January 1293. Stirling Castle, Scotland.
Margaret held her governess’ hand as they walked down the great hall, where the guardians awaited them. She wanted to run and greet them with an embrace, but Lady Egidia made it clear that such a thing was unbecoming of a queen. She was almost ten, almost a woman grown and she couldn’t like a little girl anymore.
And the guardians had come all the way from Edinburgh to meet her. That was because she was an important person. Their little queen. And Egidia had taught her to behave well. Just as her ancestor and namesake did. To be good and godly in all that she did.
They bowed as she approached them and Margaret smiled, offering a dainty little hand when she stopped before them. James Stewart was the first to kiss it, then John Comyn, a queue forming to pay their respects for her. When they were done, Margaret smiled and sat at the seat offered to her, placed on the end of a very long table. There were sweets and candied jams before her eyes and Margaret stretched forward to take just one. She knew her doctors would not approve of too much sweetness, lest her teeth rot and fall out of her mouth, but she wanted just one.
Except James Stewart clicked his tongue and she looked at him. “Before that, my lady,” he began, “Allow us to present a proposition for yourself.”
“I thought the Guardians dealt with everything before I came of age.” At the end of her sentence, Margaret looked at Egidia for guidance, and the woman nodded.
“Normally, it is so, but this requires a queen’s signature more than anything else,” said John Comyn. Recently, the Earl of Fife was murdered by his family and his seat remained empty until a new guardian was accepted by the burghs and the lords. Lord Comyn presented her with a long sheet of parchment and Margaret leaned forward, resting her face over her knuckles. “It’s a declaration, in case you were to pass without an heir, my lady.”
“You discuss my death?” Margaret asked in shock. She may have been only nine, but even she knew that, though not exactly treason, such an act was highly controversial. Especially at her young age.
“Only the possibility of it, my queen,” Lord Comyn answered. “It’s my utter desire that you live to see your grandchildren grow tall around you, but as a Scottish man and your humble servant, I feel it is my duty to consider what would happen to our beloved land without you.”
“Especially,” Lord Stewart said, stepping forward, “As it’s been decided that you will soon travel to England.” Margaret looked up at that. “We have delayed your travel for as long as we could, but with England now in a peace treaty with France, we can’t risk it any longer.”
“But I want to stay!” Margaret took Lady Egidia’s hand, the woman that had become her maternal figure after taking her post and her eyes filled with tears. “I don’t want to be alone.”
“You won’t be alone, my lady,” said the Bishop of Glasgow. “Due to our most recent treaty, no members of your household may be replaced by English attendants unless it’s your clear desire to do so.” Margaret squeezed Lady Egidia’s hand and nodded, calmer. “Such is also the second term of this declaration.”
“What is it?” Margaret looked back at the document. It was in Latin, which she could recognize, but not read as well as Scots or Gaelic. Or even French, which she had been learning since she was a young child at her father’s court.
“Neither the English king or his son may name rulers or regents for Scottish territories without your leave,” said James Stewart. “Only our queen rules over us. Only you.”
“And if I die?” Margaret asked. “If I don’t have a baby boy?”
“If you have daughters, the crown will pass for the eldest of them, my queen,” said John Comyn. “But if you die childless, it’s our desire that you think of an heir for your throne. John Balliol has a strong claim.”
“So does Robert Bruce,” Margaret murmured. She heard his daughter mention one day, as Mary was one of her companions. “And yourself, Lord Comyn.”
“All of that is true,” the Bishop of Glasgow responded. “But we must act before you leave, my lady, or else King Edward might claim overlordship of our lands, not just the ones held by the Queen in England.”
Margaret chewed the inner flesh of her cheek. “Making choices is difficult,” she admitted in a low tone. “What if I name one of them my heir, and they try to kill me?” She remembered stories about Robert Bruce, when he was still causing havoc in the country and shivered in fear.
“We will not announce your decision until the Queen has left for England, my lady, if that is your wish,” said James Stewart and Margaret nodded.
“Then…” she began, twisting her mouth. “As far as I know, without any issue from my body, the Lord Balliol has the strongest claim.” A scribe, positioned so close to the wall that she had not noticed him before, began to note down what she said. “But I’m still the queen, yes? And my son will be king after me.” She looked at Lady Egidia for guidance and her governess nodded.
“Yes, my lady,” said James Stewart. He offered her a quill. “Now, sign it here, please. To make it into law all that we had discussed.” Margaret accepted it and signed her name, with an R at the end. She didn’t even stop to think about the fact that John Balliol’s name was already included in the document as her heir. Even before she made her decision.
