Chapter Eleven.html #2
Margaret stared closely now. “He asked about you—now I begin to understand—I hadn’t realized you had met one another once, much less several times.”
“He asked about me?” She seemed clearly pleased. “So he remembers me?”
Margaret seized her hand. Did Isabella think that Bruce recalled her because she was a beautiful young woman?
“I do not know if he recalls your having ever met, but he knows of you. And I am very worried.” She leaned close and lowered her voice to a whisper.
“He marches on Dumbarton—and then, to Scone. He will be crowned there soon.”
Isabella’s eyes were wider now. “He will be our king, Margaret—I am sure of it.”
Margaret jerked. This was not the reaction she had expected. “He cannot hope to defeat King Edward, Isabella. It is mad to even dream of doing so!”
“Why not? He is next in line to be king—and we cannot remain yoked to England for much longer. God must finally be on our side!”
Was this her pretty friend speaking? Isabella never voiced an opinion, especially not when it came to affairs of state or matters of politics. Margaret was disbelieving. “You wish for Bruce to be king?”
She hesitated. “He is next in line—everyone knows it.”
Margaret did not know what her hesitation signified. “Your husband will fight him to the end.”
She flushed. “Yes, he will.”
“Isabella! There is more. Bruce spoke of using you to aid him in his quest to be king.”
She gasped.
Margaret hurriedly explained. “He cannot summon your brother to the ceremony, and apparently the earls of Fife have traditionally participated in the crowning of every Scot king. He and Alexander discussed the possibility of using you in the ceremony instead. After all, you are still the Countess of Fife.”
Isabella’s color was now high. She was speechless.
“I have come to warn you,” Margaret said.
“Warn me? Oh, I am so glad you have told me this!”
Was Isabella pleased?
“But how would I get to Scone to help crown him?” she asked.
Margaret shot to her feet. “Are you mad? I thought to warn you against him.”
Isabella stood. “I would love to help him be king!”
Margaret stared at her in horror.
Still red, her eyes bright, she cried, “I must get word to him! I must tell him I will help him in any way that I can! Or should I simply leave and go to Scone?”
Margaret seized her arm. “Buchan is against Bruce! He will disown you if you ever take Bruce’s side!”
Isabella shook her head, almost wildly. “I don’t care, Margaret. Let Buchan fret and fight, I don’t care! Bruce should be our king!”
“You are suddenly political? Since when? If you help him, your marriage is doomed.”
Isabella stared. “Then my marriage will be doomed.”
* * *
THEY CAREFULLY AVOIDED the subject of Bruce for the rest of the evening, as well as the subject of Isabella’s marriage, but the next morning, while Margaret was taking a much-needed hand bath, Isabella paused on the threshold of her chamber. Her smile was tentative. “Margaret? May we speak?”
Margaret was clad only in a chemise, warm and wet cloth in hand. She smiled, handing the cloth to Peg. They had not spoken very much last night after that first disturbing conversation. Margaret had retired early, immediately after supper. She had been exhausted. “Of course. Good morning.”
Isabella glanced at Peg. “Could you bring us warm, spiced wine? I will help Margaret dress.”
So she wished for a privy word, Margaret thought with some dread. Peg left, and Isabella waited a moment, until her footfalls could no longer be heard. “Are you angry with me?” she blurted.
Margaret toweled off her damp arms and legs. “Why would I be angry?”
“You are the most noble woman I know. I fear I have disappointed you.”
Margaret set her towel down and pulled on a pale cote. “I love you, Isabella, no matter what you say or do. And you did not disappoint me yesterday—you surprised me.”
“Please don’t tell my husband about our conversation—and that I wish for Bruce to become our king!” she cried.
Margaret saw fear on Isabella’s face—and she was glad.
At least Isabella sensed the ramifications of her taking such an opposing viewpoint to that of her husband.
“I would never betray you that way,” Margaret said, meaning it.
“But I am praying that you change your mind and support your husband in his causes—and in his war against Bruce. It is your duty, Isabella, as his wife.”
“I have never been as honorable as you,” Isabella said softly.
Margaret felt guilty—she was not as honorable as Isabella thought. “And surely you now realize that you could never help Bruce take the crown. Such an act is treachery against your husband.”
Isabella smiled grimly, but it was almost a pursing of her lips.
And then, from outside, they heard cries from the watchtower.
Margaret tensed, her reaction an instinctive one, but no one would ever attack Balvenie! The fortress was too mighty a stronghold. Besides, the wars with England rarely brought battles this far north.
Still, someone was approaching. She ran with Isabella to the chamber’s only window.
The shutter was open. It was a bright, sunny springlike day. Most of the snow outside the castle walls had melted. And an armed group of riders was approaching.
The red, black and gold flag of Buchan waved proudly above them.
“John has come home,” Isabella breathed, her tone terse. Margaret saw that she did not smile, and she was pale with tension.
Her gaze narrowed. Her father had died a year and a half ago—she had moved to Balvenie shortly after his death.
Isabella had become Buchan’s wife perhaps six months earlier.
As Buchan was in residence often, she had seen Isabella and her husband together dozens of times. Their marriage had seemed quite usual.
But now, she paused.
She recalled watching Isabella at the opposite end of the great table, politely listening to her husband’s every word.
She recalled the way they would leave the company after supper, hardly exchanging a word, although Buchan always had his hand on his wife’s waist. And she thought of how Isabella would greet him when he returned from attending affairs of state, or a hunting party.
Buchan was usually boisterous, Isabella demure.
Yet when he was away, the hall rang with her laughter.
She had never thought about the nature of their marriage before, and she did not know why she wondered about it now. Isabella had a lively nature, but she was usually quiet around her charismatic, handsome older husband.
“We should go down to greet them,” Isabella said, a small flush upon her cheeks.
Margaret agreed.
* * *
THEY STOOD OUTSIDE the open front door, upon the top step of the stairs, awaiting the earl and his men. Although the day appeared benign, it was only early March, not even the fifteenth, and the breeze was brisk. Both women shivered, neither having bothered to don plaids or mantles.
The Earl of Buchan trotted into the courtyard with two dozen Highland knights.
He was a tall man with dark hair—he was sometimes called Black John—and he rode at the group’s forefront, his mount a black charger.
He appeared a powerful figure of a man, and he was powerful—before his cousin’s death, he had controlled half of northern Scotland.
Now, he commanded the entire Comyn family, and no other family controlled as much of the north.
The horses were muddy, as were most of the riders. The group paused, Buchan halting his charger before the steps where they stood. His expression brightened as he saw them, and then he was quickly dismounting, his smile wide.
“Margaret!” He rushed up the stairs, eyes wide with surprise, and he hugged her, hard.
Margaret felt tears arise. Of course he cared about her. How had she been in any doubt? She smiled as he released her. “Good morn, Uncle.”
He clasped her chin and lifted it, his dark eyes searching. “We heard a rumor—that you had escaped—but we did not believe it!”
“I escaped, Uncle. It is a bit of a harrowing story.”
“So the rumor was true!” His eyes widened with obvious admiration. “I should have known. You are exactly like your mother!” Then he turned and beamed at Isabella. “Wife! What a pretty sight you are!”
Margaret watched as Isabella smiled and as Buchan swept her hard into his embrace. He kissed her, and Margaret looked away. In that moment, there was no doubt that Buchan adored his beautiful young wife.
Turning back, Margaret gasped as she saw that Sir Ranald stood holding two horses, grinning at her.
She flew down the steps. “Sir Ranald! I heard you had escaped the Wolf during the battle in the ravine!”
“I did escape—and I rode directly to Badenoch—only to learn of the murder,” Sir Ranald said, his smile disappearing. “My lady, how do you fare? We lost the battle of the ravine, and left you to defend Castle Fyne! I have heard the tale of how bravely you did so—and how many men were lost.”
She hesitated, but she had no interest in dissembling now. “I hope to never be in a siege again, Sir Ranald. My soldiers were terribly brave. So were the women, but there was never any hope, not against the Wolf.”
“Thank God you escaped.”
Margaret reached for his hand. She was about to answer, when she recognized the man who had just dismounted, and now stood behind Sir Ranald. She felt her expression freeze.
Sir Guy bowed, low. “Lady.”
Her heart slammed. Sir Guy had come to Balvenie. Of course he had.
Sir Guy, whom she was to wed in June—whom she had so recently betrayed with another man.
Somehow, she swallowed, somehow, she breathed. And then she smiled, coming down the steps slowly, her gaze now locked with his. “Sir Guy! I am so pleased that you are here.”
His gray stare swept her from head to toe. He still did not smile. “I will pray to God tonight, and give thanks, for His keeping you safe during your travails.”
She bit her lip, nodding. “Thank you.”