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.
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.”
