Isabella stared. “Then my marriage will be doomed.”
* * *
THEY CAREFULLY AVOIDED the subject of Bruce for the rest of the evening, as well as the subject of Isabella’s marriage, but the next morning, while Margaret was taking a much-needed hand bath, Isabella paused on the threshold of her chamber. Her smile was tentative. “Margaret? May we speak?”
Margaret was clad only in a chemise, warm and wet cloth in hand. She smiled, handing the cloth to Peg. They had not spoken very much last night after that first disturbing conversation. Margaret had retired early, immediately after supper. She had been exhausted. “Of course. Good morning.”
Isabella glanced at Peg. “Could you bring us warm, spiced wine? I will help Margaret dress.”
So she wished for a privy word, Margaret thought with some dread. Peg left, and Isabella waited a moment, until her footfalls could no longer be heard. “Are you angry with me?” she blurted.
Margaret toweled off her damp arms and legs. “Why would I be angry?”
“You are the most noble woman I know. I fear I have disappointed you.”
Margaret set her towel down and pulled on a pale cote. “I love you, Isabella, no matter what you say or do. And you did not disappoint me yesterday—you surprised me.”
“Please don’t tell my husband about our conversation—and that I wish for Bruce to become our king!” she cried.
Margaret saw fear on Isabella’s face—and she was glad. At least Isabella sensed the ramifications of her taking such an opposing viewpoint to that of her husband. “I would never betray you that way,” Margaret said, meaning it. “But I am praying that you change your mind and support your husband in his causes—and in his war against Bruce. It is your duty, Isabella, as his wife.”
“I have never been as honorable as you,” Isabella said softly.
Margaret felt guilty—she was not as honorable as Isabella thought. “And surely you now realize that you could never help Bruce take the crown. Such an act is treachery against your husband.”
Isabella smiled grimly, but it was almost a pursing of her lips.
And then, from outside, they heard cries from the watchtower.
Margaret tensed, her reaction an instinctive one, but no one would ever attack Balvenie! The fortress was too mighty a stronghold. Besides, the wars with England rarely brought battles this far north.
Still, someone was approaching. She ran with Isabella to the chamber’s only window.
The shutter was open. It was a bright, sunny springlike day. Most of the snow outside the castle walls had melted. And an armed group of riders was approaching.
The red, black and gold flag of Buchan waved proudly above them.
“John has come home,” Isabella breathed, her tone terse. Margaret saw that she did not smile, and she was pale with tension.
Her gaze narrowed. Her father had died a year and a half ago—she had moved to Balvenie shortly after his death. Isabella had become Buchan’s wife perhaps six months earlier. As Buchan was in residence often, she had seen Isabella and her husband together dozens of times. Their marriage had seemed quite usual.
But now, she paused.
She recalled watching Isabella at the opposite end of the great table, politely listening to her husband’s every word. She recalled the way they would leave the company after supper, hardly exchanging a word, although Buchan always had his hand on his wife’s waist. And she thought of how Isabella would greet him when he returned from attending affairs of state, or a hunting party. Buchan was usually boisterous, Isabella demure. Yet when he was away, the hall rang with her laughter.
She had never thought about the nature of their marriage before, and she did not know why she wondered about it now. Isabella had a lively nature, but she was usually quiet around her charismatic, handsome older husband.
“We should go down to greet them,” Isabella said, a small flush upon her cheeks.
Margaret agreed.
* * *
THEY STOOD OUTSIDE the open front door, upon the top step of the stairs, awaiting the earl and his men. Although the day appeared benign, it was only early March, not even the fifteenth, and the breeze was brisk. Both women shivered, neither having bothered to don plaids or mantles.
The Earl of Buchan trotted into the courtyard with two dozen Highland knights. He was a tall man with dark hair—he was sometimes called Black John—and he rode at the group’s forefront, his mount a black charger. He appeared a powerful figure of a man, and he was powerful—before his cousin’s death, he had controlled half of northern Scotland. Now, he commanded the entire Comyn family, and no other family controlled as much of the north.
The horses were muddy, as were most of the riders. The group paused, Buchan halting his charger before the steps where they stood. His expression brightened as he saw them, and then he was quickly dismounting, his smile wide.
