Chapter Fourteen.html #2
Margaret did not smile back. Atholl had betrayed her uncle, after so many years of friendship. She wondered if Buchan knew. And she wondered what Atholl thought of her—and Alexander.
Bruce was hurrying down the steps. “Alexander! You have brought me the Countess of Fife!” he exclaimed.
Alexander dropped to one knee. “Yer Majesty,” he said. “I have gladly done as ye have demanded.”
“Rise up, you may pay me homage tomorrow. And I had no doubt you would bring her here.”
“The storm delayed us,” Alexander said, standing. “And I am sorry.”
“Do not apologize for God’s will.”
Margaret was relieved that he seemed only happy at their arrival, despite its delay.
He was positively expansive as he turned to Isabella.
But suddenly a beautifully gowned and heavily bejeweled woman stepped outside the central hall, also clad in red and gold, her hair tightly braided beneath a gold circlet.
The woman was younger than Bruce, but older than either Margaret or Isabella, probably in her late twenties.
She stared, unsmiling, at Bruce and Isabella, and Margaret felt certain that this was his second wife, Elisabeth de Burgh.
“Countess!” Bruce boomed. Margaret’s attention was jerked back to Bruce and Isabella. He clasped her hands tightly and said, “Welcome to my royal court.”
Isabella beamed. “Your Majesty!” She started to curtsy, her color high.
He hauled her upright, and then held her by both arms. “Do not bow to me yet. Isabella—how beautiful you remain!”
Her eyes shined. “Thank you, Rob—Your Majesty.”
Margaret was horrified. Isabella was smitten with Robert Bruce. Her feelings were so obvious; they were expressed all over her face.
“I am so pleased you have come, Isabella. I have a great need of you.”
“I could not wait to come and help you to become king!” she cried earnestly. “I have dreamed of this day!”
Margaret felt despair stab through her. Isabella was not worldly, never mind that she had thought so for a moment at Balvenie. She was young and flirtatious, she was impressionable and impulsive. But most of all, she was in love with Robert Bruce.
“Do ye wish to stay astride forever?”
She jerked as Alexander spoke, rather teasingly, but so softly no one could hear.
But her attention returned to Bruce and Isabella.
“And you will be a great help to me! We despaired, Isabella, when Alexander did not arrive yesterday, and I was crowned anyway. But we will hold another coronation tomorrow!” He turned, scanning everyone present.
“Tomorrow, at Caislean Credi, the Countess of Fife will lead me to my crown!” he roared.
Everyone present roared back in approval.
And Isabella gazed upon Bruce with open adoration.
Margaret looked past Bruce. His wife stood unsmiling on the top step before the central hall, surrounded by several noblewomen. She was as still as a statue, and clearly displeased.
Alexander laid his hand on top of her knee.
She inhaled. As distraught as she was, as frightened—for Isabella, who would apparently still be used by Bruce as his pawn—Alexander’s touch aroused her in many ways.
He had her attention, and he also made her instantly wonder what they would do now.
Were they to continue their secret love affair? An insane part of her hoped so!
But if she was ever found out, she was doomed.
He smiled at her and took her hands, tugging her down from her horse. Margaret landed in his arms.
“All will be well,” he said softly, and then he released her.
“Lady Comyn.”
Margaret froze at the sound of Bruce’s voice. Slowly, she turned, wishing he had not noticed her.
He smiled at her, though it did not reach his eyes. Instantly, she dropped into the lowest curtsy she had ever performed. Keeping her head bowed, she said, “Your Majesty.”
“You may rise,” Bruce said, his gaze sharp.
She was a Comyn and Bruce’s rival—but she was now in his court. She shifted, stepping closer to Alexander, aware now of a rising sense of fear.
“Is it Lady Comyn? Or have you wed Alexander?”
Margaret did not know what to say. “My uncle refused Alexander’s offer, Your Majesty.”
“And you, Lady Margaret? Have you refused his offer, as well?”
She inhaled. If she confessed that she had refused Alexander, what would Bruce do? If she admitted to maintaining loyalty to her family, would he imprison her?
“Lady Margaret has decided to speak with her brother.” Alexander stepped between them. But he spoke casually, as if they were discussing the recent storm and nothing more. “If he gives her his blessing, she will defy her uncle and marry me.”
She hadn’t said any such thing, but wisely, Margaret did not speak.
“Good.” Bruce confronted Margaret, his stance wide. “At Castle Fyne, I tolerated your politics. But I have no patience for such loyalties now. I have given Alexander my approval for your marriage. The sooner you wed him, the better it will be—for you, for him...for me.”
He was threatening her. She nodded and cast her head down, but inwardly, she was shaken and afraid.
“Lady Margaret,” he snapped.
She flinched at his tone and looked up.
“Beware. I have no use for spies.” His blue eyes blazed.
She wished to cringe. Did he think she meant to spy on him? Did she?
“She will not spy,” Alexander said.
“If she spies, she will pay the price for such actions, no matter how you care for her. I suggest you guard her well.” And then he smiled at them. “Come, we will continue to celebrate my crowning.” Bruce turned, indicated for Isabella to join him, and hurried back up the stairs.
Margaret stared after him and Isabella, watching him as he put his arm around his wife—the queen.
Isabella seemed taken aback by the gesture, and having no choice, she fell into step behind him and his wife.
They vanished inside, followed by their coterie of soldiers, hangers-on, ladies-in-waiting and gentlemen in attendance.
Margaret began to shake. “I am Bruce’s enemy, Alexander.”
Alexander put his arm around her. “No. Yer with me.” His face was hard. “Dinna do anything foolish. I can protect ye, but not if ye betray the king.”
Margaret nodded. She had no wish to become Robert Bruce’s prisoner, not now, not ever.
* * *
MARGARET FOLLOWED ALEXANDER into the central hall of the abbey, entirely aware of the position she was in.
A terrible tension beset her. She was Margaret Comyn, the Earl of Buchan’s niece—a rival to the king.
Indeed, she was the only rival to the king present.
She would be considered a traitor by everyone at the abbey.
And now that Robert was King of Scotland, she was very much at his first court.
She glanced swiftly around. The hall was filled to overflowing with ladies and noblemen.
The queen and her women had taken up one end of the hall, where they were seated at a long table, Isabella with them, along with Marjorie—Atholl’s wife.
The women were conversing quietly, but Isabella was distracted—her gaze was on Bruce.
Margaret watched her for a moment, grimly.
In a short amount of time, everyone at Scone would realize how Isabella felt about her king.
She then realized that Elisabeth was watching her, as well.
The queen was not quite scowling, but her expression was dismissive and filled with disdain. She disliked Isabella already.
Margaret turned her gaze. Bruce was surrounded by a great many of his noblemen, including Atholl. They had gathered by the hall’s single hearth. Servants were giving everyone cups of wine. Other followers stood about in groups, everyone animated and pleased.
Alexander leaned close. “I must attend Bruce, Margaret. I will find out where ye will reside while we are here.”
She almost asked him not to leave her, but managed to refrain. “How long will we stay here?”
“Bruce will not linger. Unless he has changed his plans, he will march on Monday.”
“Where will you go on Monday?”
His gaze held hers. “I will march with Bruce, and we will discuss that later.” He gave her a significant look, then strode away, approaching Bruce.
He would go to war in two more days! And what would her fate be on Monday? Where would she go?
She thought about what he had told Bruce—that she would go to Castle Fyne to speak to Will. Surely that had been a ploy to please Bruce—hadn’t it?
Margaret hugged her mantle close, watched him speaking to Bruce. A moment later a woman paused directly before her. Golden-haired and blue-eyed, she did not smile. “I am Lady Seton—Christopher Seton’s wife. Robert has asked me to introduce myself and show you to your chamber, Lady Comyn.”
Surprised, Margaret met her cool gaze and thought, She does not like me.
She had called Bruce “Robert,” indicating that they were familiar, and hadn’t Christopher Seton been with Bruce at Dumfries during Red John’s murder?
Rumor had it he had even deflected blows sent toward Bruce.
“You may call me Lady Margaret,” she said carefully.
“Very well. And you may call me Lady Christina. How odd this is, that you are here.” She started to walk from the hall.
Margaret followed. Several responses came to mind, but she held them all back. This woman was married to one of Bruce’s closest knights. They were, most definitely, enemies.
They left the hall and walked up a narrow stairwell in silence, Margaret deliberately remaining behind her.
Christina went past several chambers, finally pausing before a small room filled with pallets and chests.
Margaret suddenly felt a pang, wishing Eilidh and Peg were with her here, and not back at Balvenie where they remained when Margaret and Isabella were taken.
Christina stood aside, gesturing into the room. “You will sleep here, Lady Margaret. The abbey is a large one, but Robert already has a great many followers and a large court, so we are terribly crowded.”
Margaret now realized that Christina had the same hard blue eyes as Bruce. “Are you his sister?”