Brenda Joyce (32 page)

Her blue eyes were cool. “Really? And why would I allow a Comyn in my court?”

Margaret hesitated. “I have fled Sir Guy, Your Majesty. I cannot marry him so I am seeking sanctuary here.”

“Really? You cannot marry him, or you will not do so?”

She felt her cheeks heat. “I cannot and I will not, Your Majesty.”

“So you give up your great castle, just like that?” The queen was disbelieving.

“I am hoping that Alexander, who has sought my hand, will take Castle Fyne back.”

Surprised and titillated murmurs sounded.

The queen’s eyes widened. Then she demanded, “Speak forthrightly, Lady Margaret. Have you chosen to defy your family? Have you chosen MacDonald over Buchan? Do you support my husband now?”

Margaret wet her dry lips. “Yes, Your Majesty,” she answered. “I have chosen Alexander and I now support Robert Bruce.”

Shock rippled through the room. Everyone began speaking at once.

“Quiet!” the queen exclaimed. “And I am to believe you?”

“She is a spy,” Christina Seton said sharply. “Sir Guy and the Earl of Buchan have sent her here to spy upon us. Perhaps she has been in Alexander’s bed for the sole purpose of spying!”

Margaret gasped. “I am not a spy!”

The queen stood up. She was actually a tiny woman, no taller or heavier than Margaret, but her stature was immense. “All of Scotland speaks so highly of you, Lady Margaret. You are a legend in your own right, the great lady of Castle Fyne, a tiny woman brave enough to defy a mighty Wolf, a lady who would die of loyalty for her family. Are those legends not the truth?”

“I have been loyal and devoted my entire life. It is my nature to be loyal,” she said.

“Then you must have been sent here to spy,” the queen said.

She was going to become a prisoner of the queen, Margaret thought wildly. “I have not been sent to spy, Your Majesty. I have had to make a terrible choice!”

“And you chose to betray Buchan?” Queen Elisabeth was incredulous and mocking.

Margaret trembled. “Could I have a privy word, Your Majesty?”

A moment passed before the queen nodded. Everyone left the room, except for Marjorie, Mary and Christina. “They will not betray us,” the queen said flatly.

Margaret did not wish to speak openly in front of Marjorie, in case her husband was a spy for her uncle and King Edward. “I meant to obey my uncle. I meant to go forth in marriage to Sir Guy. It is why I refused Alexander, not once, but two times.”

“Go on,” the queen said, her red brows raised.

She bit her lip. “I do not want to sound foolish. But I have been influenced by my parents—their marriage was arranged, but they respected one another, and they even loved one another greatly.”

The queen was amused. “Will you now tell me you seek love in marriage—with the handsome Wolf of Lochaber?”

She knew she blushed. “I seek a future with someone I trust and respect, Your Majesty. As it happens, I care greatly for him, as well.”

Marjorie said softly, “She does not have a deceptive nature.”

Margaret started, then faced Elisabeth. “Your Majesty, may I try to prove my sincerity to you?”

Her gaze narrowed. “Please do.”

“I sent a letter to Isabella. Did she receive it?”

“She did.”

“I was hoping she would share its contents with you. I was trying to warn you that you and your court are in danger.”

The queen sat back down and folded her hands in her lap. “I read the missive, Lady Margaret. Was that a warning?”

“Yes, it was.” She glanced at Christina, who stared coldly at her. “Aymer de Valence has been ordered by King Edward to capture you, Your Majesty. Sir Guy seeks the command.”

Christina leaned over to the queen and whispered in her ear. The queen said, “We know all of this, Lady Margaret. What else do you know?”

Margaret hesitated. “Aymer has spies amongst Bruce’s closest friends.” She did not look at Marjorie now.

Christina looked surprised, while the queen remained impassive. “How do you know this?” Bruce’s other sister, Mary Campbell, demanded.

“Sir Guy told me,” Margaret said.

Christina turned to Elisabeth. “We must warn Rob.”

Queen Elisabeth nodded. Then she said decisively, “There is one way you may prove your new loyalties once and for all. Will you get down on your knees and swear your fealty to me and King Robert?”

Margaret trembled. But she lifted her chin and said, “Your Majesty, I will swear my fealty to you and Robert Bruce.”

* * *

M
ARGARET
MADE
HER
way back to the hall, having left only to use a privy chamber, aware of one of the queen’s guards carefully following her. She was now in attendance on the queen, but she was not trusted yet. She would swear fealty to her new liege after the mass on Sunday. Margaret did not think that she would be trusted even then.

She turned a corner in the corridor and was seized by both shoulders. “I am so happy you are here!” Isabella cried.

After the harrowing interview, Margaret had taken a seat behind Marjorie and Christina, and she had remained quiet for the rest of the afternoon. What she had really wished to do was retire, in both exhaustion and relief, but she knew better than to ask for permission to leave the queen. She also knew better than to openly seek out Isabella, which would only garner more disapproval from her new liege.

Now, Isabella embraced her wildly. Margaret smiled, hugging her in return; she had missed her dear friend. “How are you?” she asked.

Isabella’s smile vanished, tears filling her eyes. “Margaret! I am in grave jeopardy!”

Margaret glanced around, but, except for the single guard, they were alone. “Can we speak freely?” she asked. “Were you given permission to leave the queen?”

“I do not need permission, as they know I am not a spy. I pray to God you are not here on some terrible mission.”

“I am not,” she said firmly, alarmed, because if Isabella was suspicious of her, then the queen and her ladies would be even more so. “I spoke the truth when I said that I had left Sir Guy, Isabella. I am defying him and Buchan.”

“I am glad. Come with me,” she said urgently.

Margaret did not think that a good idea. “Isabella,” she began, but Isabella pulled her toward the stairs. “I believe I need the queen’s permission to leave the hall!”

“She gave you her permission,” Isabella said with a scathing glance. Clearly, she despised Elisabeth. She hurried down the next corridor, pulling Margaret with her. She pushed open the door of a small bedchamber. “I sleep here, with three other ladies,” she said. “We must make certain that you and I share a chamber.”

Margaret thought that unlikely, considering that the queen did not like Isabella and did not trust Margaret. Then Isabella seized her in a crushing embrace.

Margaret took one look at her unhappy face and put her arm around her. Isabella cried, “I am so glad you are here now! It is terrible being here with the queen, she hates me!”

“Of course she despises you. You are sleeping with her husband. You must end your affair.”

“I cannot. I love him!”

“Isabella! You must think clearly! No good can come of loving Robert Bruce. You are making an enemy of your own queen—when you must remain with her, for safety’s sake. And you know that what you are doing is wrong,” Margaret said more gently.

She burst into tears. “He hasn’t answered my letters.”

Margaret was relieved. Had Bruce lost interest? How she hoped so!

Isabella now gave her a strange, teary look, walked to the farthest bed, and began to reach under the mattress. She straightened, holding a parchment. “But I am not safe, Margaret,” she said, her tone filled with tension.

Margaret was alarmed. Before she could ask if those letters were from Bruce, Isabella said, “He hates me, Margaret.” Her hand trembled as she extended the roll.

Margaret inhaled, filled with dread. “Is that from Buchan?”

She nodded, starkly white. “He has damned me to hell. He has called me a bitch and a whore.” Tears sparkled. “He has even threatened me, should we ever meet again.”

Margaret’s mind raced frantically. Of course Buchan was furious with her.

She was grim as she took the parchment and quickly read her uncle’s bitter words. He had disowned his wife. He would not accept a treacherous bitch and an adulterous whore as his spouse, and he wished that she would rot in hell for all eternity.

“Pray Isabella,” he then wrote, “that the day does not come where we come face-to-face. For if ever that day comes, you will be treated like the treacherous whore that you are. I will strip you of your clothes, parade you through the streets in shackles, and hang you from the closest gallows, where your body shall rot for all time.”

Margaret trembled. Would her uncle really punish Isabella in such a vicious manner?

“I am not safe,” Isabella whispered. “He means his every word.”

“He is angry. Understandably so. But we must hope his anger will pass. Why do you keep this?”

“I want Rob to see it.”

“Bruce is king, Isabella. He has no time for these intrigues.”

“I have given up everything for him.”

Margaret went to her and put her arm around her, when she heard a noise at the door. Both women turned instantly, Margaret hoping it was her guard. But Christina Seton stood there.

“Elisabeth wishes to know why the two of you have run off, perhaps to conspire against her?” Christina said coldly to Margaret. Then she turned her attention on Isabella, and her entire demeanor softened. “Isabella, you know better. You cannot simply vanish from the queen’s hall, even if you wish a privy moment with your friend.”

Margaret realized that Christina had some affection for Isabella, and that she was protecting her from the folly of her impulsive nature. She was relieved, and she thought she understood—Christina undoubtedly felt gratitude for Isabella’s help in crowning her brother.

“She would not allow me a moment with Margaret if I asked,” Isabella said petulantly, sounding much younger than she was. “She will not allow me anything, other than to stand alone in a corner.” She turned to Margaret. “She has made her women dislike me. She has made certain I am an outcast in her hall.”

“You are not an outcast.” Christina was firm. “I am your friend, as are a great many of the ladies, but we must respect the queen. If you will carry on with Rob, openly, then you must suffer the queen’s anger.” Then she looked up at Margaret. “If you are luring her into your intrigues, do not. She has enough on her plate.”

“I have no intrigues,” Margaret said. But she was pleased that Christina Seton was attempting to guide Isabella into some sensibility of action. “If you are taking care of her, I am thankful.”

Christina shrugged. “If you have truly turned your back on the Earl of Buchan and King Edward, then we will have nothing to divide us.”

“Then we have nothing to divide us,” Margaret said.

For one more moment Christina stared, and then she smiled at Isabella. “We must return to the hall. It is time for supper.”

Isabella turned and replaced the roll of vellum beneath her bed.

Margaret tensed as she did so, reminded of the disturbing contents of the letter. As she met Christina’s gaze, she knew that the other woman was also concerned about Isabella’s fate.

Margaret shivered, suddenly chilled. Hadn’t she always had a terrible and dreadful feeling about Isabella’s fate, should she aid Bruce as he seized the crown? Now, she forced aside the graphic image of Isabella, naked and being hanged from a noose.

* * *

A
RIDER
WAS
approaching, and the ladies attending Queen Elisabeth began to speak excitedly amongst themselves. Margaret felt her own heart leap in the same excitement. Their only ties to the outside world were the occasional passing merchant or wandering friar and gossip from the villagers outside Kildrummy. A lone rider, coming directly at a gallop, must be a messenger.

As usual, the ladies and the queen were in the great hall. It was midafternoon, and an uneventful week had passed since Margaret had arrived. The days were long, with little of substance to do—at Castle Fyne and even at Balvenie, she had had a household to look after. The women read, sewed, sang, danced and several played musical instruments. Mostly, there was a great deal of conversation, filled with speculation, fear and trepidation, as they longed for news of the war.

Queen Elisabeth, seated once more upon her thronelike chair, was now whispering privately with Bruce’s two sisters, her expression severe. Margaret had observed her for an entire week, and Elisabeth de Burgh was an aloof and mostly unhappy woman. She kept Marjorie, Mary and Christina with her constantly; they were her confidantes and favorites.

Margaret sat on a bench near the wall with Isabella, a habit she had taken to. The other women avoided Bruce’s mistress in public, fearing Elisabeth’s disapproval and dismissal. The queen mostly ignored her, but when she did give her attention, it was in a disdainful and angry manner. Other than Christina and herself, Isabella had no friends. Margaret felt sorry for her, but Isabella had brought this circumstance down upon herself.

And Margaret found herself in a similar situation as her friend. She had made her vows to the queen after the last mass, yet the other ladies did not quite trust her. Still, she had chosen to go to Queen Elisabeth, and she refused to allow herself to become an outcast like Isabella. She had deliberately taken the time to become acquainted with the other ladies, attempting to be helpful when she could, determined to always be pleasing.

And then there was Marjorie. They had not had a single privy conversation, which was odd, although they spoke in passing. Margaret wondered if Marjorie was avoiding her or attempting to please the queen.

Booted footsteps sounded outside the hall, urgently approaching. Margaret smiled at Isabella, who was pale. “Maybe it is news from Bruce,” the countess whispered.

Margaret hoped it was war news. She hoped it was a message from the king himself. And she also hoped there was a letter from Alexander.