Chapter Eighteen.html
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
A TERRIFIC NOISE awoke her.
Margaret was suddenly awake. It took her a moment to realize where she was.
Since the news of the massacre at Methven, the sleeping arrangements had changed.
She had been invited to share the queen’s chamber—as had Isabella.
For she had risen in the queen’s esteem.
As for Isabella, she suspected that the queen had been instructed by her husband to keep her close.
It was the middle of the night. She was instantly aware of the commotion below the royal bedchamber. Margaret froze, her heart pounding with fright. She could hear men shouting and racing into the great room.
“Are we being attacked?” Isabella cried, seizing Margaret’s hand in their shared pallet.
Someone held a taper aloft. Margaret glanced across the space between her bed and the closest adjacent one. Christina held the candle high, Mary beside her. Their gazes were wide with fright.
And Elisabeth, terribly ashen, was on her feet, Marjorie helping her don a warm mantle. Marjorie’s movements, which were usually gentle, were rushed.
Margaret’s mind raced frantically. Was Aymer de Valence attacking?
She heard a great many voices raised in urgent conversation. What she did not hear was the ring of swords, or the cries of soldiers in battle. It was clear the others heard the same and were realizing that they were not being attacked.
A sharp, urgent banging sounded upon the queen’s doors. Elisabeth cried out loudly, “Enter.”
The doors burst open and Sir Nigel stood there. “You must come below, Elisabeth,” he said quickly.
But she was already crossing the room, Christina and Mary with her. They vanished into the hall outside with Sir Nigel.
Margaret quickly got up, lighting another taper. Isabella also slid from the bed. Marjorie joined them and they exchanged glances. “Who could it be—in the middle of the night?” Isabella whispered.
“I don’t know.” Margaret took up a plaid and draped it about her shoulders. She could not imagine who had come to rouse the queen at midnight, nor did she think the news good. She hurried out with the two women, everyone silent. The hall outside the chamber was brightly illuminated.
She led the way, hurrying down the stairs. The conversation in the great hall was now muted. When she reached its threshold, she faltered.
And then her heart exploded.
His back was to her, but Alexander stood with the queen.
Alexander was at Kildrummy; Alexander was alive!
Tears arose, blurring her vision. Isabella seized her hand. “He lives,” she whispered.
Margaret nodded, speechless and beyond relief. Alexander lived.
But Alexander spoke rapidly and urgently.
The queen listened attentively, her expression grim.
Bruce’s sisters stood with her, as did Sir Nigel and Sir Neil.
Another man she did not recognize was also with them, but he resembled Bruce and she imagined he was another one of his brothers. Everyone was frighteningly grim.
Her relief and joy were short-lived. Why had he come? She stared at the women in their nightclothes, the men armed with sword and dagger. Alexander and the other nobleman had come from the war—they had come from the forests, where they had been hiding since Methven.
“What news could he be bringing?” Isabella whispered. “The queen looks frightened!”
Elisabeth did look frightened, Margaret thought. And in another moment or two, Alexander would see her. Her relief and excitement changed instantly. She had not seen him in three months, and he had never answered her letter.
She no longer feared the news he was bringing. Instead, trepidation assailed her. What would happen when he turned around to face her?
“What are you going to do?” Isabella whispered in her ear.
She could not even look at her friend. And she did not know what she would do—or what she should do.
The queen was now talking to him, and then Sir Nigel was saying something. As Bruce’s brother spoke, Alexander turned and glanced at her.
She stiffened as their gazes met.
He did not smile at her. For an instant he simply stared, his expression impossible to read. Then the queen spoke to him and he turned his attention back to her.
“I don’t know what I will do,” Margaret finally said to Isabella. And anguish began—anguish she must not allow to arise.
“I wonder why he is here. Maybe he has come for you,” she said.
Margaret finally glanced at her. “He is here on the king’s business, Isabella.”
Isabella’s eyes popped and she jerked hard on Margaret’s sleeve.
Margaret turned. Alexander was striding toward her.
She froze. She no longer saw the queen and her women, who were having a sharp discussion with the three men. She was no longer aware of Isabella. As he approached, it felt as if her entire future was hanging from a thread.
Alexander paused before her. “Lady Margaret,” he said politely.
Dismay warred with hope. “Alexander,” she whispered.
His gaze slipped over her. “I was pleased when I learned that ye had fled Castle Fyne.”
She somehow nodded, when she wanted to blurt out so much, all at once. “You are well,” she managed to respond.
“I am as well as a man can be in these times,” he said.
“I am so sorry. The news has been so terrible,” she whispered, referring to the massacre of Methven.
His eyes flickered. “Many good men died. Other good men were captured. But the king lives.”
“And you are alive,” she said.
“Did ye doubt it?”
“When we received the news, no one knew if you had survived, escaped, been captured.” Moisture began to arise in her eyes.
“I am not so easy to capture or kill.”
She blinked furiously, suddenly recalling the vow he had made to her—that if she was waiting for him, he would always return from war. She wondered if he recalled it.
“I was also pleased to learn that William survived,” he said.
He was being so careful now—so polite—as if they had never been lovers. “William was badly hurt—had I not tended him, he probably would have died.”
He nodded, studying her. “Then I am glad ye went to him.” He hesitated, glancing briefly at the queen and her circle. “I am glad ye are well, Margaret.”
Her heart skidded as their gazes met and locked.
“We have matters to discuss, but now is not the time. We leave immediately, as soon as the sun comes up.”
Alarm began. “Where are we going? What has happened?”
“Yer no longer safe here at Kildrummy, not since King Edward declared the women outlaws. Bruce wants the queen and her women with him.”
“But he hides in the forest!”
“He is now at Aberdeen, and I am to take ye there.”
Would they be better off—and safer—if with Bruce? His small army was surely greater than the handful of knights now guarding them at Kildrummy. She looked up fearfully and found Alexander staring far too closely.
“No woman should have to run and hide like an outlaw.” Anger darkened his eyes. “Gather up yer belongings. Dawn comes swiftly.” He turned to go.
She seized his arm, surprising them both. Touching him brought back so many memories, which should, perhaps, be illicit now. “Did you receive my letter, Alexander?” The moment she had spoken, she wished she had not.
“Aye.” His gaze seemed wary now. “I meant to respond, but these three months have been difficult.”
She released him. He had not found the time to write a line or two in reply? She did not believe it. And hadn’t she already known that his lack of a reply was the reply?
He nodded at her, turned and strode back to the queen and her closest advisors. Margaret stared after him.
Everything had changed. They were no longer lovers—it felt instead as if they had become strangers. She blinked back more tears.
“Thank God Bruce has sent for us,” Isabella whispered.
Margaret had forgotten her presence. Now, the other woman put her arm around her. And for that, Margaret was grateful.
* * *
THE FIRST THING Margaret saw was Bruce’s red-and-yellow banner waving high in the sunny blue sky above his tent.
It was a bit after noon. Bruce had made camp just outside the city’s walls, and Margaret was surprised to see that his army was larger than she had expected after what she had heard about the massacre at Methven.
Tents covered the grassy slopes surrounding the city.
Their warhorses grazed freely among sheep and cows.
The city gates were open, and men and women were coming and going freely.
The scene seemed pleasant and almost gay.
But there was nothing pleasant about the mighty Robert Bruce being reduced to a king in hiding, she thought grimly.
The queen’s cavalcade slowed as it approached the camp, the queen riding at the forefront with Bruce’s two brothers, Sir Nigel and Sir Edward—the man she had not recognized that night alongside Alexander.
Christina, Mary and Marjorie were behind her, several dozen knights alongside and behind the group.
Alexander rode a bit ahead of her. He had continually changed his position, sometimes going to the front ranks to speak with Sir Nigel and Sir Edward, at other times dropping back to ride with the rear guard.
She felt certain, knowing him as she did, that he had scouts positioned along their route to make certain they could pass safely through the countryside.
He had ridden past her once. They had simply gazed at one another. The moment had felt significant, when all they had done was exchange stares.
Sir Nigel was helping the queen dismount. Bruce came striding out of his tent, and as he did, his men began to cheer. “King Robert! King Robert!”
Along the city walls, the cheering was taken up by the men and women watching the camp. “King Robert of Scotland!”
Isabella had been riding alongside her, and Margaret glanced at her. “So he remains beloved, at least here in the north.”
Isabella did not answer and Margaret took a closer look at her set face. She was not happy.