Chapter Twelve.html #2
“If Bruce becomes king, he will destroy us all—he has vowed it,” Menteith said. “At Dumbarton, his terms were clear—surrender and become his friend, or fight and suffer all consequences.”
“His threats are not empty,” Umfraville said. “I have known him since he was a boy. And any man who can commit murder in a church knows not God or honor.”
A discussion ensued about Bruce’s character, and it was agreed that he would be merciless if he ever became king.
“And we are his greatest enemy. We have always been his worst enemy,” Buchan said. “If Bruce gains the throne, he will seek to destroy every Comyn in the land.”
Buchan believed his every word, Margaret realized. But was it true?
She thought of how ruthless Alexander had been upon taking Castle Fyne. He had been prepared to hang all of her men. And it had taken him but a moment to hang Malcolm.
In war, men like Bruce and Alexander knew no mercy. She had not a doubt.
But she was a Comyn, too.
“Bruce must be stopped before his army grows too large to be defeated easily,” Mowbray was saying.
“The people love him. They are cheering him now as he marches through their villages. There is talk growing of how he should be Scotland’s king!
That it is his right! If he is not stopped by summer, I fear this war will be endless. ”
A brief silence fell. Margaret now realized that all of the women were listening intently to them, each female face pale.
“He will be stopped well before summer,” Buchan finally said. “Bruce cannot defeat the might of England.”
“I wish to speak with Lady Margaret,” Umfraville said, looking boldly at her. “I have thanked God, Lady Margaret, that He kept you safe during the Wolf’s siege, and that He aided you in your escape.”
Margaret flushed. “Thank you.”
“How many men did MacDonald have when he left Castle Fyne, lady?” Umfraville demanded. “I wish to know his numbers in fact!”
Margaret could not breathe properly now. Of course she had to tell the truth! “He went to war against Sir Guy at Loch Riddon with six hundred men, I think. But he had asked his brother for five hundred more. I do not know if they were raised.”
The men now nodded, absorbing this.
“If MacDonald only has a thousand men, his army is the lesser one—we should isolate and destroy his men first,” Atholl said.
Margaret stared at him, hoping no one would notice her anxiety. She wished to warn Alexander.
“Tell us about Bruce’s stay at Castle Fyne,” Umfraville said.
Her heart leapt. “I have told my uncle everything I know,” she said, aware that she was most certainly lying. She had not divulged the possible date for the coronation—and she had not divulged their plan to use Isabella in the ceremony.
“Tell us what you remember, Margaret,” Atholl said, smiling pleasantly at her.
Her heart pounded now, not knowing Atholl’s allegiances. “I had my maids spy upon them as they supped. They worried about the coronation—about the missing Stone—and about the fact that the Earl of Fife is the king’s ward.”
“They will have to crown him without the boy,” Buchan said.
“And they did not discuss a date for the coronation?” Umfraville asked harshly.
She met his dark, heated gaze, knowing she must lie to save Alexander from capture and maybe death. “No.”
“Who will they ask to attend?”
She did not look at Atholl now. “I do not recall.”
“You said Lennox,” Buchan said. “You said Atholl.”
Atholl’s eyes widened as every face turned to him. Then he laughed.
“Did I?” She squirmed. “I cannot recall—it was so long ago! But I do recall my impression of Bruce.”
All eyes were upon her now.
“He was so powerful, so royal! Everyone knows no single man can fight England and win. Yet when with him, I wondered if he might become Scotland’s king.” She deliberately hoped to divert the men by inflaming them.
There was a brief silence, and then someone—her uncle—slammed his fist furiously down. The table jumped. Wine spilled. “He will never be our king!”
A fierce argument began—every man speaking at once. Margaret felt her cheeks flaming, and finally, she glanced at Atholl.
He was studying her. Instantly, he looked away.
Did he suspect her of duplicity? Of treachery? What had that odd look meant?
And did he ride with Buchan—or Bruce?
Beneath the table, Isabella took her hand. Somehow, Margaret smiled at her, in spite of how frantically her thoughts were racing. Then she beseeched her uncle. “This talk of war has given me a terrible headache. Could I be excused?”
“I think we are done—for now. But Margaret? They may wish to ask you more questions before we leave on the morrow.”
Margaret nodded and got up. Isabella leapt up to join her. “Husband? May I go up, as well?”
He smiled fondly at her. “Of course you may.”
“Shall I show you to your rooms?” Marjorie asked, also rising. She seemed relieved to be able to leave the table.
As she followed Marjorie and Isabella up the stairs, Margaret thought about what she had just learned: they might try to divide Bruce’s army from Alexander’s. They would then destroy Alexander first.
“Marjorie? I must use the privy chamber,” she said.
Marjorie smiled at her over her shoulder, and she and Isabella turned the corner upstairs.
Alone on the stairwell, Margaret turned and raced down the winding steps. She hurried to the threshold of the great hall, but did not step across it. Instead, her heart pounding, she pressed against the wall, trying to hear.
The men were speaking loudly enough that she caught bits and pieces of their conversation. She heard Bruce’s name being mentioned several times, as well as Alexander’s. She heard them mention Scone.
“What are you doing?” Sir Ranald seized her arm.
She gasped, facing him. His expression was hard.
He did not wait for her to answer. “You must go upstairs, Lady Margaret, before Buchan catches you.”
She tried to devise a plausible explanation for her eavesdropping.
“Go,” he insisted.
Margaret fled.
* * *
MARGARET WAS ABOUT to climb into her bed in the chamber she had been given when Isabella stepped into the room.
She started. It was very late now, but if Isabella had come to speak with her, it meant that the men were still downstairs.
“You gave me such a fright,” she said, closing the door. She wore but a long, loose robe, her hair in plaits.
Margaret knew she was speaking of the interview that had taken place an hour earlier in the hall below.
“I was not going to reveal Bruce’s plans for you,” she said.
“But surely, after seeing how angry all the men downstairs are, you realize you must never acquiesce in his attempt to steal the throne.”
“If he comes for me, I will go with him,” Isabella said.
“What would make you think that he will come for you? Surely, you have not received a message from him?”
Isabella flushed. “How could I receive word from him? But if he wants me at Scone, I would need men and horses in order to get there. He would have to come for me.”
Margaret was filled with doubt. Had Isabella received word from Bruce or a crony? Was it possible?
“What about you, Margaret?” Isabella approached her and sat down on the bed as Margaret stood beside it. “Do you support Bruce now?”
“Why would you think that?” But hadn’t she betrayed her uncle and his allies a moment ago? By failing to reveal all that she knew?
She had done so not to support Bruce, but to protect Alexander.
Isabella’s stare was steady. “Because you did not tell them everything that you know. You did not tell them that there is a date for the coronation, or that they wish for me to stand beside Bruce when he puts on the crown.”
“I am against Bruce!” she cried. But she felt a nagging doubt—her actions thus far said otherwise.
She could not be entirely against Bruce as long as Alexander rode with him, she realized. She simply could not.
“But if you had spoken up,” Isabella said, “Buchan would keep me under guard, and there would be no possibility of my ever being at Scone. If you had spoken up, they would ride for Scone shortly, and lay a trap there for Bruce.”
Margaret’s heart thudded. She did not know what to say.
Isabella stood up, their gazes locked. “Is it Bruce?” she asked, low. “You met him. Did he persuade you that his cause is the just one?”
She wet her lips. “No.”
Isabella began to shake her head. “He has an eye for the ladies. You are so beautiful. He must have flirted with you—perhaps tried to take you to bed? And he is a handsome man. He has convinced you, Margaret, to betray the family, hasn’t he?”
“He has not!” she cried, in real horror. “He flirted a bit, but most men do. And he did try to impress upon me that it would be advantageous if I changed my loyalties—but I refused. I am loyal to Buchan. I am a Comyn!”
Isabella studied her intently. “I believe you. But from your actions, you are not as loyal to my husband as you think.” She walked to the door, then swiftly returned and kissed Margaret’s cheek. “Good night, Margaret. And thank you for keeping my secret.”
* * *
THE WIND WHIPPED the trees that lined the road they traveled upon, the skies above gray and threatening rain.
Margaret rode beside Isabella, huddled in a fur, their horses restlessly tossing their heads.
Buchan and Sir Ranald rode ahead of them, the rest of the escort behind.
It was midafternoon and they were but a few miles from home.
“I am frozen to the bone,” Isabella said, her teeth chattering.
Margaret was as cold, but before she could speak, Sir Ranald called out, holding up his hand, and every horse in the cavalcade halted. Ahead, a rider was streaking down the road toward them, at a full gallop.
Buchan nodded and Sir Ranald galloped toward the oncoming rider, the two meeting some ways down the road, neither man very visible from this distance. A moment passed as they spoke to one another, and then Margaret watched as Sir Ranald and the rider turned as one, riding back to their group.