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.
* * *
MARGARET FOLLOWED SIR NEIL 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.
