Brenda Joyce (12 page)

All this was done within minutes, as the sounds of horses and men outside the tent escalated. Her heart raced. Today was war.

Margaret threw on her mantle and fur and stepped outside. The dawn was gray and light, the camp a hive of activity, with men coming and going, horses being saddled and wagons being loaded, but she saw Alexander instantly.

He stood beside the huge fire pit outside his tent with three other men. He wore a chain mail tunic and mail leggings, his brat draped and pinned over his shoulders. Padraig and another Highlander stood with him, also clad in mail, furs draped upon their shoulders, and the third man was an armor-clad English soldier.

Her gaze veered across the fire pit to where another English soldier, also clad in armor and mail, held the first knight’s horse. Had Sir Guy sent a messenger to Alexander? And if so, why?

As she rushed forward, she wondered if word had gotten out that she was in the camp—and if Sir Guy was demanding her freedom.

Alexander turned before she reached him, either hearing or sensing her approach. His gaze skimmed over her, a habit she was now accustomed to.

“Good morning,” he said politely. “Did ye sleep well?”

“I slept perfectly well,” she lied. She turned to stare openly at the English knight. His helmet was down, and she met dark eyes set in a craggy and pale face.

“My opponent wishes fer a parley,” Alexander said.

Her eyes widened.

“Apparently he fears to engage me in battle a second time.” He gave her a significant look and placed his large body between her and the Englishman. “Tell Sir Guy I look forward to our meeting.”

The Englishman nodded, not even glancing at Margaret again before he strode to his horse. Her heart sank as he mounted—he did not suspect who she was. Clearly, Sir Guy had not been alerted to her presence, much less demanded her freedom. The pair of riders galloped off.

Alexander was speaking to Padraig very rapidly, in the land’s native tongue. Margaret spoke Gael, but his dialect was foreign to her—she could not really discern his words. Padraig nodded and he and the other Highlander hurried off.

Alexander slowly faced her. “I will bring a dozen knights, as he will, and we will meet in an hour in the glen just south of the mountain.”

Margaret did not even think about it, she seized his hand. “You must let me come with you!”

“So he can be stirred to undying loyalty by yer wit and beauty?” With sharp scrutiny, he pulled away.

“That would be a boon and I will not deny it, but you already know I do not wish to remain your prisoner,” she said. “But surely you wish to avoid further warfare? Surely, you do not want him to attack Castle Fyne. Maybe I can be of some help.”

“Ye will be of help, for I have already decided how to use ye, Lady Margaret. As it turns out, I want him to see ye—but for my ends, not yers.” He strode past her toward his tent.

He was going to allow her to attend the parley—and she would meet the man she would marry in June! Oh, what did he intend? Concerned, she rushed after him, all elation gone.

Alexander was outside his tent, sharpening one of his huge swords on a stone. She halted, instantly rigid, watching him. The blade screamed as he sawed it back and forth across the stone. She trembled as he straightened, sheathing the sword, finality in the motion. He then unsheathed his right-hand sword and sharpened it in an identical manner.

Watching him prepare for war was frightening. “How will you use me?” She heard how tremulous her tone sounded.

“Ye need to quickly eat, we are leaving shortly,” he said, striding past her.

Clearly, he had no intention of answering. She followed him but he was moving so quickly now that she could not keep up. He ordered someone to give her food, and a moment later she found herself with bread and cheese in hand, Alexander gone. A young Scot about her age faced her.

Margaret looked at him, unsmiling. All around them Alexander’s men were moving to and fro, most loading wagons and carts with canon, catapults, rocks and missiles.

She shivered, as it began to dawn upon her—she was not just in an army camp, and on the verge of battle, she was about to attend a meeting between the leaders of the two armies—one man her betrothed, the other, her captor. Her tension had risen when she had seen Alexander taking his blades to that stone; now, it became unbearable.

“I’m Dughall,” the blond lad said. “Ye had better eat. The Wolf said so.”

Margaret ate, not because she was hungry, but because she knew a long day was ahead. Dughall did not speak; he simply stared, very openly, as if she were a great curiosity. She wondered if Dughall had learned of her identity, but she was too preoccupied to ask.

He handed her a flask.

She shook her head. “I prefer water.”

“The water here isn’t fit for drinking.”

Margaret realized that the army had spoiled the water in the river, so she took the flask and drank what she could. The wine had been watered down previously, so it wasn’t as strong as she had expected.

She was almost finished when she heard the horses approaching, an unnerving clatter of myriad hooves upon the cold road—and a reminder of what they were about. She tensed and looked past Dughall.

Alexander was astride his gray charger, leading the cavalcade. He paused before her, his blue gaze cold and hard.

Her heart lurched. He was a warrior now, intent upon war and victory. It was hard to believe that last night they had had a sensible conversation—or shared that kiss.

But did she not already know how ruthless he was? How clever? He might be attending a parley, but he had his own ambitions. He would not be easily thwarted. She knew it for a fact.

Yesterday, when Alexander had ridden off to battle, she had not been able to wish him ill. She could not wish him ill now, either. Yet she prayed for Sir Guy’s victory.

His regard remained riveted on her. “We’re leaving, Lady Margaret. Ye can mount.”

She gazed past him. Padraig was astride a red steed just behind him. He was leading a small gray mare, which was apparently her mount. A dozen Highland knights were with them, clad in mail and fur.

Margaret tucked her uneaten portion in the pocket of her mantle, hurrying to her mare. Dughall went with her and helped her up. She took up the reins with both hands, as Padraig released them. The auburn-haired Highlander asked, “Can ye ride?”

Margaret nodded.

Alexander whirled his mount and started forward at a fast trot; everyone followed.

It was two good hours past dawn now, but the day remained gray and bright. Margaret looked from Alexander’s broad shoulders to the sky above. It was going to snow, she thought, shivering. Was that good or bad, as far as the impending battle went?

She simply did not know. And as they left the camp behind, the shadow of Cruach Nan Cuilean fell over them, making the morning darker and colder.

Her nerves made her stomach hurt and her head ache. Margaret wondered what Sir Guy wanted. Did he truly wish to negotiate a peace now, after one single battle? Surely, he had not given up on Castle Fyne—on her. Or was this treachery on his part? Perhaps he had laid a trap for Alexander.

She then realized that, if they were riding into a trap, she would be amongst Sir Guy’s victims. Of course, he did not know she was present.

Her gaze found Alexander’s tall, broad-shouldered form again. He would not be easily tricked and trapped. And she would soon find out just what Sir Guy intended—and what Alexander intended, as well.

Suddenly she saw the blur of the approaching Englishmen. Above them two banners waved. They became more visible, as did the armored knights and their horses, as they came closer. One banner was the red royal banner, the other blue and white, belonging to the great de Valence family.

Her heart thundered now. She could see the men who were approaching, although not well. Their visors were up. All eyes were trained upon them. She wondered which knight was Sir Guy.

When the distance of a great hall separated them, Alexander threw up his hand, abruptly halting them. But Sir Guy and his men had halted, too.

Margaret remained in the midst of the other men as Alexander and Padraig rode slowly forward, at a walk. Two of the Englishmen met them.

Her heart exploded as she stared at the two English knights, for one was heavyset and she instantly identified the other as Sir Guy. His beard was gray. He was of medium height and build, with a swarthy complexion so common amongst the French. He remained at a distance, but she could see he was a fine figure of a man.

She was gazing at her future husband, and he, of course, was unaware of her presence—or even of who she was. She did not know what to think.

“Good morning, Sir Guy,” Alexander said, his tone cool. “I am sorry we meet under such circumstances.”

“You’re sorry?” Sir Guy sounded angry and incredulous. “No one is sorrier than I am!”

Margaret was bewildered. The conversation seemed personal—as if the men knew one another.

“I always laughed when anyone referred to you as the Wolf, Alexander. I would laugh to myself when I would hear the stories of how ruthless you are!” Sir Guy rode his horse in a tight circle now, about Alexander and Padraig, the animal tossing its head. The older knight did not move. “But you are exactly as claimed, damn it. You could have attacked Inverary or Lachlan—but you attacked what is mine!”

They did know one another, Margaret thought in disbelief. And he already called Castle Fyne his?

“Castle Fyne is a very fine castle, Sir Guy. It controls a portion of the sound, most of the loch, and the route into Argyll. And it is on MacDonald borders...I can think of no better place to attack.”

“You coldhearted bastard,” Sir Guy said.

Margaret flinched, but Alexander seemed amused. “Surely Buchan will give yer intended another portion for her dowry? He has lands throughout the north.”

“My lands are in the south and you know it. I will never forgive you for this, Alexander, and neither will Buchan!” Sir Guy jerked hard on his reins in his anger, and his bay stallion reared.

“And I am sorry we are on opposite sides of this war.” Alexander was calm—so calm it was hard to decide if he meant his words or not.

“You are a madman, to betray the king and ride with Bruce! When he is caught he will hang, his lands forfeited to King Edward’s noblest allies. You will hang beside him, your lands will be forfeit, too.”

“Bruce will not be caught, nor will I. King Edward will never take on the lords of the isles—he will always need me and my brothers to rule the seas of the western Hebrides.”

“
Never
is an extraordinary word—perhaps you should not use it!”

“If ye have come to rant and rave, then we are wasting the day.”

Sir Guy drove his horse up to Alexander’s mount, so that their shoulders brushed. “We have fought together, many times. We have supped, shared wine and women. Once, we were friends. Now, I thought it behooved me to tell you that I will never forgive you for what you have done, and you will pay dearly for your betrayal of me and our liege.”

“If ye think I will thank ye for such a warning, think again. But mostly, ye should think long and hard about making threats—when I have yer bride.”

Sir Guy stared, and Margaret cried out unthinkingly.

“Do you care about her, at all?” Alexander asked, coldly. “Ye have not asked how she is.”

Sir Guy looked past him. Margaret began to tremble as their gazes met.

Sir Guy inhaled, a hissing sound. And he drove his bay steed past Alexander and Padraig, toward her.

Margaret knew she turned red. So this was Alexander’s plan—to anger Sir Guy!

And as he came forward, she saw that her uncle had not lied—he was a handsome man. But his gray eyes were filled with disbelief.

The bards who sang about her so often sang about her long, curly red-gold hair. Margaret dropped her hood and released her braid, finger combing her hair into a mane, looking down and away. She wasn’t trying to be demure—she was suddenly frightened, terribly so.

This man was going to be her husband. And if she had learned one thing that day, it was that he had a hot temper.

“Lady Margaret?” His tone was as incredulous as his eyes.

She fought for composure and met his regard. Why did she have the terrible inkling that he was neither kind nor compassionate? “Yes, Sir Guy, I am Lady Margaret—your intended.”

“My God, he brought you here!”

Margaret bit her lip so hard she tasted blood. She did not want Sir Guy to discover that she had used treachery to slip into Alexander’s camp. She glanced at Alexander. He was watching them, and she was instantly relieved—she knew he would not reveal her secret.

“I am so sorry we are meeting this way,” she managed to say.

“Has he hurt you?” Sir Guy demanded.

“No.”

Sir Guy stared very closely now. “Why do you blush, Lady Margaret?” he asked.

“Because you are staring as if I have two heads!” she cried. But she was thinking of the way Alexander had kissed her last night. She did not have to be well acquainted with Sir Guy to know that he would be furious if he ever found out.

“I am staring because you are even more beautiful than your likeness, or than your uncle described.”

She breathed hard. “So you are pleased?”

He began to shake his head. “Of course you please me, Lady Margaret. But I am not pleased that Alexander attacked Castle Fyne—and that he holds you hostage—and he has brought you here.”

She wondered if she should reveal that she had taken it upon herself to come to the encampment. But instinct prompted her not to disclose the truth. “I am so sorry Castle Fyne was lost, my lord. But you must know how bravely my people fought to defend it.”

His eyes widened. “So it is not a tall tale?”

“What tale, my lord?”

“All of Scotland has been speaking of the lady of Fyne who dared to defend her castle against the mighty Wolf of Lochaber. I did not believe it.”

Was he pleased? She could not tell. “I did not think there was a choice at the time. I did not know of Bruce’s rebellion. I thought aid would soon come, and that we could hold the Wolf off until my uncle Buchan or my uncle Argyll came to rescue us.”