“Have you secluded yourself? It is time to dine,” Marjorie said from the threshold of their chamber. As always, her voice was gentle and kind.
They were on friendly terms, in spite of Margaret’s concern. But a tension was between them, one that had not existed before the war. Margaret slowly removed the tray with the vellum from her lap and laid it on the bed. “I have no appetite, Marjorie.”
“You should eat, Margaret, while we still have food to put upon the table.”
Margaret studied her. “You received a letter from Atholl the other day.”
“Yes, I did, and I thank God he is well,” Marjorie said with sudden fervor. “I miss him terribly.” She now came inside and sat down on the other bed, facing Margaret.
Margaret looked at her knees, which she now drew to her chest. She did not question Marjorie’s love for her husband, but Marjorie had written him, and he had replied, never mind the war.
“You miss Alexander,” Marjorie said softly. It was not a question.
Margaret flushed, deciding to be honest—even if Marjorie was married to a spy. “Yes, I do.”
“He still hasn’t written you?”
Margaret bit her lip and shrugged, the gesture indicating that he had not.
“I asked about him,” Marjorie said, stunning her. She smiled a little. “He is well, Margaret.”
“Why would you ask about Alexander?”
“Because we are friends...because I am determined to guard our friendship.”
Margaret stared. Images flashed, of that long-ago night at the peel of Strathbogie, when she had been interviewed by Buchan’s allies, when her uncle and Atholl and the entire company had sworn vengeance against Robert Bruce. “I hope we are friends,” she said carefully.
“What do you really wish to say?” Marjorie asked as carefully.
“Your husband was allied with my uncle, Marjorie. They were friends for years. Yet now, he rides with Bruce. Now, he fights my uncle.”
“Does that make you angry?”
“It makes me wonder,” Margaret said. Her pulse raced. “Did you approve, when your husband chose to go over to Bruce?”
Marjorie did not speak for a moment, her gaze unwavering. “I know you think he is treacherous—and not to be trusted.” She did not speak with rancor, and she stood up. “He is not a spy, Margaret.”
Margaret slid to her feet, too, filled with tension. “I never made any such accusation.”
“But you have been thinking it. Even though you changed your loyalties, and there are some who think you are a spy. It is the reason our friendship has been so strained.”
“So we will speak openly now?”
“I think it is best.”
“I haven’t known what to think.... He was a loyal ally and a friend of Buchan’s for a great many years.”
Marjorie said slowly, “We hate the English. We always have. It was unnatural, becoming allied with King Edward.”
Marjorie did hate the English, of that, Margaret had no doubt. And, until the past year, when King Edward had forced a truce upon the land, Atholl had been fighting the English—as had her uncle, Buchan. They had all despised the English and King Edward, until so recently.
“It wasn’t easy,” Marjorie said tersely, “having supper with your uncle and Ingram and the others that night. We had already gone over to Bruce.”
Margaret wanted to believe her. “I hated betraying my uncle, too. And now, I am here at the queen of Scotland’s court, while my brother and my uncle ride with King Edward, making war upon us.”
Marjorie came to her and hesitantly took her hand. “And you thought you would become Alexander’s wife.”
The aching inside her chest intensified. “He will not marry me now. My dowry is gone. I thought he would still have some affection, that he would protect me in these dangerous times, but I must be sensible now. If he wished to do so, he would have sent some message by now.”
