Chapter Nine.html #3
Margaret tried to smile. The upward curve of her lips felt ghastly. “He must see to the interests of the entire family.”
“But you are a valuable hostage—a valuable bride—and a part of the family’s great interests.”
She became terribly uncomfortable now. She looked at Alexander, and he seemed grim. She had the oddest feeling, as if being on a hook, twirling in the wind, knowing that at any moment, she would be cut free—to crash to the ground.
“Buchan is in Liddesdale as we speak. He meets with his friends, Mowbray and de Umfraville, to plan a war against me.” Bruce sipped his wine, entirely complacent, it seemed.
“Unless Sir Guy bestirs himself to attack another time, I am afraid you will have to adjust to a lengthy period of captivity. And, of course, if Sir Guy returns to fight us, he must win.”
She clasped her hands in her lap, but glanced at Alexander.
He was very still, but his gaze held hers for a moment.
And she was very aware that Bruce had used the plural, “us,” instead of just referring to Alexander.
“Alexander has made it clear he will not ransom me now. And my uncle also made it clear that I must have patience in these times of war. I have already imagined that I might be a hostage for far longer than I ever dreamed.”
Bruce saluted her with his glass. “You are very brave, but you proved that during the siege. You know, the news of your alliance with Sir Guy surprised me.”
She felt an impossible tension now.
“Your uncle—and your father—spent his life fighting the English, with your mother’s kin at their side. Yes, a truce was made betwixt us all last year, but then, so suddenly, Buchan chose Sir Guy for you.”
Alexander set his mug down, somewhat heavily. Margaret jumped. He said, “It is all politics.”
“Aye, but to marry one’s lifelong enemy? I cannot imagine.” Bruce refilled his cup, Alexander’s and a third one. He handed the latter to Margaret.
She clasped it but did not drink. “It turned out to be a fortunate alliance, did it not? As you are in rebellion, and we now find ourselves so firmly in King Edward’s camp.”
Bruce’s eyes widened. “Hurrah! I must say, well done yet again!”
Margaret did not feel that she had done anything well.
In fact, she did not feel well, and she regretted disobeying Alexander and coming to the hall.
She glanced at Alexander. Why had Bruce wished to point out that she was nothing but a pawn in her uncle’s political games?
Why had he wished to suggest that her uncle did not care about her, except to use her for the family’s ends?
Did he want to drive the spike of misery into her?
Did he think to make her waver in her loyalties?
“Do you not like wine, Lady Margaret?” Bruce asked.
Margaret took a sip. “I like it very much.” She was ready to escape the table—thinking to outwit Bruce had been insane. “Will you be staying with us for very long, my lord?”
“I go to war tomorrow.” He smiled. “Will that please you?”
“I merely asked so I might know what meals to plan.”
“And you did not answer me, either.” His smile did not waver—neither did his stare.
“You might be Scotland’s next king. You have greatly affected our household.”
“I will be Scotland’s next king,” he said easily. “Before you take your leave, lady, you must tell me one thing. How does the Countess of Buchan fare?”
Margaret had just begun to stand up; she froze. And all she could think was, why would Bruce ask about Isabella? “I last saw her at Balvenie, before we left for Castle Fyne. She was as usual, my lord, in good spirits.”
He studied her for a moment. “You’re about the same age—are you friends?”
What kind of question was this? “We are friends.”
“Then you must know why she remains at Balvenie, whilst her husband plots against me with his allies in the south.”
“I do not know why she did not go south.”
Bruce sat back, glancing at Alexander. “Better the north than the south,” he said.
Margaret became alarmed. What did that remark mean?
“We will break the fast before dawn, Lady Margaret, but the fare should be light, as we will travel hard and fast on the morrow,” Bruce said.
It was a dismissal—and an abrupt one. Yet Margaret was relieved.
Alexander said, “Prepare my chamber for Bruce.”
Bruce would sleep in the chamber adjacent her own? She told herself she need not worry, but the reassurance felt like a hollow one. She nodded, trying to meet Alexander’s eye, but he refused to look up.
Both men were silent now. Clearly, they wanted her gone, so they could discuss the war—and the coronation.
Margaret curtsied and left. As she hurried away, a sinking feeling consumed her. Bruce had asked about Isabella, and she was afraid he meant to use her somehow, against Buchan, in his damned theft of the throne.
* * *
THE FIRES WERE out, the kitchen cleaned. The castle had fallen silent, most of its inhabitants asleep. It was several hours after dinner, and Margaret was exhausted.
Her mind would not stop racing with all the information she had gleaned. Yet she could not form any definite conclusions. She wondered if Alexander would allow her to write Isabella. She doubted it.
And tomorrow he would berate her for her disobedience, she was certain. He might even punish her.
But if there was any chance that her friend was in danger of becoming Bruce’s pawn, she must warn her. Tomorrow she would visit William as she always did. If he had a plan to escape, it was time to learn of it.
Margaret went up the stairs toward her bedchamber. She was utterly fatigued, and she did not want to think anymore. She did not want to worry about Isabella, or Bruce, and she did not want to plot an escape. All of that could be done on the morrow.
But when she reached the upper landing, she tensed. She did not know when Bruce had gone up to his bed in Alexander’s chamber, and she had no reason to think that he might disturb her now, but she was anxious. All of Scotland knew that he was unfaithful to his wife a great deal of the time.
His door was closed; hers was open. She could see into her room—Eilidh had stoked the fire there and it blazed. Her fur coverlet had been pulled invitingly down on the bed. Exhaustion claimed her.
But before she could enter her chamber, Bruce’s door opened. Margaret froze as he stepped into the corridor.
He smiled.
She trembled.
“I can never sleep, not on the eve of war.”
“I am sorry,” she managed to say. He was clad only in his braies—the knee-length linen drawers favored by the English nobility. He was a very muscular man, with a hard, scarred body. She did not want to look at his rib cage or chest.
And from within her chamber, Eilidh turned and gaped at them.
“Why are you afraid of me? Is it because of Alexander? Or is it because I will be your king?” Bruce asked calmly.
Margaret was stricken. How should she respond? “All of Scotland speaks of you, my lord, and often. You are a legend, and rightly so.”
He grinned, leaning against the wall. “Do go on, Lady Margaret.”
“It is well-known that you adore the ladies, my lord, and that they adore you.”
He laughed. “And what is wrong with that?”
She would not point out that he had a wife! “I am intended to another.”
His smile faded. “Yes, you are—a poor deer, wide of eye, innocent and trusting, being led to the slaughter.”
Margaret was disbelieving. “I am proud to do my duty.”
“You should change your politics,” he said, his tone suddenly hard.
She stiffened.
“I will be Scotland’s next king. I will remember my friends. They will be rewarded—and well.”
She did not have to ask how he would treat his enemies. Had his statement been a threat?
“You do realize, Lady Margaret, that I can arrange for your freedom?”
She started, for such a remark was hardly insignificant. He continued, “Alexander is my vassal. I am his liege lord—I will be his king. If I command him to free you, he will do so. If I command him to return Castle Fyne to you, he will obey.”
Margaret heard her heart thundering in her ears. She wondered if Bruce heard it, too. But she already knew how much power he wielded—at least over those who followed him.
She wondered if Alexander would obey Bruce, should he order her release. She couldn’t be certain.
“Why are you telling me this?” she whispered.
He softened and smiled at her. “I am telling you this because I like you, Lady Margaret, just as I liked your mother. I admire courage and pride, loyalty and even defiance, in both men and women—even in the enemy.”
She swallowed. Was he suggesting a liaison between them? That if she joined him that night, he would surrender the keep to her—and give her back her freedom? “Are you offering me my freedom? What would I have to do to be freed? To have Castle Fyne returned to me?”
“No, I am not offering you your freedom—in return for a night in my bed.” His smile grew.
He was so amused. “Not that I do not desire you. But I am at war with England. I will soon attack Dumbarton. Alexander will be joining me very shortly. I need him at my side, for he is one of my best soldiers.”
Margaret was overcome with relief. Bruce would not make advances—he was merely touting his power. But she then became torn with dismay. Alexander was going to war with him!
“When will Alexander leave here?”
“If he can ready the garrison here tomorrow, I expect him to ride out the following day,” Bruce said flatly. “I cannot decide if Alexander’s departure pleases or dismays you, Lady Margaret.”
She inhaled, somehow smiling. “It pleases me, because I am his prisoner.” She was shocked at how much her words felt like a lie.
Bruce laughed. Then he looked past her, toward the stairs. His smile changed.
Margaret turned and saw Peg standing there. She blushed and curtsied, murmuring, “My lord.”
Bruce smiled at Peg, turned to Margaret, and inclined his head. Without bidding her good eve, he went into his bedchamber.
Margaret walked slowly into her room, only vaguely aware of Eilidh waiting for her. Bruce was powerful and frightening, and suddenly, she wondered if he could actually seize the throne, if he would one day be king.
She shivered. She did not want to be his enemy if that day came!
Peg came to her door. “Margaret? Will ye be angered if I go to him?”
Margaret turned to gaze at her. “No. If he is ever Scotland’s king, it will serve you well.”
Peg seemed relieved, and left the room. Margaret slid into her bed, as Eilidh lay down on the pallet she used on the floor. “Good night, my lady,” she said.
“Good night.” Margaret turned over, curling up.
How she hated war. But Bruce loved it, Alexander loved it, fools that they were.
And she did not want to worry now, not about Alexander or anyone, but she kept seeing him on the battlefield, sword raised, his hair in the wind, Bruce’s banner flying. ..the images following her into sleep.