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Authors: Susan Fraser King
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loved its rhythms and results—and she taught me the melodies of loom and spindle, of smooring the hearth and rocking the cradle. I inherited her slight form and her shining black hair, along with her clear voice and love of music. She said I had my father’s eyes and smile and, she said, the boldness of a kinswoman I did not know. My grandfather said it was a relief that I combined the best of them; the worst of them was not explained.
My mother died of fever when I was seven, and my grandfather passed of the same soon after. His brother Kenneth became mormaer in the region next, and kept me in his Fife household for a while, wondering what to do with me. There I met my father at last—a fair and slender young man whose guard carried the banner of the king: himself. Startled to learn that, I only believed it once I saw his eyes, a changeable blue like mine, and his dimpled smile, my own.
“I am told you sing well, Eva,” the somber young king said when we met.
“I do.” Eight years old, I was truthful by nature.
“Will you sing for me?”
I did, standing before him at my uncle’s table. King Lulach wept a little and kissed me, and when he departed next day, he left goldcoins for my care, along with a ring of silver and crystal for me, and a promise to bring me north to live with him and our Moray kin at his court at Elgin. I was eager, for I would be a princess and would have a family—a father, a stepmother, two half siblings, a grandmother, and cousins—and a home where I truly belonged.
Shortly after his visit to us in Fife, Lulach was killed. We heard this was by done by order of King Malcolm, who ruled in southern Scotland after defeating Macbeth; war had split Scotland, and Lulach held the northern region of Moray and other northern regions that did not support Malcolm. Having scarcely met my father, I now mourned him—the idea of him, I suppose, rather than a father I had known. Shortly after, my Fife uncle told me that the south was no good place for me; I was too young, he said, to know how dangerous it was to be daughter to a dead king. Then he sent me by escort to live with my northern kinfolk.
Lady Gruadh, my Moray grandmother, was a tall, cheekboned beauty, youthful still despite years and strife. Her hair gleamed pale copper, and her eyes were silver-blue. She had been a warrior-queen beside Macbeth, and she had elegance and strength; she had the loyalty of the northerners, too. I was in awe of her—she was vibrant and fierce in her devotion to kin and land.
Gruadh acted as regent for my half brother, Nechtan, who trained at swords but preferred books and studying with priests. My half sister, Ailsa, went to live with cousins to be educated and readied for a good match one day. Quiet Nechtan stayed in Moray as its nominal mormaer; traditionally the leaders of that rich and vast province were like kings in the north. I learned quickly that the high kings of Scotland always tread carefully where Moray is concerned.
Now it is years later and I am grown, and Gruadh is still regarded as a rebel by King Malcolm. He sends occasional messages to cajole or threaten her to behave. She is hospitable to his messengers, and delights in crafting rude replies to the king, despite the pleas of her council.
With her gift of
Da Shelladh
—“the two sights,” or The Sight—mygrandmother can gaze into flames or water’s sheen and see what is unknown and what will come. She warned her Moray council that King Malcolm will bring even more change to Scotland in future, and told them to beware. Though I lack her knowledge of magic, I learned boldness as well as charm from her. Recognizing my interest in music, she arranged for me to be trained by a bard who had once served Macbeth. For that in particular, I am endless grateful.
And so I was schooled in the songs and tales of the Irish and Scottish bardic traditions, learning them by old methods and diligence. A bard must know a thousand songs, melodies, and
My mother died of fever when I was seven, and my grandfather passed of the same soon after. His brother Kenneth became mormaer in the region next, and kept me in his Fife household for a while, wondering what to do with me. There I met my father at last—a fair and slender young man whose guard carried the banner of the king: himself. Startled to learn that, I only believed it once I saw his eyes, a changeable blue like mine, and his dimpled smile, my own.
“I am told you sing well, Eva,” the somber young king said when we met.
“I do.” Eight years old, I was truthful by nature.
“Will you sing for me?”
I did, standing before him at my uncle’s table. King Lulach wept a little and kissed me, and when he departed next day, he left goldcoins for my care, along with a ring of silver and crystal for me, and a promise to bring me north to live with him and our Moray kin at his court at Elgin. I was eager, for I would be a princess and would have a family—a father, a stepmother, two half siblings, a grandmother, and cousins—and a home where I truly belonged.
Shortly after his visit to us in Fife, Lulach was killed. We heard this was by done by order of King Malcolm, who ruled in southern Scotland after defeating Macbeth; war had split Scotland, and Lulach held the northern region of Moray and other northern regions that did not support Malcolm. Having scarcely met my father, I now mourned him—the idea of him, I suppose, rather than a father I had known. Shortly after, my Fife uncle told me that the south was no good place for me; I was too young, he said, to know how dangerous it was to be daughter to a dead king. Then he sent me by escort to live with my northern kinfolk.
Lady Gruadh, my Moray grandmother, was a tall, cheekboned beauty, youthful still despite years and strife. Her hair gleamed pale copper, and her eyes were silver-blue. She had been a warrior-queen beside Macbeth, and she had elegance and strength; she had the loyalty of the northerners, too. I was in awe of her—she was vibrant and fierce in her devotion to kin and land.
Gruadh acted as regent for my half brother, Nechtan, who trained at swords but preferred books and studying with priests. My half sister, Ailsa, went to live with cousins to be educated and readied for a good match one day. Quiet Nechtan stayed in Moray as its nominal mormaer; traditionally the leaders of that rich and vast province were like kings in the north. I learned quickly that the high kings of Scotland always tread carefully where Moray is concerned.
Now it is years later and I am grown, and Gruadh is still regarded as a rebel by King Malcolm. He sends occasional messages to cajole or threaten her to behave. She is hospitable to his messengers, and delights in crafting rude replies to the king, despite the pleas of her council.
With her gift of
Da Shelladh
—“the two sights,” or The Sight—mygrandmother can gaze into flames or water’s sheen and see what is unknown and what will come. She warned her Moray council that King Malcolm will bring even more change to Scotland in future, and told them to beware. Though I lack her knowledge of magic, I learned boldness as well as charm from her. Recognizing my interest in music, she arranged for me to be trained by a bard who had once served Macbeth. For that in particular, I am endless grateful.
And so I was schooled in the songs and tales of the Irish and Scottish bardic traditions, learning them by old methods and diligence. A bard must know a thousand songs, melodies, and
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