“At least you are obedient today.” His stare hardened. “I hope you are sincere. It is claimed that you are an honorable woman. If so, you will do your duty, cease your disputes, and gladly.”
“I am a woman of honor.”
He seemed skeptical, still. “Time will tell. In the meantime, you will remain here, behind these stout walls, where you will be safe. You remain a valuable prize to MacDonald, to Bruce—and to me.” With that, he turned and strode across the hall and left.
Margaret heard him calling to several men. Slowly, she walked over to the table, and there she sank down.
In a few more hours he would be gone. She could not wait.
* * *
THE ENTIRE CASTLE was asleep. Alone, Margaret sat at the table in the great hall, one taper burning. She dipped her quill in the ink and wrote upon the vellum spread out before her.
April 15, 1306
My dearest friend Isabella,
I am safely arrived at Castle Fyne, attending to my brother. William was wounded when Sir Guy attacked the stronghold, but he is out of danger now. Sir Guy has ordered me to remain here, while he marches to Berwick to join his brother, Aymer. He has left a strong garrison behind, leaving us secure and defensible. Soon William will be well enough to return to Balvenie. I am to await Sir Guy’s return.
Margaret thought she heard a footfall and she froze, listening. Sir Guy would never allow her to write to Isabella. But Marsaili would smuggle the letter from the keep to the village below the castle, on Loch Fyne’s shores. There, one of the villagers would be well paid to forward the letter to another courier, in another village, and eventually, the letter would arrive in Aberdeen.
Without a single messenger, it was a painstaking way to get her message to Isabella, and there was always the possibility that Isabella and the queen and her court would be gone by the time the missive arrived. Still, there was no simple way to send the letter, not when she was writing to her friend who was behind enemy lines.
And there was always the chance that her missive would be intercepted. Margaret knew she must be careful about what she said and how she said it. She wished to warn the queen that Aymer had been instructed to send his men to capture them, and she also wished to inquire after Alexander. She continued.
I am praying you are well and safe, in a time of war and intrigue, when spies are everywhere, when even women can be pursued as outlaws. Have you become friendly with any of the women you are with? Could you give my regards to Elisabeth?
She did not dare refer to her as the queen, and she doubted Isabella would understand the message she was trying to convey. She could only hope that her friend allowed the queen to read the letter.
I am isolated now and I should like any news that you could possibly send. We have no war news now, no news of friends or family, making these times even more difficult. I can only pray for us all.
Your dear friend,
Margaret Comyn
“To whom are you writing?”
Margaret leapt up, knocking over the ink, but fortunately, she did not damage the letter. She stared in shock at William.
Ten days had passed since Sir Guy had left Castle Fyne. William had been improving on a daily basis, but this was the first time he had walked any distance, much less on his own. “How did you get downstairs?” she cried.
He smiled. “As one usually does.” He was leaning on a cane. “I am much better, Meg.” His eyes were bright. “In a few more days, I will be well enough to go home. Well?”
She had no intention of lying to her brother. “I am writing to Isabella.”
His smile vanished. “She is a damned harlot—the damned enemy!”
By now, William knew that she and Isabella had left Balvenie in the middle of the night and that they had been at Bruce’s coronation—and that Isabella had participated in the ceremony. He had heard the gossip about her affair with Bruce, too.
He was a Comyn first, and in an instant, his affection for her had turned to animosity. “How can you write to her?” he asked, rather coldly.
“She remains my friend,” Margaret said.
His stare hardened and he limped over to the table.
“Will you now read my privy correspondences?” she asked.
He jerked to look at her. “I suppose not. I am your older brother, Meg, and I could forbid you from writing to her. We both know that neither Buchan nor Sir Guy would allow it.”
