Brenda Joyce (25 page)

“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.

* * *

M
ARGARET
FOLLOWED
A
LEXANDER
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?”

“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.

* * *

T
HE
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.