knew that Margaret, who could be genuinely

good of heart, had a core like stubborn rock. Once decided on a mat-

ter, she would not be dissuaded for good or ill.

Eva, we must talk. There was steely will beneath the gentle voice.

Say what you will, then leave.

I came to seek your counsel, Margaret said, while Eva glanced

at her in surprise. My husband the king bids me advise him on your

fate. He will make the final decision, but he wants the truth of it.

Dread wrenched within. Eva could not tell all the truth, and give

up one she loved. What does it matter? Others will twist what I say.

You know that well.

I never expected betrayal from you, or hints of witchcraft. I do

not know what to believe. But I must make a recommendation.

Eva frowned. Though Margaret sometimes thought herself weak

and sinful, she was strong-minded to a fault, and her opinion counted

for much with the king. The accusations are unfounded. Tell Mal-colm that I am no witch.

And the Lady of the North? What does she have to do with this?

Very little. What she had agreed to do had seemed right at the

time. Now she was entangled in old conflict between Lady Gruadh

in the north, her kinswoman, and King Malcolm. Scotlands former

queen was wise, though bitter, and Eva would honor what Gruadh

had asked of her.That is not so easy to believe. There are punishments established


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Malcolm has asked me to consider those laws. Her intonation was

flat, cool.

Saxon law does not apply here, Eva said. Yet over several years,Malcolm had instituted several Saxon practices and punishments, and

employed his council like a witan,a group of wise advisors to the

king. Eva had good reason to fear her fate if accused of witchery.

Margaret might be her only hope.

Recommend that I be judged according to Scottish law, not

Saxon, Eva said.

Such crimes merit severe consequences, the queen responded.Glowing iron, boiling water, or worse, fire. My ancestor great King

Alfred helped devise that system of justice. The king could ask for

such trials to find the truth. She spoke calmly, but the knuckles of

her hands went white. If you are innocent, as you claim, all will

be well.

Why will you not believe me? I have done no wrong to you.

The queen looked away. Eva sensed her uncertainty; perhaps Mar-

garet wanted to believe her.

I could pass any test you give me, Eva said impulsively. Guilty

or innocent, who could survive such ordeals? You are a believer in

miracles. You will see.

Miracles? Margaret seemed intrigued. Has your faith improved

in the last weeks?

Lady, Eva said wearily, we are both in need of miracles,

some days.

Margaret sighed, and for a moment Eva glimpsed the young woman

she knew, though the longer Margaret was queen, the more she per-

fected a cool, haughty side. In England, they burn witches. Do not

let it come to that. She stepped closer. Pray with greater devotion

and ask forgiveness for your sins, and heaven may grant mercy. Con-

vince the king of your loyalty and he will show earthly mercy. You

are ever stubborn, Eva, but your very soul is in jeopardy now. I willsend a priest to speak with you.


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Which one? Eva looked at her defiantly. One who follows the

will of the Roman Church over the Celtic? Or the one who follows

your will?Tor says naught but good of you, Margaret chided. I will send

a confessor to cleanse the wickedness from your heart and set your

foot on a better path.

Can wickedness be turned in a savage Scot? Eva felt bitter. You

have not succeeded in turning our faces and hearts entirely toward

Rome, though you deserve credit for trying to improve us all.

You are much like your kinswoman. I see that now.

I consider that high praise.

Many would not. Turning, Margaret moved toward the door,

then paused. If the priests agree that you did treason and witchcraft,

no one can save you from the fires.

It is not the custom in Scotland to burn witches.

I am not Scottish, Margaret said quietly. Gathering her skirts

in her hands, she stepped across the threshold. The guard closed the

door, shutting out the light.

Eva sank to the floor in the darkness and tucked her head in her arms.


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C h a p t e r O n e

Margareta n n o d o m i n i 1 0 6 7

The wind sets from the south

Across the land of the Saxons of mighty shields

Iri sh, eleventh century

My lady mother was so sure the English king planned to berid of us the moment we set foot on his Saxon shores thatshe refused to sail there from Denmark. But we had been journeying

for months after leaving Hungary, the lot of us: Papa, Mama, my sisterand small brother, and a few servants. We were exhausted and sore in

need of a home. Papa said we belonged in England, after all. I heard my

parents arguing it at night.

My father, born a prince of England, had been exiled to the king-

dom of Hungary as a small boy. Lately King Edward, his royal and

childless uncle, had summoned Papaanother Edwardhome to

England to restore his birthright and name him heir to the throne.Mama groused that while our uncle-king had beckoned, he would


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priceless treasures we hauled about in crates and chests. My mother,

Agatha, was Russian and Hungarian by birth and blood, and little

liked the English. Her warrior husband she excused; he had leftEngland at a young age.

My father was Saxon royalty of the old Wessex line, and so were

his children, harking back to wise King Alfred, to unready Aethel-

red and stubborn Edmund Ironside, my grandfather. Our brighter

future lay in England. Lady Agatha would be queen there, according

to both Edwards. Dignified if stubborn, she acquiesced.

The year I turned ten, we left Hungary, where my two siblings and

I had been born. Traveling with a Magyar escort over high mountains

into Russia, carrying heavy packed chests in carts the whole way, we

stayed weeks in Kiev with my mothers kin, then sailed northward to

winter among the Danes, my fathers cousins. That place was dull and

smoky indoors, but splendid outside. I saw how much we resembled

the Danes and the Rus,too, for we were long limbed and golden fair,

with taut cheekbones and sky-colored eyes. Only my sister Cristina

took after the dark and stocky Magyars, the tough bloodline of our

mothers maternal kin; she had a bold temperament, too, outspoken

where I was acquiescent, hot and impulsive where I was cool and

devout as I tried to emulate my pious mother and grandmother.

We crossed the wide, pitching North Sea, while my mother mur-

mured of impending doom and prayed over her black-beaded rosary.

Despite her worrying, the Danish vessel skimmed the waves like a

winged dragon and brought us swiftly to English shores.In London town, we were welcomed by lords who spoke the

Saxon language that my father knew and we did not. The king

was away, but we were housed by the Archbishop of Canterbury,

who spoke German, our preferred tongue, with us. We were dined,

entertained, and assessed by a parade of bishops, priests, and notable

lords and ladies; servants, too, I suppose. Assured that he would be

king eventually, my father gently teased his wife that her fears wereunfounded.


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A few of us were walking in the archbishops gardens after supper

with some of Englands earls and thanes when my father collapsed

on a path. We could not rouse him. To this day, years on, I can recallmy disbelief and shock, my fathers gray face, my mothers paleness,

and the scents of calendula and thyme.

Poison was the rumor, denied and dismissed. The kings physician

said Edward Aetheling had a weak heart, though my father had been

a lion of a warrior, with spare habits and good health. Tainted food

was suggested by others, though no one else had fallen sick that night.

Taint or poison, I alone knew the truth: I had killed him.

At my insistence, he had eaten sweetmeats from a golden tray set

on the table before him. At first he had refused, intent on his discus-

sion with a Saxon bishop. But with girlish silliness, I pushed the tray

toward him, saying he must obey Princess Margaret. Distracted, smil-

ing, he downed the treats in a fistful or two. Within the half hour, he

was dead. Likely there was strong poison in those honeyed almonds

and hazelnutsand my father would not have eaten them that night

but for my urging.

Mea culpa, mea culpa, but I never confessed my deed to a priest,

only adding to the heinous sin. Fear kept me silent. I wore bruises

into my knees praying self-imposed penances, while my lady mother

approved my pious grieving, mistaking what moved me so. I could

not tell her and hurt her even more.

At court, some whispered of the ambitious men who would have

benefitted from the death of Edward the Exile: Harold Godwinsonwas one, brother of the queen and son of an ambitious Saxon earl,

and William of Normandy was another. King Edward, rumor said,

had bargained his crown to both men secretly and then gave the

heirs right to my father. Whether one of them had ordered Edward

the Exile killed or some other had done it, my own hand had aided

the killer. I shared the sin.

That gnawed at me, crept into my dreams, perched on my shoul-der like a demon.


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wards of a king who took little interest in us yet would not permit

us to return to Hungary. My siblings and I were educated as befitted

our status in that formal, refined court. But we were in effect hostageshoused as kings wards, our little freedom spent witnessing the hunt,

hawking, or taking the short and frequent journey between the Lon-

don and Winchester palaces. Often my sister and I refused to ride in

the canopied van that carried the women, delighting in a chance for

the saddle. We had been partly raised by Magyar kin, after all.

At five years old, my brother Edgar was named kings heir in a

ceremony, while the other claimants for the English throne remained

avid and interested. The year I turned twenty and Edgar thirteen,

our aged royal uncle died, leaving Edgar the Aetheling, Harold God-

winson, and William of Normandy each believing in his own right

to be king.

Harold was quickly chosen by the witanagemot and duly crowned.

England needed a warrior-king, not a stripling boy, that year. Had

Harold taken hawks wings to soar over the cliffs of England, he

would have seen two threats at once: the Danes sweeping in from the

east and the Normans coming from the south.

Within months, in the autumn of anno domini 1066, the mail-clad

warriors of Normandy slid their boats, silent and lethal, onto our

English shore. Harold died on Hastings field and William took us

for his wardsbut as soon as we could get away, my kin and I fled.

And the Aetheling went back again to Scotland.

Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, entry for 1069

England

Autumn 1069

t h e t h u d o f i r o n - h e e l e d boots in the corridor startled Mar-


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sisters arm until Cristina woke, too. As the door shoved wide, two

men stepped into the room, mail armor glinting in the moonlight that

slipped through a small window. The maidservant, Kata, shrieked,leaping up from her straw pallet, while Margaret and Cristina stumbled

out of bed, clutching blankets to cover themselves.

Margaret felt a twist of fearsurely these were Normans, she

thought, and rude devils to enter a convent by force and moons glow.

Mes desmoiselles,one of the men said in French, resting a hand on

his sword pommel, hurry! Dpchez-vous!

Margaret gathered her younger sister close, aware that Nor-

man knights treated even high-ranking Saxon women with brutal

disrespect.

Hurry! the knight repeated in French, stepping forward. We

cannot waste time!

Flinching, Margaret nonetheless lifted her chin. Partez ici,she

replied. Leave! How do you dare! We are princesses of England.

Ready yourselves by order of the king, or we will carry you

out as you are. Bring their belongingsthere are valuables here.

The man motioned to his companion, who snatched a linen sheet

and began to toss their things onto it. Margaret watched in astonish-

ment as he grabbed her Gospel book from the small table, snatched

Cristinas needlework basket, too, and opened a wooden chest to

dump its contentsgarments, veils, stockings, belts, ribbons, and

other itemsinto the sheet. As he began to tie the clumsy bundle,

Margaret stepped toward him.Give me the book, she said, grabbing the leather-bound manu-

script to tuck it under her arm. The Gospel had been a gift in her

childhood from the English queen, and she would not lose it to a

Norman.

Diebe und Schweine! Kata muttered in German, the language

they often spoke among themselves. She grabbed cloaks from wall

pegs and handed them to the princesses, who shrugged into them.Thieves and pigs! Will they take what little we have? If we had


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This had been their nurses constant refrain ever since they had left

Castle Reka years earlier. There was rebellion in Hungary, too,

Cristina snapped.Margaret shoved bare feet into leather shoes and smoothed her

long, tousled golden braids, and though she wanted to appear calm,

her hands shook. In grim silence, the two knights grasped the girls

arms to lead them through the door.

Norman pigs indeed, Cristina said in German. What does

King William want with us now? He shut us in here three years ago,

and no word since. But this must be by his orders.

I hoped we would take vows here and live in peace, Margaret

said.

You can take vows, not me, Cristina said. You are suited to

praying and studying. I want my freedom, but not like this!

Outside in the thin moonlight, Margaret saw men, horses, and a

cart. A few nuns and novices huddled with the abbess, their faces

pale as they watched. Looking at the familiar walls of the abbey,

Margaret began to panic. The shelter of Romsey had seemed so unas-

sailable.

Monsieur chevalier, where are we going? Cristina demanded as

they walked to the cart.

Away from here, and quickly, the leader answered.

Why? Margaret asked. It is only fair that we know.

He did not reply as he and another knight lifted the women into

the cart. It was lined with straw, humble fittings for royal women.The bundle of their things was tossed in after them.

Even when Williams men brought us here, we were not treated

like this! Cristina said.

Hush, Margaret warned, wary of her sisters abrasive temper.

She forced a calm expression, determined to show regal dignity

despite her fear. As she looked around, blond braids sliding over her

shoulders, heart pounding, she reminded herself to pray for protec-tion and forgiveness, toobut she was agitated and on the verge of


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More than a dozen riders were ready to depart, tough warriors

all, mail armor and weapons gleaming in the moonlight. The cart

carrying the girls lurched forward, and the escort rumbled throughthe gates and out into the chill November night. For one panicked

moment, Margaret thought about leaping from the cart and running

back to the sanctuary of the chapel, dragging her sister and maid

with her. Instead, she watched the abbey fade into the distance and

darkness.

Romsey Abbey had been King Williams choice for a prison for the

two Saxon princesses after his Norman armies had taken southern En-

gland. Their younger brother, Edgar, had been hastily crowned king

at thirteen years old by dead King Harolds witanagemotjust after the

invasion, but William had then taken the boy to Normandy as a Saxon

hostage. Lady Agatha, their mother, had been sent to Wilton Abbey,

though she had thought to take much of their family treasure, brought

from Hungary years before, with her to keep it from Norman hands.

Margaret had spent eleven years in King Edwards pious and glit-

tering court, and she had seen many Normans there. King Edward

had encouraged foreigners, particularly the Norman French, in his

court, flattered by their interestnow, after his death, they were all

paying the price of his gullibility. The royal Saxons had been cap-

tured and confined, and the Saxon people were beaten down but for

those who advanced themselves by backing the invaders.

Shut away at Romsey for the past three years, Margaret had discov-

ered unexpected peace amid turmoil. Turning to the solace of prayers,theological studies, and the enjoyments of reading and embroidery,

she savored the routine at Romsey. Outside, her sole purpose would

have been as a political bride, a living alliance expected to produce

heirs. But now no man of rank would want her or Cristina. They

were landless, worthless princesses but for their bloodline, thanks to

William of Normandy.

Cristina leaned toward her in the lurching cart. Why do theytake us away now, tonight? If they had wanted rape and sport, she


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I do not know. William cannot easily marry off the sisters of a

deposed boy king. But if we had taken vows, he would have no author-

ity over us. We would belong to the Church and would be safe.Safety, peace, saintlinessI vow that is all you want, Margaret!

I would consider myself fortunate to find that.

Huffing impatiently, Cristina turned toward the knight riding

closest to the cart. You! What is this about? Do you know who we

are? She spoke in French.

We do, the man said, coming closer. He answered in English.

Of course we know.

Then tell us where we are going, and why, Margaret demanded

in English. Despite years in England, as a child she had spoken Hun-

garian and German and her slight accent revealed her foreign origins:

she sounded like a Byzantine.

We head for the nearest coast to meet a ship. When he pushed

back his mail coif to reveal long gray hair and a mustache worn in the

Saxon manner, rather than the clean jaw and shorn, thick-topped hair

preferred by most Normans, Margaret frankly gaped at him.

You are not Norman, she said. What about the others?

Saxons all, he agreed. We guised as Normans, else the abbess

would have sent word to the sheriff straight away. He leaned down.

Margaret could smell horse and the tang of metal, and she sensed

urgency in his manner and speech. I am Wilfrid of Bourne. What

we do this night is rebellion and treason, and you two are part of it

now. Your brother sent us.Edgar! What of him? Margaret had not heard from her brother

since he had been taken to Normandy. The latest rumors said he had

pledged to William, thus ending hopes of rebellion under the young

Saxon king.

Edgar sent word to us in Lincoln for help. Others have gone to

Wilton to fetch your lady mother. We are to meet them and then sail

along the coast to meet your brother as well. He plans to take you outof England. With the Saxon rebellion gathering in the north, you


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But we heard that Edgar is Williams sworn man now, Marga-

ret said, puzzled. How do we know you are here by his order rather

than by some Norman trick? Not all Saxons were loyal to the causerallied around her brother, she knew.

Edgar bids you return this to him yourself. He unfastened his

cloak pin and handed it to her. She saw that the brooch was a silver

one that Edgar owned and had taken to Normandy; she had pinned

it to his cloak herself in farewell. She sensed that the Saxon knight

was sincere, and besides, she had no choice but to trust him. Margaret

nodded.

Good, he said. We must go swiftly, princess.

What word do you have of Edgars friends? Cristina asked.

What of Morcar of Northumbria and his brother Edwin? And Thor-

gaut the Dane and others?

Morcar and Edwin are both with Edgar. Thorgaut was impris-

oned for two years in Williams castle at Lincoln as a kings hostage

for the good behavior of his kinsmen. He escaped. Tor is my cousin,

he explained, as is Hereward the outlaw, who has proven so elu-

sive. The Normans are determined to catch him.

We heard about the outlaw at Romsey, too, Margaret said.

And Tor? Will he join us?

He sailed for Denmark, they say, but after that I do not know his

fate. Hereward is an outright rebel now, with the twelve sheriffs of

Lincoln on his tail. But we will sail north along the coast, and away

from all this, he added.So many friends had fled or disappeared in the last three years,

Margaret thought. She and her family had met Tor the Dane at King

Edwards court years earlier; he had been a fine, intelligent young

housecarl interested in becoming a scholar someday, she recalled.

What of your kin, Sir Wilfrid? I pray they are safe.

My wife and sons were killed when Lincoln was burned, he

answered briskly. Driver, move on. Hurry!Margaret sighed with regret as the cart rumbled on. In the dark-


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men were indeed loyal and that soon she and her sister would reunite

with Edgar and their mother. If her brother truly was in England

actively working toward rebellion, then he had gone against Wil-liam. Having spent most of his life in England, Edgar was more

Saxon than Hungarian in his upbringing, and though he was not a

seasoned warrior ready to lead a revolt, he could become a leader for

the Saxons one day with the help of others.

Cristina shifted toward the carts rim. Sir Wilfrid, she called,

waving. Will we sail to Denmark and go from there to Hungary?

That would be safe and wise, I vow. We have heard awful reports

that William has burned and ravaged York, that the Danes offered

help, came in their ships and then left. We must not sail north!

Wilfrid slowed his horse to match the pace of the cart. True, the

north is no place for princesses, with Williams troops burning much

of the region and the Northumbrians rising in rebellion. And now

the Scots have rushed in to avail themselves of booty and slaves.

Good Christ and sweet Mary, Margaret whispered, crossing

herself.

Aye, do pray, Wilfrid muttered. But your brother will not

abandon you here in England. King Malcolm Canmore has offered his

support, and your brother is weighing that.

Scots! Cristina said contemptuously. And who would save us

from thosesavages?

Edgar means to bargain with Malcolm, Wilfrid said. Rest

while we ride, ladies. We will reach the coast by dawn. He urgedhis horse ahead.

Scotland.Margaret sank back as the cart bumped along. While Cris-

tina murmured with Kata, Margaret crossed herself and whispered a

prayer for the safety of their journey, and their lives. But her thoughts

were elsewhere. Now she began to deduce Edgars plan, and it gave

her chills.

The Saxons would need help to defend against the Normans, andthe strongest and most immediate aid existed in Scotland. Despite the


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had given Northumbria over the years, he would not want Normans

near his own borders. He would expect a stiff price for his help, Mar-

garet was certain, though the royal Saxons, beleaguered and impov-erished by war, had little to bargain in return for assistance from

Scotlands roughshod king. Yet Edgar would not beg and Malcolm

would not provide for free.

With sinking certainty, Margaret knew why Edgar and his Saxon

comrades wanted the princesses brought north to join them, even in

dangerous circumstances. The Scottish king, it was widely said, was

a widower in need of a wife. And Edgar had sisters of exemplary

blood. A northern king of inferior heritage would find that prospect

even more desirable than a land dowry, or lack of one, since heirs of

that union could claim rights through the mothers bloodline, too.

She recalled seeing Malcolm once, years earlier, when he had come

south to Winchester Palace to request Englands assistance against

the Scots king, Macbeth. At the time, Malcolm was struggling to

regain his slain fathers throne, and Margaret remembered a huge,

wild-haired man with a rumbling voice, who wore furs and oddly

patterned garments. Canmore had seemed like a rough beast in the

elegant English court, where eloquence, piety, and courtliness were

valued. But Edward had thought Macbeth too canny, and therefore

a threat; so he had given Malcolm troops, funds, and ships against

Macbeth. Margaret remembered the keen excitement in the court at

the news that Malcolm had first killed Macbeth and then that mans

stepson and successor, a young man with the curious name Lulach, sothat Malcolm had fully won Scotland.

Malcolm had proved canny indeed, soon requesting from Edward

a Saxon bride: Margaret herself, the kings ward. Lady Agatha had

refused, arguing that her daughter was only twelve, too refined for

Scotland, and meant for a better royal match someday. Malcolm was

nearly thirty, a brute of unimpressive lineage compared to the Sax-

ons, and he could find himself another wife. So Malcolm had mar-ried Lulachs Norse widow, and King Edward had been pleased;


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Now the Saxons needed Malcolms help and the Norse queen was

deadand Margaret realized that her brother might try to bargain

her away to Malcolm, especially since he had applied for her handbefore.

She could not imagine living in a barbaric land, wife to a raiding

warrior who could not be trusted to keep any bargain. The Scottish

king regularly attacked northern England, and she had heard that his

country was a backward place, peopled with superstitious heathens

who spoke a strange language no good Saxon would deign to learn.

At Romsey, she had found peace and respite from danger, pro-

tected from warmongers and sly self-servers. There, she would have

taken vows to expiate sins she otherwise dared not confess. Instead,

she rode in a cart rattling northward toward a fate she dreaded.


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Queen Hereafter by Susan Fraser King - Excerpt