Chapter Fourteen.html #3
“You did not know?” She was cool, but surprised.
Margaret managed a smile. “You have a passing resemblance.”
She folded her arms across her chest. “That is what everyone says. In any case, I am going back downstairs. You may rest here or you may join us.” She shrugged, clearly indifferent.
Margaret suddenly touched her sleeve, forestalling her. “I am not a threat to you.”
Her stare was as cold as ice. “Really? You are the Earl of Buchan’s niece and ward. I am Sir Christopher’s wife—and King Robert’s sister. You are very much a threat. You should not be here, Lady Margaret.”
“I did not think Isabella should come here, to commit sheer folly, without a friend.”
“Do not think to turn her against us.”
Margaret froze. Christina Seton was as ambitious as her brother, she realized. She would see him crowned king, no matter the consequences.
“Unless you mean to marry the Wolf and pay homage to my brother, you should go home, Lady Comyn, back to Buchan, back where you otherwise belong.” Christina turned abruptly and left.
Margaret sought the closest pallet—her legs would not hold her—and sat down.
Christina Seton hated her. That much was clear. But then, wasn’t Margaret one of Bruce’s greatest rivals? Not by will, but by legacy?
She was afraid to go back downstairs; she knew that every one of Bruce’s supporters would regard her with suspicion and hostility—everyone except for Isabella and Alexander.
Maybe Christina Seton was right—she should choose. Either marry Alexander or go home to Balvenie.
* * *
THE MASS WAS almost over. Margaret sat with Isabella behind the queen and her ladies, Bruce seated on the other side of the aisle with all the men, in the abbey’s grandiose church.
No seat was to be had, and behind the last row of benches, his soldiers stood, crowding into all the available space of the old church.
Margaret did not move as the worshippers were dismissed and everyone began to rise.
Conversation and some laughter filled the ancient church.
The women in front of her began to chat eagerly and happily; only the queen did not speak.
On the other side of the aisle, the men were behaving boisterously.
Bruce was in especially high spirits. He turned toward the women, smiling at his wife. Then he gestured to Isabella.
Isabella smiled widely and hurried over to him.
Margaret watched them stoically. Yesterday she had been kept away from Isabella.
Christina Seton must have decided it would be dangerous otherwise.
As worried as she was about Isabella’s fate, she must worry about her own future.
For she and Alexander had not had another moment in which to seriously speak.
Tomorrow he would go to war, and she did not know if he meant to send her home.
Yet she could hardly remain at Bruce’s court.
As she stood up now, her gaze moved across the aisle to where Alexander stood, his smile pleased, his posture indolent and relaxed.
He was so rarely in such a frame of mind that she paused to stare openly at him, and in spite of the dire situation, her heart raced.
If he was leaving tomorrow, they must find time to spend together tonight.
He was speaking with Atholl and Marjorie, but he glanced immediately back at her, his smile vanishing. She knew he felt as she did; that they must seek some privy time together.
The congregation was filing outside. They would all walk from the abbey to Caislean Credi, the Hill of Credulity. There, Bruce would be crowned another time.
Margaret was one of the last to leave the church, and when she stepped into the courtyard, Alexander fell into step beside her. He took her arm. “How did ye sleep last night?”
“Surprisingly well, considering that I have resigned myself to watching Isabella destroy her marriage.” She would not share how difficult it was to be at court, surrounded by so much animosity and suspicion.
“But she crowns Scotland’s king.” His eyes blazed. “Today, the Countess of Fife earns her place in the legends of this proud land.”
Margaret decided not to comment, as she did not think becoming a part of a legend the kind of fortune her friend needed. They walked in silence from the courtyard, following the huge crowd up the hill, Bruce and Queen Elisabeth clad in crimson and gold, and mounted on fine white horses.
A great crowd had gathered atop the hill; men, women and children having come from all over Scotland, both on Friday and now, to witness this second coronation of Scotland’s king.
Margaret and Alexander walked past the crowd until they had reached the very front row, where Atholl, his wife and the other earls and countesses stood.
She saw Christina Seton with a handsome, golden-haired man.
They were holding hands, speaking quietly to one another, smiling.
And Christina seemed entirely changed—somehow, she was soft and pretty now—and it was almost impossible to recall how cold and cruel she had been yesterday.
Bruce stood alone in the center of the cleared hilltop, not far from a handsome throne. He looked very much like a king, in his red-and-gold surcote and hose, his head erect with pride, his blue gaze brilliant and burning.
Elisabeth, the queen, stood apart from him with the bishop of Glasgow, who was unfolding various vestments and a robe, long guarded and kept in secret for just such a day.
Today, Elisabeth was as impassive as usual, but she was almost pretty, in her red ermine-trimmed gown.
She stared at her husband unblinkingly. It was impossible to know what she felt.
Isabella waited with the other bishops, a short distance from Bruce. She was stunningly beautiful in a pale white robe, her long dark hair loose, her cheeks flushed, a gold circlet in her hands.
The crowd had become terribly silent. Bishop Wishart now approached, a sword in hand. Margaret realized she was watching with bated breath. She glanced at Alexander, and saw he was as rapt as she was—as everyone was. She looked back at the ceremony.
Bishop Wishart had handed the sword to Robert, and now, he placed the ancient robes about his shoulders. Then he began to administer the oath Bruce must take to become King of Scotland. Bruce’s head was bowed.
“And from this day, you will be King Robert I, the king of every man born in Scotland.” Wishart now turned, gesturing to Isabella.
Margaret inhaled, as Bruce looked up and as Isabella started forward.
A great many gasps and murmurs sounded as Isabella hurried toward Bruce, her eyes filled with excitement, the circlet in one of her hands.
She had never been as beautiful. She appeared to have come from a dream—as if an angel.
Bruce’s blue eyes burned with fervor, with heat, and they were riveted upon her.
Isabella paused before him, their gazes locked. Then she took his hand, almost shyly, and he smiled at her. Blushing, she led him a few short steps to the throne.
Margaret felt chills. She glanced at the queen.
There was no expression on her face, none.
Bruce sat down, adjusting his robes. Isabella placed the circlet on his head.
Margaret felt more chills racing up and down her arms as the crowd roared in approval. Alexander, Atholl and the noblemen standing with them all roared, as well.
She hugged herself, feeling very much as if swept up in an avalanche. Yet it wasn’t exactly frightening....
A poet stepped forward, a parchment in hand. Smiling, he began to read the long genealogy of this king, going back centuries, naming ancient kings Margaret had never heard of.
Alexander slipped his arm around her.
Startled, Margaret looked up at him and saw how widely he was smiling. She realized the bard had ceased his litany, and Wishart cried, “King Robert of the Scots!”
Margaret stepped closer to Alexander, so their bodies were melded, as the crowd shouted back, “King Robert of Scotland!”
Tears arose. Wasn’t it better to have a Scot king, than to answer to King Edward?
“King Robert! King Robert the Bruce!” the crowd chanted.
Alexander suddenly grasped her waist and lifted her high.
“What are you doing?” she cried. He was twirling her about, as if in a dance, but then, a great many men and women were dancing wildly now.
He suddenly set her down, his hands on her shoulders. “Will ye celebrate with me?” His eyes gleamed.
Her heart lurched. She knew exactly what he wished. “Yes.”
He grinned at her. And then he swept her up against his chest and kissed her, deeply.
Margaret gasped for air when he was done and he had set her back on her feet. Then she realized that the Earl of Atholl was staring at her. He smiled slightly at her before turning to Scotland’s king and queen.
She tensed. He knew she and Alexander were lovers. If Atholl was still pretending allegiance to Buchan, would he tell him of Margaret’s betrayal? But he was with Bruce—he had betrayed Buchan himself—and she knew that. Perhaps he wouldn’t be so quick to share what he knew, then.
* * *
ALEXANDER PUT HIS arm around her and they approached Bruce, who stood with Elisabeth now. Isabella stood behind him, and he and the queen were surrounded with the noblemen and women of his court. Margaret saw Bruce take Elisabeth’s hand and kiss it.
And Robert Bruce said, very loudly, for a great many to hear, “From this day forward, you are queen and I am king of Scotland.”
His wife widened her eyes. “Really? For I think we are only playing at being king and queen, very much like small children.”
Margaret bit back a gasp.
Bruce darkened. “You are queen, Elisabeth,” he warned, “and I am king of the Scots.”
Elisabeth smiled and did not speak.
* * *
ALEXANDER GAVE HER such a promising look that she failed to breathe, and then he pulled her down behind a line of trees. Margaret seized his broad shoulders as he came down on top of her, and their mouths fused wildly.