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Authors: Susan Fraser King
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of them but know little about their ways.”
“We are of the Celtic church, which was founded in Ireland long ago and celebrated in Scotland as well.”
Margaret concealed her surprise. She had learned from the Benedictine priests that Irish monks were radical sorts who mixed pagan practices with religious rites. “I did not expect to find Culdees in the royal seat of Scotland,” she said.
“We are all children of God. Heartfelt prayers always reach heaven.”
“Indeed,” she said. “Brother, do your parishioners understand Latin?” She thought of Finola.
“Most do not, lady,” he admitted. “Parishes in Scotland are widespread—we cannot teach the people so easily here.”
“Rome only approves prayers spoken in Latin. Do you not worry about the souls of your parishioners?”
“The blessed Columba taught prayers in Gaelic to his flock centuries ago. Was he wrong?” He spoke it like a challenge.
“I know of Columba from a manuscript in the king’s library at Winchester, copied from a work of Adomnán of Ireland,” she explained. “I am also aware that Rome has tried over time to help the Irish and Scottish church understand its proper laws.”
“We are content with our own,” Micheil said, smiling. “While you are here, you may like to learn more about Scotland. We have many holy places here that may comfort your doubts, lady, including an important pilgrimage route. I would be happy to escort you or arrange visits to some of our holy sites. How long will you stay?”
“I am not certain.” She wondered herself. Thanking him for his offer, she departed with Finola to walk back through the forested glen. The dogs rushed ahead, loping up the hillside toward the tower.
Pausing beside the stream to admire a cascade of small waterfalls, Margaret sat upon a large boulder to rest, taking in the rare and lovely peacefulness of that place. Birdsong and rushing water, the scent of pine, the cool mist and translucent, filtering sunlight—the little glen was perhaps the most beautiful place she had ever seen, except that it was in Scotland, where she did not want to be.
Chapter Four
Eva
I will not yield
To kiss the ground before young Malcolm’s feet
.
—W ILLIAM S HAKESPEARE ,
Macbeth
A sweet blur of memory: I a small girl, watching my mother weaving at her loom while she sang to the shuttle’s rhythm. Her dark hair flowed like a raven’s wing, and she smiled when I sang with her. In the evenings, she would play her harp for the company gathered in her father’s hall. Her clear voice and her music fascinated me. From early days, I wanted to become a harper, and fate and heaven arranged that for me—along with other matters more surprising.
I still have my mother’s harp, all carved wood and metal strings, and I have two more of my own, often played. But the wood and strings of my mother’s harp retain her gentleness and emanate her songs, and touching them brings back to me the memories of my childhood.
My mother was named Leven for the loch near her birthplace, where she met my father when he visited Fife. I knew he was royal, and I methim for the first time just before his death. Because of her, my first eight years were spent in Fife; because of him, the rest in Moray. I loved both places dearly.
Macduff, the mormaer of Fife, was a traitorous brute to some, but to me an indulgent grandfather. I was born at Abernethy fortress, his keep, where my young and unmarried mother kept my father’s name a secret from her father as long as she could; by the time he got the truth from her, he already loved me, and agreed to my protection and education due to my royal blood. When I was little, a priest tutored me in Latin and Gaelic, mathematics and theology. From a Saxon maid in our household I learned capable English, and in thanks, my grandfather gave her a plot of land and a husband.
Leven taught me to embroider, spin, and weave—though the latter was the work of common women, my mother
“We are of the Celtic church, which was founded in Ireland long ago and celebrated in Scotland as well.”
Margaret concealed her surprise. She had learned from the Benedictine priests that Irish monks were radical sorts who mixed pagan practices with religious rites. “I did not expect to find Culdees in the royal seat of Scotland,” she said.
“We are all children of God. Heartfelt prayers always reach heaven.”
“Indeed,” she said. “Brother, do your parishioners understand Latin?” She thought of Finola.
“Most do not, lady,” he admitted. “Parishes in Scotland are widespread—we cannot teach the people so easily here.”
“Rome only approves prayers spoken in Latin. Do you not worry about the souls of your parishioners?”
“The blessed Columba taught prayers in Gaelic to his flock centuries ago. Was he wrong?” He spoke it like a challenge.
“I know of Columba from a manuscript in the king’s library at Winchester, copied from a work of Adomnán of Ireland,” she explained. “I am also aware that Rome has tried over time to help the Irish and Scottish church understand its proper laws.”
“We are content with our own,” Micheil said, smiling. “While you are here, you may like to learn more about Scotland. We have many holy places here that may comfort your doubts, lady, including an important pilgrimage route. I would be happy to escort you or arrange visits to some of our holy sites. How long will you stay?”
“I am not certain.” She wondered herself. Thanking him for his offer, she departed with Finola to walk back through the forested glen. The dogs rushed ahead, loping up the hillside toward the tower.
Pausing beside the stream to admire a cascade of small waterfalls, Margaret sat upon a large boulder to rest, taking in the rare and lovely peacefulness of that place. Birdsong and rushing water, the scent of pine, the cool mist and translucent, filtering sunlight—the little glen was perhaps the most beautiful place she had ever seen, except that it was in Scotland, where she did not want to be.
Chapter Four
Eva
I will not yield
To kiss the ground before young Malcolm’s feet
.
—W ILLIAM S HAKESPEARE ,
Macbeth
A sweet blur of memory: I a small girl, watching my mother weaving at her loom while she sang to the shuttle’s rhythm. Her dark hair flowed like a raven’s wing, and she smiled when I sang with her. In the evenings, she would play her harp for the company gathered in her father’s hall. Her clear voice and her music fascinated me. From early days, I wanted to become a harper, and fate and heaven arranged that for me—along with other matters more surprising.
I still have my mother’s harp, all carved wood and metal strings, and I have two more of my own, often played. But the wood and strings of my mother’s harp retain her gentleness and emanate her songs, and touching them brings back to me the memories of my childhood.
My mother was named Leven for the loch near her birthplace, where she met my father when he visited Fife. I knew he was royal, and I methim for the first time just before his death. Because of her, my first eight years were spent in Fife; because of him, the rest in Moray. I loved both places dearly.
Macduff, the mormaer of Fife, was a traitorous brute to some, but to me an indulgent grandfather. I was born at Abernethy fortress, his keep, where my young and unmarried mother kept my father’s name a secret from her father as long as she could; by the time he got the truth from her, he already loved me, and agreed to my protection and education due to my royal blood. When I was little, a priest tutored me in Latin and Gaelic, mathematics and theology. From a Saxon maid in our household I learned capable English, and in thanks, my grandfather gave her a plot of land and a husband.
Leven taught me to embroider, spin, and weave—though the latter was the work of common women, my mother
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