Margaret went still, but her heart thundered. If a coronation had been set for March 25th, she must relay such information to her uncle, immediately. “When you go back, you must listen very closely—if a date has been set, we must learn of it.”
Eilidh nodded, seeming tearful. “Will they really crown him, Lady Margaret?”
“I don’t know. Eilidh—why did they argue?”
“The Wolf asked about the Stone of Scone. Bruce became angry. I do not know why.”
“King Edward stole the Stone of Scone years ago—and it is a part of the ceremony.” Margaret wondered if a coronation could even be valid, without the ceremonial relic.
Peg came rushing into the room, directly to them. She spoke in a rapid whisper, her eyes as wide as Eilidh’s. “Margaret, they’re discussing a coronation! They have summoned Scotland’s great earls and bishops!”
So it was about to happen—Bruce would seize the crown.
“Margaret! We will soon have a king!”
Margaret looked at Peg, realizing that she was filled with excitement. She decided not to bother to remind her that Bruce was the sworn enemy of her family.
But Peg stepped even closer, and lowered her voice so it was almost inaudible. “They are speaking about Isabella,” she said.
Margaret became rigid. “Not Isabella—my cousin by marriage?” Isabella was Buchan’s young, pretty wife—and a dear friend.
Peg nodded, her stare intense.
“Why would they discuss Isabella?” Margaret cried.
“There is a tradition for a king to be crowned. The Earl of Fife must lead the new king of Scotland to his throne, and there, he sets the crown upon his head. But they have no Earl of Fife.”
Isabella’s young brother, Ed, was the Earl of Fife—but he had been taken into King Edward’s custody some time ago. He was, in fact, a royal hostage. Isabella was the Countess of Fife, as well as the Countess of Buchan, now that she had married Margaret’s uncle.
Margaret had not realized that this was a part of the coronation ceremony. But then, she had never attended the coronation of a Scot king. “If Bruce wishes to follow tradition, what will he do? He will never be able to summon young Ed to the coronation.”
“Bruce thinks they could summon Isabella to do the honor, in the Earl of Fife’s stead.”
Margaret gasped. “He must be a madman. Isabella is the Countess of Buchan now. She is against Bruce, not for him. Yet he would force her to commit treason?”
“I dinna ken, Margaret, and I am as surprised as ye.”
Anger rippled through her. Isabella was her friend. They had met two years ago, when she was a bride. Isabella was only two years older than Margaret, which gave them some common ground, but more important, she had been somewhat forlorn at having left Fife. She had also been intimidated by her powerful, older husband—Margaret’s new guardian. As Margaret had been rather intimidated by the earl as well, they had quickly become friends.
Surely, they would quickly realize that Isabella would never participate in the coronation. Or did they already know that, and not care? Would they abduct her and force her to help crown Bruce?
Margaret had to know what Bruce planned, and if his plan included her friend. She also had to warn Isabella, if she was in such danger.
“I am finished hiding here in the kitchens,” she said, with sudden determination. She would not hide from Bruce any longer. She began plucking apart her braid. She shook her hair out and took off the apron she wore, then adjusted her gold girdle, and smoothed down her skirts. If they wished to plot and plan the theft of the crown, so be it—she intended to be present while they did so.
“My lady, the Wolf ordered ye to stay away from the hall,” Eilidh protested.
“He did. But I cannot spy—Alexander would recognize me. Therefore, I am joining them. After all, I am the lady of this castle, and it is my right to welcome my guest.”
Margaret left the kitchens, her pulse pounding. As she approached the great hall, she heard the conversation from within, which was loud and raucous and very male. She could now glimpse the many Highland men inside. She saw a great many English knights as well, and she was somewhat surprised—but Bruce was the Earl of Carrick, so he would have vassals from England, as well. Everyone seemed to be in good spirits, she saw, and her maids were mostly serving wine now, as the dinner was over. Glancing across the crowded hall, she saw Bruce and Alexander.
For one moment she hesitated on the hall’s threshold, not to gain composure, but to assess the man who was bold enough to dare to seize Scotland’s throne and fight off the might of England. He sat beside Alexander, his back to the wall, and his profile to her.
He was as tall as Alexander, meaning that he stood inches above most other men, as broad-shouldered, his arms those of a warrior accustomed to wielding swords and axes. Even from across the hall, she saw that his features were strong but pleasing. His hair was shoulder-length and reddish-brown. He was dressed in the manner more common to the borders and Englishmen, in a long-sleeved blue cote and a sleeveless brown tunic, his red mantle pinned at one shoulder. And then he turned aside from Alexander, as if aware of her presence, and instantly their gazes met.
Margaret trembled. He was exactly as she had thought he would be—a mighty warrior, a powerful baron, the Earl of Carrick and, just possibly, Scotland’s next king.
She started forward with as much dignity as she could muster. But there was trepidation. Alexander had seen her. She was careful not to look at him, but she felt his displeasure—and it was vast.
