Chapter Nine.html
CHAPTER NINE
“LADY MARGARET! LADY MARGARET!”
Margaret leapt to her feet—she had been resting, even in the middle of the day, as she slept so poorly at night. Eilidh came running into her chamber, her eyes huge in her pale face.
“Ye must go to the ramparts!”
“What is it? What has happened?”
“It’s Bruce! He is here—with his army!”
Margaret faltered—why would Robert Bruce come here with his army? She ran from her chamber and up the stairs to the ramparts. Most of the castle folk were already hanging over the crenellations to view the spectacle of Robert Bruce’s arrival at Castle Fyne.
She ran to the closest wall, shoving past the men, women and children there. And she saw the dozens of men and horses rippling up the forest road. Huge yellow banners waved above them, etched with red. She could not see any foot soldiers.
An arm seized her from behind. Margaret knew it was Alexander before she whirled to face him. She was shocked by his hard expression.
“Bruce will be here for this night, and mayhap another one,” he said fiercely.
“Why?” she asked, still shocked.
He did not bother to answer her. “Yer to go to the kitchens and make certain ye serve a dinner fit for Scotland’s next king.”
Margaret now realized why Alexander had such a determined and intense expression on his face. He was Bruce’s vassal. He expected Bruce to be his king. He was no longer the lord and master of Castle Fyne; Robert Bruce was.
“Of course,” she said quickly. “He will be very pleased, Alexander, I will make certain of it.”
His eyes flickered, perhaps with some relief. But otherwise, his hard expression did not change. “There is more. Yer to stay in the kitchens, or in yer chamber—yer not to come into the hall.”
It took her a moment to comprehend him. She was being banned from Bruce’s presence. Why? And then she realized that they would plot and plan their war against King Edward, they would conspire as to how to seize Scotland’s throne. And she was their enemy.
“Ye’ll obey me without question in this matter,” he said harshly.
His tone was frightening—when she was no longer truly afraid of him. “I will stay in the kitchens or my chamber,” she said softly. “So you will be at liberty to discuss what you must.”
“Good.” He then stared down at the approaching forces. “His army grows with every passing day.” He sounded satisfied.
Fear rippled through her. She could still see only the dozens of knights at the army’s forefront.
“He has hundreds of followers,” Alexander said. “That is not enough to war upon England and all of her might, but as he marches through Scotland, he is raising men and arms from those he defeats, and those who gladly join him. We will be thousands strong in no time.”
She glanced across the first line of knights. She could now make out the hundreds of men on foot behind them, the wagons and carts. She could even see the design of the great banners—Bruce also sported a great red dragon, his savagely rearing up, as if clawing apart the yellow flag it rode.
“Ye’ll go in now,” Alexander said.
Margaret hesitated, sensing that something else was at stake; she simply did not know what it could be.
She met Eilidh and Peg on the stairs, as Alexander vanished down them ahead of her. She quickly told them of their duties. Both maids were wide-eyed, at once filled with trepidation and excitement, for Bruce was a legend in the land.
But as she planned a great dinner for him, her mind raced. She turned to Peg. “Can you please begin the preparations?” she asked.
Peg glanced at her, as if she guessed that subterfuge was afoot, and she nodded, hurrying off. As she did so, Margaret pulled Eilidh into her chamber, shutting the door. “I have other duties for you.”
There was a small voice in her head, warning her not to delve into the important affairs of powerful men.
Margaret dismissed it. “Bruce is at war with King Edward, and we are allied with the king. Remember, Castle Fyne was stolen from me—Alexander is the enemy.” She took the maid’s hand.
“I want you to listen very carefully to every word that is said tonight.”
Eilidh gasped. “I’m to spy?”
“We must discover all the news that we can, Eilidh, and I am depending upon you.”
Eilidh was incredulous. “What if I am discovered?”
Alexander was ruthless, and they all knew it as Malcolm had been hanged. “If they truly wished for a privy conversation, they would bar everyone from the hall.” She hoped her smile was reassuring. “Alexander has barred me from the hall, and that is why I need you.”
Eilidh nodded, but she appeared frightened now.
Margaret gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. She was not sure how any war news would affect her fate, but they would be plotting and planning at her great table, in her hall—she had to know what they discussed.
* * *
THE KITCHENS WERE so hot that Margaret had shed her mantle and rolled up the sleeves of the blue surcote she wore. She had also pinned her braid up into a coil, but the heat was unbearable still. Perspiration gathered on her brow, her temples and in her cleavage.
Fires burned in every oven and hearth as venison, hen and lamb were roasted. Breads and pies baked. Oats were rolled and boiled. The kitchen was the scene of constant, frantic activity.
Bread, wine, cheese and smoked fishes had been served. Eilidh now returned to the kitchen with an empty trencher, her cheeks flushed.
Margaret rushed to her, taking the tray from her hands. “Well?”
Her eyes were huge like saucers in her small face. “He is so mighty, my lady, and so handsome, and so much like a king!”
Margaret had never met Robert Bruce, but tales had been told about him from the time he had ridden with William Wallace as a young man, attempting to overthrow King Edward even then.
He was renowned to be not just a great soldier and a brilliant commander, but a handsome nobleman and, in spite of a second marriage, a ladies’ man. “What have you heard?”
“They are talking of wars and battles, my lady, and it was so confusing.”
Margaret was dismayed, but then, Peg returned with an empty tray, and Margaret smiled at Eilidh. “Get more fare and continue to eavesdrop,” she said softly. It was too noisy in the kitchens for anyone to overhear them.
Peg put her tray down and came over. Her eyes were filled with respect. “He is a fine man, Margaret. I think he will be our king.”
Margaret knew she must not trust Peg, but the maid loved to gossip. “Did you hear their conversation?”
“I did. Bruce cannot tame Galloway—he has just come from war there. He cursed the Gaels for their stubborn independence. And his men have lost Tibbers—and he will march on Dumbarton next.”
“They have lost ground—they must be irate.”
“No, they are boasting about the future—they think to win this war,” Peg said.
Margaret remained amazed by the rebels’ confidence. They truly thought to defeat King Edward.
“There is more, Margaret. They have gained new allies—the earls of Atholl and Lennox.”
Margaret stared, stunned. The Earl of Atholl, John Strathbogie, was a good friend of her family—he would never turn his back on her uncle! She did not believe it.
A rising scent interrupted her thoughts. “God! Something is burning!” She rushed to an oven to help remove a shank of lamb before it was ruined, from the corner of her eye watching both maids leave, their trenchers full once again.
Having salvaged the shank, Margaret paused to sip some wine, wiping perspiration from her brow and her chin.
Eilidh returned a few moments later, very breathlessly. “Bruce leaves tomorrow, at dawn.”
“Here.” Margaret handed her a cup of wine and watched as she drank some of it. She could not decide if she would be pleased by such an abrupt departure. Bruce had upset the household, but if she did not learn anything of value that night, it was all for nothing.
Eilidh set her cup aside. “He is on the march to Scone, my lady, for the crown.”
Margaret had been taking a sip of wine, and she choked. “Already?” she cried.
The maid nodded, but Margaret was disbelieving.
It was March 5th. He could be at Scone in a week.
And now she understood somewhat. He was advancing on Scone, and taking what castles he could along the way—including Dumbarton.
He would need reinforcements if he were to claim the crown, as the act would launch the largest war with England this land had thus far seen.
But the crowning of Scotland’s king was a very traditional ceremony.
A great many bishops and barons would have to be present.
They would have to be summoned in advance of any coronation.
Did Bruce really plan to take the crown within months—or even weeks? “Have they decided upon a date for a coronation?”
Eilidh was so pale now. Nervously, she whispered, “I think they said March the twenty-fifth, but I am not sure, because they argued a bit.”
Margaret went still, but her heart thundered. If a coronation had been set for March 25th, she must relay such information to her uncle, immediately. “When you go back, you must listen very closely—if a date has been set, we must learn of it.”
Eilidh nodded, seeming tearful. “Will they really crown him, Lady Margaret?”
“I don’t know. Eilidh—why did they argue?”
“The Wolf asked about the Stone of Scone. Bruce became angry. I do not know why.”
“King Edward stole the Stone of Scone years ago—and it is a part of the ceremony.” Margaret wondered if a coronation could even be valid, without the ceremonial relic.
Peg came rushing into the room, directly to them. She spoke in a rapid whisper, her eyes as wide as Eilidh’s. “Margaret, they’re discussing a coronation! They have summoned Scotland’s great earls and bishops!”
So it was about to happen—Bruce would seize the crown.
“Margaret! We will soon have a king!”
Margaret looked at Peg, realizing that she was filled with excitement. She decided not to bother to remind her that Bruce was the sworn enemy of her family.