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.
* * *
THE 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.
