THE 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!”
