Brenda Joyce (33 page)

She had written him the day she had arrived at court. It had been a difficult letter to write, as she did not know what his feelings for her were. She had told him that she had left Sir Guy and of her flight from Castle Fyne; she hoped he was well and safe. She had wanted to write so much more! But she had had to be careful and circumspect. Sir Neil had taken the letter and dispatched it the very next day.

She trembled as a disheveled and muddy Highlander strode into the room with Sir Neil and Bruce’s young brother, Sir Nigel. Instantly, all the ladies fell silent. The Highlander paused before Queen Elisabeth, dropping respectfully onto one knee.

Sir Nigel Bruce was as tall as his brother, his dark blond hair almost brown, with a slight copper cast. He had been given the responsibility of keeping the queen and her women safe since Bruce had taken the crown. He said, “Rob has sent us missives.” He handed the queen a parchment as the rider stood, still holding another rolled-up vellum.

Margaret’s heart lurched hard. Was that vellum for her?

The queen nodded at him, then untied her parchment and unrolled it. Everyone stared at her as she read the missive. She finally looked up at her audience. “King Robert is well. The war goes well.”

Relieved murmurs sounded.

“We are to remain here, where no army can assail us,” she continued. Her voice was strong and deep.

And when she did not say anything else, Christina said, “That is all?”

The queen smiled tightly at her.

There was more, Margaret thought, now turning to stare at Sir Nigel. As she did, the queen also looked at him. “What news do you have?”

“Details, Elisabeth, details of this war.” Clearly he was not about to discuss his missive with her, or at least not openly.

The queen stood up. “I need a privy word,” she announced, “with Lady Comyn and Lady Isabella.”

Margaret stiffened, her dismay at not having received a communication from Alexander instantly turning to trepidation. Why did the queen wish to speak with them?

Immediately, Sir Nigel stepped back, allowing the twenty or so women to file past him. Margaret turned her gaze upon Sir Neil. He gave her a reassuring smile, but it was false and her tension increased.

The queen gestured at her and Isabella.

Margaret walked over, holding Isabella’s hand. “Your Majesty, I am becoming frightened.”

“You should be.” She was tart, the hall now empty except for the queen, her confidantes, the two knights and Margaret and Isabella. “The Earl of Buchan demands his wife’s return. He also demands your return, Lady Margaret.”

Her heart slammed. If she was sent back to Buchan, she would be punished, and after that, she did not know what her fate would be. “Was there no word from Alexander?” she whispered.

Sir Nigel turned to her. He was almost as commanding as his older brother, and even more masculine in good looks. But his regard was reserved. “Sir Neil does nothing without my approval, my lady. The missive you sent is, perhaps, reaching the Wolf now. It is far too soon to expect a reply.”

Disappointment flooded her.

“However, he has surely heard that you have fled Castle Fyne and that you have cast your commitments to Sir Guy aside.”

Of course he had, she thought. If her uncle was demanding her release, then Alexander knew she was with the queen. She dared to look at Elisabeth now. If the queen sent her to her uncle, she was doomed. “May I speak, Your Majesty?”

Elisabeth stared, her gaze narrowed. “Please do.”

“I am begging you to consider how I risked everything to come to your court, and that I have sworn fealty to you and King Robert. I cannot return to Buchan. Nor can Isabella.”

The queen sent a scathing glance toward Isabella, one which was dismissive. She then looked seriously at Margaret. “I cannot send Isabella away. She has my husband’s protection for as long as she shall live.”

Margaret glanced at Isabella, who was as pale as a ghost. On this point, she was relieved.

“Please don’t send Margaret back to him,” Isabella whispered in fear.

“I did not give you permission to speak,” the queen said with controlled anger. She turned to Margaret again. “I shall have to take some time to decide what to do with you.”

Margaret felt fear stab through her. She did not speak now.

“But thus far, you have behaved in a manner that is both pleasing and pleasant. My ladies all seem to like you, even though you are a Comyn. You seem kind and sincere. But I do not trust you yet.”

Margaret glanced with worry at Sir Neil. He was grim.

Elisabeth faced the knights. “Nigel? Did Robert decide what we should do with Lady Comyn?”

“Bruce has ordered that Lady Comyn stay here, Elisabeth, with you and your women, until he does decide.”

There was a respite, Margaret thought, shaking in sudden relief. But for how long?

Bruce had wanted her to marry Alexander. Had he changed his mind?

She no longer had Castle Fyne, she was no longer a prized bride. He would want one of his best commanders to marry another heiress, one who brought him other strategic strongholds.

Nigel had stepped closer to the queen, who was waving Margaret and Isabella away. They hurried across the hall, Sir Neil falling into step with them. At the closed doors they paused, Margaret facing Sir Neil. Instantly, he took both of her hands. “I will not let you go back,” he said.

Margaret looked past him, where a whispered conversation was taking place, but she had been forgotten, and she knew they were not discussing her. “You may not have a choice,” she said, strained. “Remember, you serve Alexander now, Sir Neil.”

“I will always protect you.”

Their gazes met. “I must hear from Alexander,” she said. And as she spoke, she knew she was a fool. He would not want to marry her now. Politics—and war—demanded a different course. But she thought—and hoped—she could still ask him for his protection.

If he cared, he would not allow her to be handed over to her uncle.

* * *

T
HE
DAYS
PASSED
with agonizing slowness, turning into weeks. As summer settled over the land, Margaret waited for a response to the letter she had written to Alexander, but none came. She began to lose faith in her dream of marriage to him.

But there was war news—a great deal of it. Bruce continued to besiege Strathearn, who had escaped, at Kenmore, with a huge force, the Earl of Lennox and Atholl at his side, as were his most trusted men—Sir Christopher Seton, his sister Mary’s husband, Neil Campbell and Alexander. Margaret wondered if the battle for Kenmore was so great that Alexander had never even received her missive. She was afraid to hope.

It became difficult to maintain a pleasant humor. Isabella wished to know what was wrong. Marjorie began to send her questioning looks. So did Christina.

It was the first day of June when the queen even summoned her to demand, “What has happened to cause such unhappiness, Lady Margaret? When you first came here, you smiled all of the time. You made my ladies smile. Now you appear to be mourning.”

Margaret had managed to answer, somehow. She was worried about her uncle, her brother, and she was worried about Alexander.

The news continued. King Edward had forfeited most of the rebels’ lands. And Bruce was infuriated. Kenmore fell. He turned his armies upon a series of smaller strongholds in Aberdeenshire.

But Atholl’s lands had remained intact. Margaret’s suspicions about the earl’s loyalties remained. Why hadn’t he been deprived of his lands? Did King Edward hope to win Atholl back to his side, if he was, indeed, truly a rebel now?

The great armies of King Edward remained on the march, attacking the rebels where they could. Bishop Wishart surrendered after a fierce battle at Cupar at Castle Fife, with Aymer de Valence and his great army drawing inexorably closer to Perth.

The court had become nervous. From Perth, Aymer could send an army north to Kildrummy, and attempt to besiege them. No matter how impregnable Kildrummy was, Bruce was too busy to come to their aid. And even more ominous, their supplies were low at Kildrummy. Their cellars were less than half full. A siege could now succeed—they would simply be starved to death.

The women waited to be reassured that Aymer de Valence had been turned back. But no such word came.

One early evening, Margaret sat in her bed in her chamber, which she shared with Christina and Marjorie, not with Isabella. A small writing tray was on her lap, a quill in her hand, the inkwell on the floor. She knew she must not beg, she knew she must have dignity and pride. Yet she was compelled to write to Alexander another time. At the very least, she could ask after his welfare.

But now, she felt as if she were pursuing him—it was not a good feeling at all.

“Have you secluded yourself? It is time to dine,” Marjorie said from the threshold of their chamber. As always, her voice was gentle and kind.

They were on friendly terms, in spite of Margaret’s concern. But a tension was between them, one that had not existed before the war. Margaret slowly removed the tray with the vellum from her lap and laid it on the bed. “I have no appetite, Marjorie.”

“You should eat, Margaret, while we still have food to put upon the table.”

Margaret studied her. “You received a letter from Atholl the other day.”

“Yes, I did, and I thank God he is well,” Marjorie said with sudden fervor. “I miss him terribly.” She now came inside and sat down on the other bed, facing Margaret.

Margaret looked at her knees, which she now drew to her chest. She did not question Marjorie’s love for her husband, but Marjorie had written him, and he had replied, never mind the war.

“You miss Alexander,” Marjorie said softly. It was not a question.

Margaret flushed, deciding to be honest—even if Marjorie was married to a spy. “Yes, I do.”

“He still hasn’t written you?”

Margaret bit her lip and shrugged, the gesture indicating that he had not.

“I asked about him,” Marjorie said, stunning her. She smiled a little. “He is well, Margaret.”

“Why would you ask about Alexander?”

“Because we are friends...because I am determined to guard our friendship.”

Margaret stared. Images flashed, of that long-ago night at the peel of Strathbogie, when she had been interviewed by Buchan’s allies, when her uncle and Atholl and the entire company had sworn vengeance against Robert Bruce. “I hope we are friends,” she said carefully.

“What do you really wish to say?” Marjorie asked as carefully.

“Your husband was allied with my uncle, Marjorie. They were friends for years. Yet now, he rides with Bruce. Now, he fights my uncle.”

“Does that make you angry?”

“It makes me wonder,” Margaret said. Her pulse raced. “Did you approve, when your husband chose to go over to Bruce?”

Marjorie did not speak for a moment, her gaze unwavering. “I know you think he is treacherous—and not to be trusted.” She did not speak with rancor, and she stood up. “He is not a spy, Margaret.”

Margaret slid to her feet, too, filled with tension. “I never made any such accusation.”

“But you have been thinking it. Even though you changed your loyalties, and there are some who think you are a spy. It is the reason our friendship has been so strained.”

“So we will speak openly now?”

“I think it is best.”

“I haven’t known what to think.... He was a loyal ally and a friend of Buchan’s for a great many years.”

Marjorie said slowly, “We hate the English. We always have. It was unnatural, becoming allied with King Edward.”

Marjorie did hate the English, of that, Margaret had no doubt. And, until the past year, when King Edward had forced a truce upon the land, Atholl had been fighting the English—as had her uncle, Buchan. They had all despised the English and King Edward, until so recently.

“It wasn’t easy,” Marjorie said tersely, “having supper with your uncle and Ingram and the others that night. We had already gone over to Bruce.”

Margaret wanted to believe her. “I hated betraying my uncle, too. And now, I am here at the queen of Scotland’s court, while my brother and my uncle ride with King Edward, making war upon us.”

Marjorie came to her and hesitantly took her hand. “And you thought you would become Alexander’s wife.”

The aching inside her chest intensified. “He will not marry me now. My dowry is gone. I thought he would still have some affection, that he would protect me in these dangerous times, but I must be sensible now. If he wished to do so, he would have sent some message by now.”

“I am sorry. I thought you would marry him, too. But maybe you should not give up all hope. This war will end one day. The Wolf could attack Castle Fyne then, or Bruce might let him do so sooner.”

Margaret did not want to be enslaved by hope. If Alexander cared for her, he would have signaled it. “I have given up my family in a time of war. I have changed my politics.”

“Do you wish you had not done so?”

“I worry I have done it for nothing.”

“Alexander is a fool if he has decided to let you go! I am very sorry, Margaret, that you are so alone, but we will keep you safe, John and I.” Her stare was determined.

Margaret trembled, disbelieving. “You would do such a thing? When I have had such grave doubts about you?”

“We have known each other for most of our lives, and John has known you since you were a small child. Yes, we would do such a thing.”

Margaret hesitated, for her suspicions about John had been allayed—but they had not been vanquished. But still, the two women hugged.

Marjorie pulled away first. “It was good, to speak openly,” she said. “And at least we have restored our friendship.”

Margaret smiled. As long as Atholl was not a spy, they had restored their friendship. But there was still a chance Marjorie could not be trusted. “I am glad we spoke as we did.”

Marjorie took her hand and they went down to dine.

* * *

T
HE
DEVASTATING
NEWS
came within days: Aymer de Valence had occupied the great city of Perth.