Brenda Joyce (13 page)

“You are a woman! You are seventeen! How could you possibly defend a castle under siege?” He was incredulous and angry at once. “Why didn’t your brother defend the castle?”

“My lord, my brother left to fight the Wolf in the ravine, hoping to turn him back before he ever could reach our walls! There was no one else left to defend the castle. I am Mary MacDougall’s daughter. It was my duty to defend Castle Fyne.”

He now stared and she felt terribly uncomfortable. “You should have conceded to one of your knights. No woman can fight a battle. And you should not be here, in his camp.” He whirled his mount to face Alexander.

And once his back was to her, she breathed deeply and looked quickly at Alexander. He sent her a glance she could not decipher.

“I want you to release her—now. She need not be a part of this war,” Sir Guy said fiercely.

“I cannot release her. She is the lady of Castle Fyne and the Earl of Buchan’s niece,” Alexander spoke calmly. “She remains a valuable prize, Sir Guy, but that, ye already know.”

Margaret trembled, aware that Alexander was being utterly provocative, no matter that his tone was dispassionate.

“We were friends once,” Sir Guy exclaimed, pacing his stallion about Alexander and Padraig again. “What if I ask you to release her—because she is a lady, and while you are a wild Scot, I happen to know that you have some small sense of honor!”

Alexander smiled that half smile Margaret now knew so well—the one containing no mirth at all. “And what will I get in return?”

Sir Guy halted.

“Will ye give me Castle Fyne? Will ye turn around and retreat?”

Margaret was shocked. Would Alexander release her if he was given Castle Fyne?

“Never,” Sir Guy snarled.

“I dinna think so.”

Sir Guy cursed. “What ransom then?”

Alexander sat his gray steed in profile to Margaret. He glanced briefly at her now. “I am not asking for a ransom.”

Sir Guy choked, so furious he could not speak.

“She is too valuable to ransom,” Alexander said, softly. He did not look at her—his stare was unwavering upon Sir Guy.

“You bastard heathen Scot! She is mine—Castle Fyne is mine! I am going to destroy you, Alexander, or die in the attempt.”

“Then ye will likely die.”

Sir Guy turned toward Margaret, enraged. She cringed.

“Keep yourself out of harm’s way,” he said.

She somehow nodded.

But he did not wait to see; he was galloping back to his men. “A de Valence!” he shouted, his war cry. “For King Edward!”

His knights roared the same war chant, “A de Valence! For King Edward!” And as one unit, they wheeled, galloping away.

Margaret held on to her saddle, close to collapse. That was her future husband. She began to feel ill. He had such a hot temper. And he had no care for her—none. He only cared that she brought him Castle Fyne. He only cared that both she and the castle had been taken from him.

A strong hand grasped her arm, steadying her. “Will ye fall off?”

She glanced up at Alexander. She meant to make a jest and make light of the moment, but she could not do so.

“I would be proud if ye ever fought to defend what was mine,” he said softly.

Margaret began to shake. She felt even sicker than before.

He raised his voice as he regarded his men. “Take her back to Castle Fyne. Make certain no harm comes to her.”

Margaret jerked, realizing that he meant to send her home—and that he was going to battle. “Let me stay! I will even swear not to try to escape!”

He barely glanced at her. “Ye’ll return to Castle Fyne.” And then he stood in his stirrups, roaring, “A Bruce! A Donald! A Alasdair!”

And his men roared his war cries back at him.

And the ridges and forests of Cruach Nan Cuilean shook.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“W
HAT
IS
WRONG
,
LADY
?
Ye’ve barely spoken since ye came back.”

Margaret was seated at the table in the great hall. Young Dughall and another Scot had escorted her back to Castle Fyne two days ago. Eilidh had just set a trencher down before her, and her gaze was concerned. Peg, who was serving the guards at another table, turned.

How she wished for a confidante. The past two days had been interminable. She could not stop recalling her brief stay in Alexander’s camp—and the war parley with Sir Guy. She could not cease thinking of her future as Sir Guy’s wife, nor of the battle that might still rage near Loch Riddon.

“It has been two days, with no word,” she said. “I am anxious to learn what has happened...and to discover if Sir Guy has triumphed.”

When she had left, both armies had been preparing to do battle. She was desperate to learn of the outcome.

Sir Guy had vowed to destroy Alexander.

Her heart slammed with worry and fear. She knew she worried about Alexander’s welfare—she hoped he would not be hurt in the battle. But she must hope that Sir Guy won. It was her duty to be loyal to him. Her uncle would be supporting Sir Guy in his quest to defeat Alexander and take Castle Fyne back. So would William, so would all her Comyn and MacDougall kinsmen. This wait to learn who had triumphed and who had lost was impossible.

An image flashed, of Sir Guy looking at her, his gray gaze wide with disbelief and disapproval. He did not appreciate what she had done to defend Castle Fyne. She had summoned up every ounce of courage she had to defy the Wolf’s demand that she surrender. She knew nothing of sieges, but she had had to quickly learn, and improvise. She had even gone to the ramparts to fight alongside her archers, her soldiers and her women.

He
disapproved.

She had been aghast. No woman wished to offend her future husband! Every woman hoped to please the man she would eventually wed.

Worse, Sir Guy already considered Castle Fyne his. Yet their union hadn’t even been consummated—until they married, Castle Fyne was
hers.
It was her dowry, it had been her mother’s—how could Sir Guy speak as if he already possessed it?

But if he triumphed now, if he defeated Alexander, if he took Castle Fyne back, they would marry as planned. He would possess Castle Fyne; he would possess her.

She was trying to remain brave, but she was scared. She kept recalling his hot temper, his lack of respect, his disapproval of her. And she was scared of the man she would marry in June.

She knew she must not compare her future marriage to the union her parents had had. But she could not help herself. Her father had rarely disapproved of her mother. And then she had the treacherous thought: Alexander had not disapproved of her actions, either. To the contrary.

It was so tempting to hope that Alexander was the victor now.

She knew she must not allow her mind to go in such a direction. Instead, she must concentrate on all the advantages a union with Sir Guy would bring to her and the entire Comyn family.

“The Wolf has never been defeated in battle,” Eilidh said, but carefully.

Margaret looked at her, jerked out of her wayward thoughts. “He is outnumbered, Eilidh. He may be defeated this time.”

“We will have word as soon as the battle is over,” Eilidh said, smiling in a comforting manner. “News flies faster than any bird. We will soon learn who has triumphed, lady.”

Eilidh was right on that one point—someone would soon appear at her castle walls, and he would be the victor. But which man would it be?

“And Sir Guy has a great army. He will probably be at our walls at any moment.” But now, Eilidh’s smile was gone. “And ye’ll be a free lady once more.”

Margaret knew Eilidh hoped to reassure her. But that was impossible, when her heart was weighing her down, and she was faced with so much uncertainty. “Yes, if Sir Guy triumphs, I will be free.”

Eilidh’s smile vanished. Peg turned to stare sharply at her.

“I am worried,” Margaret said to Eilidh. “That is all.” She picked up her knife and used it to push her food around her trencher. She kept recalling how Alexander so often looked at her—with scrutiny and consideration—as he tried to fathom her thoughts. It was as if he cared to know what she was thinking. In his camp, she had wondered if he cared about her welfare.

She did not think Sir Guy would ever care about her thoughts. But she must not compare the two men. No good could come of it.

Eilidh hesitated by her side. “Ye should eat, lady. Yer already like a feather! Ye dinna wish to become ill.”

“You’re right. I should eat. I should have some wine. Worrying will not solve anything.”

Pleased, Eilidh rushed to pour her wine. As she did, Peg stalked out of the hall.

Margaret watched her old friend with a grimace. The pain of her betrayal had already subsided, so perhaps Alexander had been right, and they hadn’t really ever been as close as she had thought. But Peg was angry, and that did not bode well.

“Eilidh, I want you to continue to wait on me. In a short time, I have come to depend on you.”

“Really?” Eilidh gasped, her surprise obvious.

“Really.” Margaret smiled, clasping her hand. She liked the young girl very much. “I will even take you home with me, to the north, if I ever return there.”

“Oh, lady, thank ye! Castle Fyne is my home, but I think I wish to serve ye, always! I am so proud to serve the lady of Fyne!”

Before Margaret could respond, she heard pounding footsteps outside the hall. She stiffened, gripping the edge of the table. Dughall burst into the hall.

She took one look at his ecstatic expression, and her heart slammed.

The Wolf had won.

“The Wolf returns, Lady Margaret!” Dughall shouted, confirming her thoughts. “His army is on the road, and his knights are at the barbican, his banner waves proudly, and he is at their head!”

She stood up, stunned. And there was no mistaking the flood of relief within her.

Alexander had defeated Sir Guy.

She was so relieved that she could hardly deny it. However, she had no intention of analyzing her reaction to Alexander’s victory now. He was returning; his army was returning.

She rushed from the table. “Is he hurt?”

“I dinna think so!” Dughall exclaimed, and then he turned and raced back out of the great room.

Her heart thundered now. “We will be feeding a great many men,” she said briskly to Eilidh. She took a deep breath. “Have more meat brought up from the cellars, and bring up another barrel of cheese and several barrels of wine. And there will be wounded to attend. Send several maids for linens, as many as they can find. Begin warming water. And my chest—bring it to the hall!” She lifted her skirts and ran out of the great room without waiting for the maid to respond. She hurried up the stairwell and onto the ramparts.

Twilight was upon the land, cool and gray, with a few snowflakes falling. A few of the knights and archers who had been left behind to guard the castle were already present, as were a great many of the castle’s women, and they were all leaning over the crenellations, waving and calling out with cheers to the returning army. Her heart was racing madly as she ran along the ramparts, passing her people. She tried to gaze past the crowds, over their heads and shoulders, and over the crenellations. She could just barely see the huge army slowly rippling up the forest road. She could not see the forefront, which had reached her castle walls. She ran faster.

Margaret reached the entry tower and rushed to the closest wall adjacent to it. She seized the rough stone wall and looked down at the barbican.

A pair of fur-clad Highland knights on black steeds led the way, followed by a half a dozen other warriors, one of whom held the Donald banner. The dark-blue-and-black MacDonald flag whipped in the wind, high above their heads, with its red dragon clawing the blue field in its midst.

Then she saw his gray stallion in the middle of the cavalcade. Her grasp on the wall tightened.

They were inside the barbican now, and approaching the drawbridge, which had been lowered.

Alexander was so tall that even in the middle of his men, his head and shoulders were visible, his dark hair flying in the wind.

She realized tears had arisen.
I am overtired,
she thought. Surely she was not evincing undue concern for the mighty Wolf of Lochaber.

Aware of how disloyal she was being in thinking she might not have to wed Sir Guy now, she stood very still, until Alexander was on the drawbridge and passing beneath the entry tower, almost directly beneath her. She took a long moment to compose herself.

Margaret turned and went back across the ramparts to the north tower, but more slowly. As she went downstairs, she could hear the men in the hall, their conversation loud and raucous—the sounds satisfied and pleased.

She reached the great hall and looked across it. Some three dozen knights were within, a great many bearing bloodstains upon their clothes, some wearing bloody bandages, one being helped onto a pallet. No one seemed unscathed, yet everyone was smiling, mugs were raised, and the women of the castle were in attendance. Laughter was sprinkled throughout the conversations. The women were flirting wildly, the men basking in the attention.

Alexander stood by one of the great hearths with Padraig and Sir Neil, both knights seeming unharmed. So many men stood between them that she could not make him out clearly, but he seemed entirely unharmed, as well.

He suddenly turned and, across the great room, their gazes met.

Margaret felt her heart turn over hard.

He said something to both knights and started toward her.

And she realized that he was limping. Then she saw that his leine was splotched with blood, and his skirts were stiff and blackened. Margaret felt all the color in her face drain away, the sensation a sinking one.

He was removing his plaid as he approached, huge biceps bulging. “Lady Margaret.”

“You’ve been wounded.”

“I have a scratch or two.”

She was angered by his indifferent tone. “Men die from war wounds every day.”

He smiled a little. “So ye have a care, after all?”

She trembled. “I have already said that I do not wish you ill.”

“So that is aye?”

Did she flush? “You have cared for me and in return, I will not let you die.” She whirled, not about to analyze the depth of her concern. “Peg! Bring warm water, soap, my chest of potions, linens and more wine.”

“Margaret,” he said.

She turned back to him. Was he
amused?
“Would it please you if I did not care?”

“No. I am very pleased with my welcome here.”

They were treading dangerously, she thought. “Then you are reading too much into a simple act of compassion, my lord.”

“Mayhap.” He shrugged. “Mayhap not.”

Her cheeks burned. “Will you please sit? If you fall down, I am too small to catch you.”

He laughed, the sound warm and pleasant. “I am not going to fall down, Lady Margaret.”

“Oh, of course not. You’re too mighty to fall, even if you’ve lost so much blood.”

His smile faded as he studied her with that searching look she had become so familiar with. “The blood ye see is not mine.”

She started, and then she looked him over with great care. She saw cuts upon his thighs that might have been caused by shrubs and branches, and an abrasion upon his arm. “You are not hurt?”

“I am not hurt.”

She realized just how relieved she was. And he reached out to steady her, for she was trembling. She glanced up and their gazes collided yet again. “I am pleased,” he said slowly, “that ye worry overly.”

What could she say? She tried, “You must be tired. Please, sit down. Peg! Bring wine!”

He settled upon the bench, and seriously said, “A great many men have been wounded, Lady Margaret, and dozens have died. We fought for almost two entire days.”

She sat beside him, carefully folding her hands in her lap. “I take it you were victorious?”

“Aye, but the cost was great.”

Her thoughts now raced. He had won, she remained his captive.

“Ye have yet to ask about Sir Guy.”

She smiled grimly. “I have prayed he is well,” she lied, speaking rather tersely. “How is he?”

“Sir Guy suffered a mild wound to his shoulder—but he will live to fight another day.” He finally sipped the cup of wine Peg had given to him.

Surely, Margaret was relieved. Surely, she had some small care for the man who would be her husband! “And I thank God he is not seriously harmed.”

He was staring, his expression slightly bemused. “He is fortunate he did not lose his arm.”

“You saw him receive the wound?”

“I delivered the blow, Lady Margaret.”

Her tension instantly increased as she recalled how Alexander had stated that he might have to kill Sir Guy. She could imagine the two men wielding swords against one another, each intending to kill, and she shuddered.

Appearing very satisfied, Alexander drained his cup of wine.

Margaret refilled it for him and handed it back. She asked carefully, “Did you seek him out purposely? Did you wish to kill him?”

“Did he not vow to destroy me?”

Alexander had deliberately sought to attack Sir Guy, she was certain. And he had meant to kill him if he could.

“He will be back to fight another day—with more of the king’s men.”

She looked at him. “Are you certain?” she asked.

A long pause ensued. Alexander finally said, “He wants Castle Fyne.”

Margaret flinched and looked away. Alexander was astute, and he had witnessed her entire exchange with Sir Guy. He knew, as she did, that Sir Guy had no care for her, except for the dowry she brought to their union. She thought about how angry he had been at the war parley. “Yes, I imagine he will be back—he must be enraged.”

“Angry or not, Castle Fyne is a great prize. King Edward will want to control the route to Argyll—he will wish for Sir Guy to command Castle Fyne.”