Bruce sat back, glancing at Alexander. “Better the north than the south,” he said.
Margaret became alarmed. What did that remark mean?
“We will break the fast before dawn, Lady Margaret, but the fare should be light, as we will travel hard and fast on the morrow,” Bruce said.
It was a dismissal—and an abrupt one. Yet Margaret was relieved.
Alexander said, “Prepare my chamber for Bruce.”
Bruce would sleep in the chamber adjacent her own? She told herself she need not worry, but the reassurance felt like a hollow one. She nodded, trying to meet Alexander’s eye, but he refused to look up.
Both men were silent now. Clearly, they wanted her gone, so they could discuss the war—and the coronation.
Margaret curtsied and left. As she hurried away, a sinking feeling consumed her. Bruce had asked about Isabella, and she was afraid he meant to use her somehow, against Buchan, in his damned theft of the throne.
* * *
THE FIRES WERE out, the kitchen cleaned. The castle had fallen silent, most of its inhabitants asleep. It was several hours after dinner, and Margaret was exhausted.
Her mind would not stop racing with all the information she had gleaned. Yet she could not form any definite conclusions. She wondered if Alexander would allow her to write Isabella. She doubted it.
And tomorrow he would berate her for her disobedience, she was certain. He might even punish her.
But if there was any chance that her friend was in danger of becoming Bruce’s pawn, she must warn her. Tomorrow she would visit William as she always did. If he had a plan to escape, it was time to learn of it.
Margaret went up the stairs toward her bedchamber. She was utterly fatigued, and she did not want to think anymore. She did not want to worry about Isabella, or Bruce, and she did not want to plot an escape. All of that could be done on the morrow.
But when she reached the upper landing, she tensed. She did not know when Bruce had gone up to his bed in Alexander’s chamber, and she had no reason to think that he might disturb her now, but she was anxious. All of Scotland knew that he was unfaithful to his wife a great deal of the time.
His door was closed; hers was open. She could see into her room—Eilidh had stoked the fire there and it blazed. Her fur coverlet had been pulled invitingly down on the bed. Exhaustion claimed her.
But before she could enter her chamber, Bruce’s door opened. Margaret froze as he stepped into the corridor.
He smiled.
She trembled.
“I can never sleep, not on the eve of war.”
“I am sorry,” she managed to say. He was clad only in his braies—the knee-length linen drawers favored by the English nobility. He was a very muscular man, with a hard, scarred body. She did not want to look at his rib cage or chest.
And from within her chamber, Eilidh turned and gaped at them.
“Why are you afraid of me? Is it because of Alexander? Or is it because I will be your king?” Bruce asked calmly.
Margaret was stricken. How should she respond? “All of Scotland speaks of you, my lord, and often. You are a legend, and rightly so.”
He grinned, leaning against the wall. “Do go on, Lady Margaret.”
“It is well-known that you adore the ladies, my lord, and that they adore you.”
He laughed. “And what is wrong with that?”
She would not point out that he had a wife! “I am intended to another.”
His smile faded. “Yes, you are—a poor deer, wide of eye, innocent and trusting, being led to the slaughter.”
Margaret was disbelieving. “I am proud to do my duty.”
