She thought of how ruthless Alexander had been upon taking Castle Fyne. He had been prepared to hang all of her men. And it had taken him but a moment to hang Malcolm.
In war, men like Bruce and Alexander knew no mercy. She had not a doubt.
But she was a Comyn, too.
“Bruce must be stopped before his army grows too large to be defeated easily,” Mowbray was saying. “The people love him. They are cheering him now as he marches through their villages. There is talk growing of how he should be Scotland’s king! That it is his right! If he is not stopped by summer, I fear this war will be endless.”
A brief silence fell. Margaret now realized that all of the women were listening intently to them, each female face pale.
“He will be stopped well before summer,” Buchan finally said. “Bruce cannot defeat the might of England.”
“I wish to speak with Lady Margaret,” Umfraville said, looking boldly at her. “I have thanked God, Lady Margaret, that He kept you safe during the Wolf’s siege, and that He aided you in your escape.”
Margaret flushed. “Thank you.”
“How many men did MacDonald have when he left Castle Fyne, lady?” Umfraville demanded. “I wish to know his numbers in fact!”
Margaret could not breathe properly now. Of course she had to tell the truth! “He went to war against Sir Guy at Loch Riddon with six hundred men, I think. But he had asked his brother for five hundred more. I do not know if they were raised.”
The men now nodded, absorbing this.
“If MacDonald only has a thousand men, his army is the lesser one—we should isolate and destroy his men first,” Atholl said.
Margaret stared at him, hoping no one would notice her anxiety. She wished to warn Alexander.
“Tell us about Bruce’s stay at Castle Fyne,” Umfraville said.
Her heart leapt. “I have told my uncle everything I know,” she said, aware that she was most certainly lying. She had not divulged the possible date for the coronation—and she had not divulged their plan to use Isabella in the ceremony.
“Tell us what you remember, Margaret,” Atholl said, smiling pleasantly at her.
Her heart pounded now, not knowing Atholl’s allegiances. “I had my maids spy upon them as they supped. They worried about the coronation—about the missing Stone—and about the fact that the Earl of Fife is the king’s ward.”
“They will have to crown him without the boy,” Buchan said.
“And they did not discuss a date for the coronation?” Umfraville asked harshly.
She met his dark, heated gaze, knowing she must lie to save Alexander from capture and maybe death. “No.”
“Who will they ask to attend?”
She did not look at Atholl now. “I do not recall.”
“You said Lennox,” Buchan said. “You said Atholl.”
Atholl’s eyes widened as every face turned to him. Then he laughed.
“Did I?” She squirmed. “I cannot recall—it was so long ago! But I do recall my impression of Bruce.”
All eyes were upon her now.
“He was so powerful, so royal! Everyone knows no single man can fight England and win. Yet when with him, I wondered if he might become Scotland’s king.” She deliberately hoped to divert the men by inflaming them.
There was a brief silence, and then someone—her uncle—slammed his fist furiously down. The table jumped. Wine spilled. “He will never be our king!”
A fierce argument began—every man speaking at once. Margaret felt her cheeks flaming, and finally, she glanced at Atholl.
He was studying her. Instantly, he looked away.
