Brenda Joyce (31 page)

Buchan had not yet replied. But she had heard rumors of the war. Bruce was in the north, causing havoc. He had attacked Dundee, and then gone on to besiege a series of castles near Banff. He was taking hostages, holding up merchants and demanding excessive ransoms—mostly to finance his war.

And one of her uncles was a victim. The Earl of Strathearn had refused to levy men for him. Bruce and Atholl had thus captured him.

* * *

H
ER
BROTHER
WAS
now studying her. “There is one subject that has not arisen since I have become well,” he finally said.

She froze in alarm. He had not asked her about Alexander, not a single time, and she had thought he had not remembered their conversation, as he had been so ill when they had spoken.

Now, she had the uncanny feeling he was about to raise the very subject. “Do you really wish to converse now, at midnight?”

He came forward, sitting down awkwardly on the bench by the table. “Yes, I do, as I have been in bed far too much these past weeks. You know, Meg, I have not been able to decide if I dreamed this very strange conversation I keep recalling.”

He did remember, she thought grimly. Margaret sat back down, picked up the vellum and blew carefully on it.

He caught her wrist. “Why do you hate and fear Sir Guy? What happened?”

Though she was relieved he was not asking about Alexander, that ill feeling instantly returned. Since Sir Guy had left, she had refused to think about that violent encounter. She refused to do so now. “You don’t like him, either, and you never have. He is English. It is that simple.”

His smile was self-deprecating. “But we need him now. We need the damned English now. We must defeat Bruce.”

Why? She wanted to ask. Would Robert Bruce be such a terrible king? But she refrained. For she knew his answer. Bruce hated the Comyn family. His gain would be their reversal.

“Did you tell me that you were in love?” William asked seriously. “Did I really have such a conversation with you?”

So he recalled it, after all. She wished she could lie to him and deny it. But she could not; Margaret nodded.

He began shaking his head. “MacDonald? Our blood enemy?”

“Our aunt Juliana married Alexander’s brother,” Margaret said.

He was dismayed. “You are not Juliana! He rides with Bruce!”

“I know. Do you think I wanted to fall in love with him?” She reached out and took his hand, gripping it tightly. “He attacked my castle. He took it from me. He held me prisoner. Of course I did not want to fall in love with him!” Margaret cried.

Her brother simply stared.

“He is a great warrior, William, and a courageous and honorable man.”

His eyes were wide. “You truly are in love.”

She nodded, then felt herself flushing. “I came here because I was afraid you would die. But I am in danger, Will. I am in danger from Sir Guy, if he ever learns the truth.”

William blanched. “You have slept with him.”

She nodded. “I love him and we were lovers.”

A terrible expression filled his face. “You betrayed Sir Guy, Meg—and you have betrayed Buchan!”

“I never meant to be disloyal. I am a Comyn woman. I am proud of it! I fought my feelings, I truly did.”

“Maybe Sir Guy will never know,” William began. “You could deceive him.”

Margaret stood up slowly. “Others know.”

Will also stood, forgetting to use his cane. “What?”

She wet her lips. “Isabella knows. Some of his men know. Atholl knows.”

Will’s expression was ghastly. “Then the whole land will know!”

“I am afraid,” she finally said, and it was a long overdue confession.

William grimaced, composing himself. “What do you intend?” He caught the edge of the table to balance himself. “You cannot remain here. When Sir Guy finds out you have been unfaithful, he will hurt you—or kill you.”

Margaret stared. “I asked Buchan if I could go to Balvenie with you—but I want to return to Alexander.”

William was disbelieving. “You would leave us.”

“No. Not entirely. I am a Comyn—I will always be your sister.”

His eyes had become moist. “And when you marry him? You will marry him?”

“If he will have me...but I will still be your sister!”

“No. You will be his wife, and we will be at war,” her brother said. “But I will help you—God help me.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Early May, 1306, Kildrummy Castle, Scotland

W
IDE
-
EYED
, M
ARGARET
stared up the hill at the great stronghold of Kildrummy Castle. It dominated the horizon with its huge round towers and imposing curtain walls, and was reputed to be impregnable, enough so that King Edward had stayed there in the past. Because its stout walls could not be breached, the queen and her women had been sent there.

Margaret had never been to the fortress. Staring at it now, she inhaled. Images flashed in her mind, of a lifetime spent in loyalty and duty to her family.

But because she could not marry Sir Guy—because she wanted a future with Alexander—this, then, was her choice.

She was a Comyn, yet she must now beg the queen to admit her to her court. Once the queen accepted her amongst her women, there would be no going back. Her uncle would never forgive her for her reversal of allegiance—for her treachery.

Her trepidation was vast. For now she had to face her greatest fear—she was worthless without her dowry. She had lost all of her value as a bride when Sir Guy had taken Castle Fyne. She believed Alexander cared about her. But did he care enough to marry her without her lands?

No one married without gain. No one married for love.

She was seeking admission to the queen’s court, hoping that Alexander wanted her still; she was forsaking her family now, with no guarantee that any future union awaited her.

She was afraid and she had to admit it.

Abruptly, her brother reached over from his mount beside her, and he squeezed her hand. “I dare not linger, Meg.”

She was jerked back to the reality of that moment. They were about to part company, perhaps for a very long time. The war would be between them now, with them on opposing sides as William had so feared last February. She dared not contemplate the possibility that they might never see one another again. “I cannot thank you enough for taking me to Kildrummy,” she whispered. And he was right—it was dangerous for him to linger with her on the hillside, in view of the great stronghold.

Will was stoic. “Buchan will be furious when he hears of it.”

But they had already discussed the ramifications of her defying both Buchan and Sir Guy—with William’s help. They had discussed the fact that she was betraying the Comyn family in such a manner, that she could never go back. But their actions paled in significance to the consequences she would surely suffer if she were to remain with the family.

Buchan had ordered her to return to Balvenie with Will. Margaret suspected that he had heard of her misbehavior from Sir Guy. But Will now supported her. He feared for her life, should Sir Guy ever learn of her affair with Alexander.

Together, they had made this terrible decision—she would attempt to join the queen and her women, in the hopes of marrying Alexander and attaining the future she deserved.

Meanwhile, William would claim that he meant to take her to Balvenie, and that she had stolen off in the night, just before their arrival there. Kildrummy was a short day’s ride south of her uncle’s seat. He would also deny the rumors, as if she were innocent, in case Alexander had changed his mind about marriage. Still, neither one believed that if he had changed his mind, she would ever be welcome home.

Her heart hurt her terribly now. Margaret did not want to release Will’s hand. “I love you so,” she whispered. “Please, stay out of harm’s way. Please, stay safe.”

“I will do my best, but you must promise me to obey your husband, for he will surely keep
you
safe.” Will’s tone was brisk, and she knew it was to mask his emotions. “And if he doesn’t marry you, I may kill him myself.”

“You will do no such thing—because I love him. I will try to send word,” Margaret said, choking up. “Oh, Will. I will miss you so much! I miss you even now!”

He leaned over his horse to hug her briefly. “You have made your choice, we all have. Now, our fate is up to God. God bless you, Meg. God keep you safe.” He released her hand and turned his mount abruptly, nodding at the dozen knights riding with them.

Margaret choked on a sob, incapable of movement as her brother and their escort galloped down the hill. She watched them until they had vanished beyond the curve of land.

And suddenly, she was entirely alone, as never before.

Tears blinded her. Had she just given up everyone and everything dear to her, with the exception of Alexander? When she did not even know if he would take her back and offer marriage again?

She had never felt so fragile, so powerless. Surely, if a wind blew up, she would be knocked over.

She heard a bird chirping above her. The sound was bright and merry. She glanced up, wiping her eyes with her fingertips, and saw, through the leafy green top of the nearby oak tree, a bright blue sky, and a pair of hawks wheeling above. For a moment, she watched the pair as they soared through the sky. Undeniably, it was a bright, beautiful May afternoon. The hawks flew so freely, and she watched them until they had disappeared from her sight.

Her tears dried up. She blinked and gathered up her reins and her courage. She could do this. She must do this.

She nudged her mare slowly forward. The gatehouse was as formidable as the rest of the stronghold. Two towers guarded the entrance, larger, higher round towers at the corners of the front walls. She trotted steadily closer, the watch now having spotted her, until she halted her mare a stone’s throw from the closed front gate. Margaret looked up at the two men who stood on the edge of one watchtower, staring down at her. Clearly, they were not alarmed by a single female rider.

“Who goes there?” one shouted.

“It is Lady Margaret Comyn, a friend of the Countess of Buchan and Fife.” Margaret watched the men conferring, and then she watched one disappear from her view, obviously to ask a superior if she should be let in. Perhaps ten minutes later dozens of archers appeared on the walls, while two riders galloped out to her.

The first rider became recognizable. Clad in a shirt of mail, he wore no helmet, and his hair gleamed almost black in the sun. “Lady Margaret!” Sir Neil cried, grinning.

She could barely believe it was Sir Neil—her Sir Neil! “Sir Neil!” She was thrilled. “But, you ride with Alexander! What are you doing here?”

His blue eyes twinkled as he rode up to her, taking one of her reins. “The Wolf left me behind, lady—to guard the Countess of Fife.”

Margaret’s heart lurched hard. Alexander knew she cared about Isabella—and he had left one of his men behind to look after her. She knew he had done so for her sake, not Isabella’s.

“I am so pleased to see you,” she said as they trotted over the lowered drawbridge and through the entryway of the gatehouse.

“And I am pleased to see you! But Sir Guy let you go?” Sir Neil was puzzled. “And why have you come to the queen?”

“Sir Guy did not let me go. He wished for me to remain at Castle Fyne. I have disobeyed him directly,” Margaret said. “I have come to attend Isabella, if I will be allowed to do so.”

Sir Neil stared in surprise at her.

But he did not know she had no intention now of ever marrying Sir Guy, and that she would not suffer the consequences of her defiance. But it was not the time to discuss such matters with him now. Instead, she plucked his mail sleeve. “How is Alexander?”

Sir Neil smiled with pride. “He has brought a great many keeps to their knees, my lady, often without lifting a sword. He has been far to the north, where Bruce has spent most of this past month.”

There had been rumors of Alexander’s actions since she had returned to Castle Fyne, including rumors of his taking a great many smaller keeps without even a battle, his mere appearance frightening the enemy into surrender, but she was pleased now to hear the news firsthand. Otherwise, she had not heard from him, but she had not expected to. She had wanted to write to him, but William had advised her against it. He had feared her missive might be intercepted, and that Sir Guy would be alerted to her plans.

“Now they march southward,” Sir Neil was adding. “Bruce will not give up on Strathearn.”

Margaret thought of the Earl of Strathearn, her uncle by marriage, whom she had never met, and her aunt, whom she had met but twice in her lifetime. Their lands were under siege and Strathearn had been captured. She should be concerned, and she imagined Buchan was furiously aiding them in their defenses, but she was not. “Is the earl still Bruce’s prisoner?”

“I believe so, but his men are holding out, and Bruce wishes for the castle to fall.” Sir Neil grinned. Then he sobered, as if realizing the family connection. “I am sorry, my lady. I keep forgetting—we are on opposite sides of the war.”

“Perhaps not,” she said. Then, “How is Isabella?” She had not received a response to her letter from her, and she wondered if the queen had prevented the correspondence, or even denied her receipt of her letter in the first place.

She became alarmed when Sir Neil took his time answering; they were now walking their mounts through the great cobbled stone courtyard. “I worry for her, my lady.”

“Has anything transpired that I should know of?”

He hesitated. “In April, the women were in Aberdeen. Bruce spent a week there with them.”

Margaret felt her heart lurch with dismay. Did they carry on still?

“There are rumors,” Sir Neil said. He now shrugged. “I am certain you will hear them. It is said that the queen caught them together.” He blushed, not looking directly at her.

Margaret hoped desperately that was not the case. “Has the queen dismissed her from her court?”

“Bruce has ordered her to remain with the queen and her women. The queen could not remove her from Kildrummy if she wished it.”

They had reached the great front doors of the hall, and had halted their horses. Sir Neil dismounted, and came over to help her do the same. She looked down at him. “What else bothers you, Sir Neil?”

He smiled ruefully. “Am I so obvious? Now everyone says she pines for Bruce. My lady, she writes him almost daily—and she asks me to send those letters to him!”

Margaret allowed him to help her off of her horse. “Have you done so?”

He flushed again. “I am to obey her, my lady. Of course I have sent the missives to the king. But I believe the queen knows she is writing to him—it is unwise.”

It was very unwise, Margaret thought grimly. Everything Isabella did was unwise. “I am so glad you have been here to help her through this time. And now, you are here to help me.”

“I want nothing more,” he said fervently. And then he got down on one knee, head bowed. “My lady, I have sworn my fealty to the mighty Wolf, but remain devoted to you, always.”

She almost cried. Then she had a thought. “Sir Neil, if you can get letters to Bruce, could you get a missive to Alexander?”

He looked up at her. “Of course.”

Margaret’s excitement abated. Now she must consider what she wished to say—and how she would say it.

* * *

M
ARGARET
FOLLOWED
S
IR
N
EIL
through the castle. A huge hall was ahead, its great wood doors fully open. The stone floors within were covered with beautiful rugs, and the high ceiling was raftered. Two large hearths blazed. Tapestries covered both walls.

As she approached she could see the queen within, surrounded by some twenty ladies-in-waiting. Elisabeth sat in their midst in a huge, thronelike chair. A parchment in her hand, she was resplendent in a dark red gown with puffed sleeves and gold trim. Garnets and rubies circled her throat and were dangling from her ears. Her reddish hair was pulled tightly back beneath a gold circlet, but she did not appear severe. She appeared elegant and regal—she appeared every bit a queen.

Her ladies sat and stood around her, one playing a flute, others sewing, a few in conversation with her. Most of the ladies in attendance were about the queen’s age, two were quite older. Some wore Highland garb—simple leines with plaid mantles—others, finer French gowns. Margaret instantly saw Marjorie Strathbogie, the Earl of Atholl’s wife.

She sat with the queen, as did Christina Seton and Mary Campbell, the king’s sisters.

They had reached the threshold of the great room, where guards barred their way. Margaret looked past Sir Neil, her gaze on Marjorie. The other woman had seen her as well, and quickly smiled at her.

Her heart thudded. Could Atholl be a spy for Aymer de Valence? Should she share her suspicions with Queen Elisabeth? What if she was wrong?

She had always liked Marjorie, who was a pleasant, good-natured and pretty woman. Marjorie had always welcomed her into her home, and had been eager to chat when visiting Bain or Balvenie. But then, Margaret had always liked her husband, and he had, possibly, betrayed his dear friend, her uncle Buchan.

Either he was a traitor to King Edward, or he was a traitor to King Robert. But he was a traitor all the same.

Margaret realized that the great room had become silent. Queen Elisabeth had seen her and was staring. So was everyone else.

And now, Margaret espied Isabella, standing far behind the other ladies, almost against the wall. She was beaming—the only woman in the room who was pleased to see her. Margaret almost expected her to wave.

“Your Majesty,” Sir Neil said, bowing low. “Lady Margaret Comyn seeks an audience.”

For a moment, the queen no longer appeared regal—she appeared bitter. And as they stared at one another, Margaret recalled her odd remark after Bruce’s coronation. She had accused her husband of playing a children’s game of pretend, of playing at being a king.

Margaret bent on one knee. “My lady...Your Majesty,” she said.

“Rise, Lady Margaret.”

Margaret stood. The queen gestured and everyone stepped away from her, except for Marjorie, Mary and Christina, who remained seated with her. She waved at Margaret. “Your presence here is a surprise.”

Margaret came forward. “I have fled Castle Fyne, Your Majesty, with my brother’s help. I was hoping to join you and your women here.”