Chapter Nine.html #2
But Peg stepped even closer, and lowered her voice so it was almost inaudible. “They are speaking about Isabella,” she said.
Margaret became rigid. “Not Isabella—my cousin by marriage?” Isabella was Buchan’s young, pretty wife—and a dear friend.
Peg nodded, her stare intense.
“Why would they discuss Isabella?” Margaret cried.
“There is a tradition for a king to be crowned. The Earl of Fife must lead the new king of Scotland to his throne, and there, he sets the crown upon his head. But they have no Earl of Fife.”
Isabella’s young brother, Ed, was the Earl of Fife—but he had been taken into King Edward’s custody some time ago. He was, in fact, a royal hostage. Isabella was the Countess of Fife, as well as the Countess of Buchan, now that she had married Margaret’s uncle.
Margaret had not realized that this was a part of the coronation ceremony. But then, she had never attended the coronation of a Scot king. “If Bruce wishes to follow tradition, what will he do? He will never be able to summon young Ed to the coronation.”
“Bruce thinks they could summon Isabella to do the honor, in the Earl of Fife’s stead.”
Margaret gasped. “He must be a madman. Isabella is the Countess of Buchan now. She is against Bruce, not for him. Yet he would force her to commit treason?”
“I dinna ken, Margaret, and I am as surprised as ye.”
Anger rippled through her. Isabella was her friend.
They had met two years ago, when she was a bride.
Isabella was only two years older than Margaret, which gave them some common ground, but more important, she had been somewhat forlorn at having left Fife.
She had also been intimidated by her powerful, older husband—Margaret’s new guardian.
As Margaret had been rather intimidated by the earl as well, they had quickly become friends.
Surely, they would quickly realize that Isabella would never participate in the coronation. Or did they already know that, and not care? Would they abduct her and force her to help crown Bruce?
Margaret had to know what Bruce planned, and if his plan included her friend. She also had to warn Isabella, if she was in such danger.
“I am finished hiding here in the kitchens,” she said, with sudden determination.
She would not hide from Bruce any longer.
She began plucking apart her braid. She shook her hair out and took off the apron she wore, then adjusted her gold girdle, and smoothed down her skirts.
If they wished to plot and plan the theft of the crown, so be it—she intended to be present while they did so.
“My lady, the Wolf ordered ye to stay away from the hall,” Eilidh protested.
“He did. But I cannot spy—Alexander would recognize me. Therefore, I am joining them. After all, I am the lady of this castle, and it is my right to welcome my guest.”
Margaret left the kitchens, her pulse pounding.
As she approached the great hall, she heard the conversation from within, which was loud and raucous and very male.
She could now glimpse the many Highland men inside.
She saw a great many English knights as well, and she was somewhat surprised—but Bruce was the Earl of Carrick, so he would have vassals from England, as well.
Everyone seemed to be in good spirits, she saw, and her maids were mostly serving wine now, as the dinner was over.
Glancing across the crowded hall, she saw Bruce and Alexander.
For one moment she hesitated on the hall’s threshold, not to gain composure, but to assess the man who was bold enough to dare to seize Scotland’s throne and fight off the might of England. He sat beside Alexander, his back to the wall, and his profile to her.
He was as tall as Alexander, meaning that he stood inches above most other men, as broad-shouldered, his arms those of a warrior accustomed to wielding swords and axes.
Even from across the hall, she saw that his features were strong but pleasing.
His hair was shoulder-length and reddish-brown.
He was dressed in the manner more common to the borders and Englishmen, in a long-sleeved blue cote and a sleeveless brown tunic, his red mantle pinned at one shoulder.
And then he turned aside from Alexander, as if aware of her presence, and instantly their gazes met.
Margaret trembled. He was exactly as she had thought he would be—a mighty warrior, a powerful baron, the Earl of Carrick and, just possibly, Scotland’s next king.
She started forward with as much dignity as she could muster. But there was trepidation. Alexander had seen her. She was careful not to look at him, but she felt his displeasure—and it was vast.
Margaret paused before their table as Bruce stood up, his blue eyes bright. He smiled at her. “Lady Margaret, I presume?”
Margaret curtsied deeply. “Welcome to my home.”
His smile widened, as he now gave her a thorough appraisal, from head to toe. It was blatant—he made no attempt to hide it. “The rumors do not do you justice. You are even more beautiful than your mother.”
Margaret was flustered by his open scrutiny of her figure, and also, by what she felt was a far deeper evaluation. She did not dare look at Alexander directly, but from the corner of her eye, she saw that he was angry. “You met my mother?” she asked Bruce.
“Upon a single occasion. But I am pleased you have decided to attend us. I was curious to meet the courageous lady of Castle Fyne.” He indicated that she should sit with him.
Margaret approached, having little choice but to glance at Alexander. He gave her a chilling look, making it clear that she would pay dearly for her defiance.
“Are your duties truly over, Lady Margaret?” Alexander said coldly.
“I have done my best to see to it that our guests are well fed tonight.” She smiled at him, and quickly turned her attention back to Bruce. “I hope you were not too displeased with the dinner I have served.”
“I could not eat another thing, so I am well pleased.” He glanced mildly at Alexander and then back at her. “And I am always in a good humor when a beautiful woman is present.”
Margaret did not blush as she sat down on the bench facing both men. “Then I am pleased, to serve you so well, my lord.”
He sat and laughed. “Are you, Lady Comyn?”
He had stressed her last name. “I have no wish to displease you,” she said, and she was being truthful, for the moment. “But I am curious. How could you have met my mother? The MacDougalls and the Bruces have been rivals for a great many years.”
“We met during a truce—at a wedding. I was younger then—about your age,” Bruce said. “I was instantly smitten, but your mother was not. I believe I asked her to ride with me in the forests. She struck me across the face.”
Margaret believed his every word, and she was relieved that he was so amused, as she imagined her mother striking Bruce as a young man for his impertinence. “My mother was in love with my father, as odd as that may be.”
“Your mother was a woman of great loyalty. As you take after her, I imagine you are, too.”
She hesitated, unsure of how to respond, or if she was being tested. Her glance moved between the two men. “I am as loyal as my mother,” she finally said. “I hope to emulate her in every way.”
Bruce smiled and turned to Alexander, who sat very stiffly beside him, although he drummed his fingers against the table. “You must be charmed by your hostage, Alexander. And you have not said a word about her, other than to mention her courage during the siege.”
Alexander smiled without mirth. “I find Lady Margaret to be a great many things—but around me, charming she is not.”
“Well, you have taken her castle—her dowry. And she is a MacDougall as well as a Comyn—you are one of her greatest rivals.”
“I do not consider Lady Margaret a rival—not usually,” Alexander said. He gave her another cool look.
“Yet somehow, I am sure she considers you her rival—just as she considers me her rival. Am I correct?”
Margaret was uncomfortable. “I am a prisoner here. I have no time for rivalry, just survival.”
Bruce laughed. “Well done!” he exclaimed. He turned to Alexander. “She is very charming, and it could not escape you. She is unusually beautiful, too—yet you have not extolled her beauty, not a single time.”
“I felt certain her beauty would not escape you, Robert,” Alexander said, taking up his wine. “There was thus no need.”
Margaret now sensed a tension between the two men. She was alarmed.
“It would certainly escape me if she were hidden in the kitchens,” Bruce said easily enough.
Her alarm increased. Had Alexander meant to keep her from Bruce, not so they might have privacy to discuss their war plans, but for other reasons? Bruce had not tried to hide his appreciation of her—and everyone knew he was a rogue when it came to the ladies.
“Lady Margaret does not know the meaning of hide, do ye, Lady Margaret?” Alexander murmured.
“I was hardly hiding in the kitchens.” She wanted to alleviate the tension. “I had hoped to be able to come down to dine with you, my lord,” she said to Bruce, “but preparing such a meal, in such haste, took a great deal of time.”
“It has been a long ride from Galloway, so I am pleased for every comfort, as are my men. Has Alexander allowed you to send word to Buchan?”
Her tension escalated. She glanced at Alexander. A warning look filled his eyes.
Where would Bruce lead? She swallowed. “No, but I received a missive from him the other day.”
Bruce’s brows lifted. “And were you pleased to hear from your dear uncle?”
She reminded herself that Buchan hated Bruce, as had their cousin Red John. Bruce seemed indifferent, but that could not be. “Of course I hoped to hear from him.”
“But you are not smiling, my dear, thus you are unhappy. If he did not say so, I will tell you myself—he is too busy plotting revenge against me, Lady Margaret, to concern himself with you.”