Free Queen Hereafter by Susan Fraser King Page A

“It would be nearly impossible to drive the Normans out now.”
    “True, but with the young Saxon royalty in his debt, his lands and importance could increase. Perhaps he wants a wife in one of those virgin princesses hiding in his household.”
    “Hah! Saxon blood in Malcolm’s heirs would dilute the Scottish blood of generations!”
    “More so than the Viking and Irish blood already in the line?” Ruari nearly smiled. “Besides, Malcolm has needed a queen since Ingebjorg’s death.”
    “She wasted away in that southern priory,” Gruadh said. “Her gentle spirit was never suited to the south, or to be Malcolm’s queen. That sweet girl should have stayed here as Lulach’s widow, mother to his children who needed her. She could have married again, could have—”
    “Malcolm claimed victor’s rights, just as Macbeth did when he wed you. It is that simple.”
    She caught her breath at the reminder. Years ago, tragedy had finally led to contentment, and then … but she would not think on it. “What has become of the two little sons he got upon Inga? Fostered out already, they say, though they are so young!”
    “Your bitterness would best you if not for your tender mother’s heart,” Ruari murmured. He leaned forward until his shoulder touched hers. She tilted toward him a little. “Forget what is past, Rue. See what has been gained in your life. You have power andrespect in Moray, worthy grandchildren, and my unworthy heart if you want it. Let all that change you for the better. Else you will always be snappish as an old hawk,” he said wryly.
    She sucked in a breath. “Let me linger with my old joys and grievances. When I am ready, I will have done.” She paused. “I thought you liked hawks.”
    “I do.” He lifted a brow.
    “I do have power and responsibilities here until Nechtan is old enough to take over,” she agreed. “And you,” she said, resting a hand on his arm, “you are my strength.”
    “Many in the north will support you for as long as you care to rule here,” he murmured.
    “My grandson is of an age with that Saxon princeling, not yet a blooded warrior. His sister will make a good marriage someday, and their half sister …” She sighed. “Eva is a tricky treasure to protect.”
    Trapped emotions rose in her chest, beating wings to be free. She turned away to pace the room again, folding her arms tight over her chest. Sometimes she felt a little wise, but today she felt fearful. Malcolm might never let her or her family be.
    She thought of the spring day that Drostan, abbot of Loch Leven in Fife, had brought Eva north to Elgin fortress. He had lifted the child down from the horse and Gruadh had led her inside to give her some soup. When the little fledgling had finished, she had smiled, mouth dimpling at one corner. Glimpsing Lulach there in her face, Rue was lost to sudden love. The girl’s royal blood was unmistakable—and she was enchanting.
    A quicksilver child, Eva wore her grandmother’s patience brittle, but jigged and giggled her way into all hearts at Elgin. She showed her paternal grandfather’s gifts too: Lulach’s father, Gruadh’s first husband, Gilcomgan, had been a warrior who should have been a bard. His gifts lived on in his granddaughter.
    Ailsa was quiet and pretty, Nechtan sober and studious, and their grandmother loved them deeply. But Eva, older than her half siblings, was like sunlight dissolving shadows, luring her grandmotherback from the edge of grief that year, scarcely a twelvemonth after the deaths of Macbeth and then Lulach.
    Dermot, the
seanchaidh
who had entertained so often at Macbeth’s court, returned to Elgin one winter and, sensing the girl’s natural talent for singing and harp playing, offered to stay and teach her. Her little fingers were deft and nimble on the harp strings, and her voice was sweet and strong, even so young. Eva had trained for years with Dermot, entertaining those at Elgin with her gifts. At eighteen, she was