Brenda Joyce (14 page)

She stiffened as their gazes locked. “Just as Bruce now wishes for you to command Castle Fyne?”

“Aye.”

Margaret looked at her hands. The implications of the war and how she was affected by it now hit her with great force. Castle Fyne was in the midst of the storm of war—just as she was. How those winds blew would decide her fate.

“Do ye pray fer Sir Guy’s return?”

Slowly, she looked up. “It is my duty to be loyal to him.”

He made a sound, as they both knew she had not answered his question. “Aye, and yer as dutiful as a woman could be.”

She met his blue gaze instantly. If he knew how disloyal she was, and that she had been questioning her very future, he would not be speaking as he was. “I intend to be dutiful, yes.”

He drained the cup of wine. “And what did ye think, Lady Margaret? Ye finally met the man yer uncle would have ye wed.”

She stood up. “We met for but a moment, under very trying circumstances.”

He held out his cup and Peg filled it. “Some women find him very noble—very gallant—with the blood of two royal houses in his veins.”

Sir Guy was related to both the kings of France and England. “He appears honorable and brave.”

“And if ye thought him injured, would ye cluck over him, as ye have me?”

She started. “Of course I would.”

“Aye, ye would—because it would be yer duty.” He stood up, and he towered over her. “Can ye tend my wounded knights? We must join Bruce soon.”

Margaret had been absorbing how mocking he had been and now she froze. “You are joining Bruce?”

“Bruce needs his best men to seize lands, to defeat his enemies and all who think to stop him. I am one of his best men. I can hardly linger here.”

She felt stunned, aghast. But why had she ever assumed that Alexander would placidly remain at Castle Fyne? A great war raged. Bruce was on the march. He was taking what castles and strongholds that he could, just as Alexander had taken Castle Fyne. He could not seize Scotland’s throne if he did not have the great Scot barons and warlords behind him. He would need a great army to fight King Edward, he would need all of his best commanders—he would need the mighty Wolf.

“When will you leave?” she finally asked.

“When my army is whole. I will leave a hundred of my best archers and knights—enough to fight off anyone, including Sir Guy, or even Buchan.”

“Have you news of either Buchan or Argyll?” Surely, by now, they had learned of the fall of Castle Fyne. Surely, they knew she and William were hostages.

“Buchan is enraged with Bruce, and he plots his vengeance now. As for Argyll, he is aiding one of his cousins against one of my brothers. Both men have probably learned of Castle Fyne’s fall—neither will come to yer rescue anytime soon.”

Margaret felt real despair. “So I am to remain a prisoner here, indefinitely.”

“But ye will be safe.”

Their gazes had met yet again. “I should put a salve on your abrasions.”

He laughed at her. “There is no need, Lady Margaret. If ye please, tend to my knights.”

She hesitated, but as she turned to go, he took her arm, restraining her. “The news I have given ye now distresses ye.”

She trembled, pulling away. “I have been expecting aid from either of my uncles.”

“Come, Margaret, we both ken that is not the news that frightens ye.”

He had the ability to disturb her to no end, she thought. “I hate war. It only brings death.”

He stared at her, and she felt certain he realized that she was frightened—and not just for herself.

“Go,” he said.

* * *

M
ARGARET
KNEW
THAT
the best course of action was to avoid Alexander. She did not want to keep comparing him and Sir Guy, but every time she heard his voice or glimpsed him, that was exactly what she did. She did not want to have any concern for him, nor did she want to admire him, not in any way. Therefore she refused to even think about the war he was about to join.

But doing so wasn’t easy, not when his injured men were recovering, and the rest of his knights and soldiers were being drilled for battle on a daily basis. She had only to look out of any tower window to know that this terrible war loomed. At Castle Fyne, she might be safely out of its path—for now—but Alexander was about to ride directly into the maelstrom.

One aspect of her captivity had changed. Each day she was allowed an hour’s visit with William. Alexander had not told her why he had changed his mind, but she knew it was due to the affections evolving between them.

William had healed completely, and he was eager to plan an escape. He was impatient to join their uncle Buchan and go to war against Bruce. With an ever-present guard, they could not discuss such matters openly. William was an avid artist, and allowed to sketch, and he managed to slip her an occasional note, hidden within his drawings.

At least a week had passed since the battle of Cruach Nan Cuilean when she was sewing in her chamber by candlelight one evening. She had seen William earlier and she was concerned—he had used his eyes to communicate to her that he wished to speak with her. Margaret felt certain he had come up with a plan of some kind. She was going to have to use her sleeping potion on the guard so they could converse freely. She stabbed her forefinger with the needle, crying out.

“How did ye prick yerself?”

She tensed, her gaze slamming to her door, which was now open. Alexander stood there.

He smiled slightly. “Yer too skilled to make such a mistake. I wonder at yer deep thoughts.”

She set the embroidery down, aware of a new tension. Alexander was such a big man that he dominated her small doorway.

“Ye have been avoiding me—dinna try to deny it.” He stepped into her chamber and now she saw that he held a scroll, one tied tightly with twine.

“Is that a missive?”

“Buchan has written ye.” Alexander’s small half smile never wavered. He came forward. “He has written me as well, asking after ye—and demanding yer release.”

She slid unsteadily from the bed, breathless with excitement now. “Have you replied?”

“No.” His gaze moved over her—she was wearing a simple leine with a belt, instead of one of her usual gowns. “Ye look like a Highland lass.”

She felt like hopping from one foot to the other, so impatient was she. “I am a Highland lass. What will you say, Alexander?” A pleading note had crept into her tone.

He handed her the rolled-up parchment. “I will refuse, Margaret. The time isn’t right for a ransom or yer release.”

“Will it ever be right?”

“I dinna ken.”

She sat down, untying the twine. “Did you read this?”

“No, but I will. He will expect me to read it,” he added, rather unnecessarily.

Margaret barely heard him.

February 19, 1306

My dear niece Margaret,

I have received word of the siege of Castle Fyne and its fall. Your courage in defending the castle moves me to hold you in the highest regard. My brother would be so proud of you if he were with us today, as would the great lady Mary. Had I known of the siege, I would have come to your aid, but alas, the news has but reached me recently.

I need you to have courage now. The land is at war. Robert Bruce attempts to claim Scotland’s throne. If you have not heard, he has murdered our cousin Red John in a church in Dumfries. We go to war, Margaret, for Bruce must never be allowed to take the throne, and he must be punished for our cousin’s murder. As I write to you, asking for your patience, I am gathering our allies and soldiers. We will fight with England now, for Scotland’s freedom from a bitter and conscienceless rival.

I have asked MacDonald for your and William’s release. However, your value as a hostage is being widely discussed throughout the land, and whether he will release you or not is uncertain. It is also clear that he will hold Castle Fyne if he can. I have offered him other lands; he has refused. In such a time of war, between kings and traitors, it will be difficult to raise an army with which to rescue you.

However, I know you to be a strong, proud woman, capable of enduring captivity in his hands, so if all fails, you will have to wait for the Wolf’s defeat in battle to attain your freedom. But have hope. That day will come. And know that you are not forgotten.

You are a boon to the great Comyn family, Margaret. Sir Guy sends his regards, as we all do.

God keep you safe.

Your uncle, John Comyn, the Earl of Buchan

Margaret was in disbelief at the significance of his letter. She was being abandoned.

“The news is not good?”

She thrust the parchment at Alexander. Then she stood, feeling as if her uncle had struck her. No, he had not struck her—he had tossed her away. “He is not coming. Not to free us—nor to take Castle Fyne back.”

Alexander was reading the letter now.

“I am to have patience. I am to have hope.”

He then looked up. “Do ye wish to keep this?”

Bitter tears filled her eyes. “Burn it.”

He walked to the fireplace and dropped the parchment in the flames. Then he faced her. “I hardly wish to give ye hope. But if he meant to attack, he would never say so.”

“He doesn’t. I know him well. He expects me to wait here, as a prisoner—as your prisoner—until you are defeated or this war ends! But it will never end, will it?” She wiped her eyes roughly with her fingertips.

“So ye feel sorry for yerself now?”

She blinked at him. It was a moment before she spoke. “Yes, I feel sorry for myself now.” She heard how defiant her tone was. “I am just one woman, and you are the mighty Wolf. I cannot continue to fight you, Alexander, alone like this.”

“But I do not wish to fight ye, Margaret. I never have.”

“Don’t. I am still intended for Sir Guy!” And now she realized that their union was more important than ever.

“When he has but one use for ye?” He was scathing.

She got to her feet. “I do not wish to discuss Sir Guy.”

“Ye never do. But
I
wish to discuss him now.”

She shook her head.

“When will ye admit that he was rude, unbearable—that he insulted ye, that ye deserve better?”

“It is late. You should leave.”

“I dinna wish to leave.” He folded his arms across his chest as if he meant to stand there in her room for a very long time. “Do ye think avoiding the subject of Sir Guy will change the truth? Do ye think that avoiding me will change anything?”

She decided to feign absolute ignorance of what he meant—when she knew his meaning completely! “The truth is that I am promised to an English knight, one reputed to be honorable and brave, and now, my family fights for King Edward, so the alliance is a good one.”

“The truth is yer a great lady, too good for Sir Guy. And yer a Highland lass, like yer mother. Ye belong with a Scot or a Highlander.”

“Do not ask me to be your mistress again!” she cried.

“I’m no fool. I ken ye’ll be loyal fer as long as ye can—until there’s no point.”

It took her a moment. “Do not kill Sir Guy, Alexander. Not on my account.”

He smiled, but it was chilling. “I almost killed him at the war parley. He insulted ye. I dinna like it. My blood boiled.”

She was stunned. She hadn’t known—he had been a master at hiding his anger.

“And if he’s dead, there will be no point to yer loyalty,” he said.

“You read the letter!” she cried. “We are at war! Now, we fight
with
the English, against you, against Bruce! Whether Sir Guy lives or not!”

“You prefer King Edward’s rule to Bruce’s?” He studied her. “One day ye will meet Bruce and ye’ll change yer mind—and yer loyalties.” He turned to the doorway, but then turned back. “Avoiding me will not change the kisses we shared, or that I want ye—or that ye want me back.”

She trembled.

“I’m a patient man, Lady Margaret, and ye may take that as fair warning.”

Margaret did not answer, watching him leave.

CHAPTER NINE

“L
ADY
M
ARGARET
! L
ADY
M
ARGARET
!”

Margaret leapt to her feet—she had been resting, even in the middle of the day, as she slept so poorly at night. Eilidh came running into her chamber, her eyes huge in her pale face.

“Ye must go to the ramparts!”

“What is it? What has happened?”

“It’s Bruce! He is here—with his army!”

Margaret faltered—why would Robert Bruce come here with his army? She ran from her chamber and up the stairs to the ramparts. Most of the castle folk were already hanging over the crenellations to view the spectacle of Robert Bruce’s arrival at Castle Fyne.

She ran to the closest wall, shoving past the men, women and children there. And she saw the dozens of men and horses rippling up the forest road. Huge yellow banners waved above them, etched with red. She could not see any foot soldiers.

An arm seized her from behind. Margaret knew it was Alexander before she whirled to face him. She was shocked by his hard expression.

“Bruce will be here for this night, and mayhap another one,” he said fiercely.

“Why?” she asked, still shocked.

He did not bother to answer her. “Yer to go to the kitchens and make certain ye serve a dinner fit for Scotland’s next king.”

Margaret now realized why Alexander had such a determined and intense expression on his face. He was Bruce’s vassal. He expected Bruce to be his king. He was no longer the lord and master of Castle Fyne; Robert Bruce was.

“Of course,” she said quickly. “He will be very pleased, Alexander, I will make certain of it.”

His eyes flickered, perhaps with some relief. But otherwise, his hard expression did not change. “There is more. Yer to stay in the kitchens, or in yer chamber—yer not to come into the hall.”

It took her a moment to comprehend him. She was being banned from Bruce’s presence. Why? And then she realized that they would plot and plan their war against King Edward, they would conspire as to how to seize Scotland’s throne. And she was their enemy.

“Ye’ll obey me without question in this matter,” he said harshly.

His tone was frightening—when she was no longer truly afraid of him. “I will stay in the kitchens or my chamber,” she said softly. “So you will be at liberty to discuss what you must.”

“Good.” He then stared down at the approaching forces. “His army grows with every passing day.” He sounded satisfied.

Fear rippled through her. She could still see only the dozens of knights at the army’s forefront.

“He has hundreds of followers,” Alexander said. “That is not enough to war upon England and all of her might, but as he marches through Scotland, he is raising men and arms from those he defeats, and those who gladly join him. We will be thousands strong in no time.”

She glanced across the first line of knights. She could now make out the hundreds of men on foot behind them, the wagons and carts. She could even see the design of the great banners—Bruce also sported a great red dragon, his savagely rearing up, as if clawing apart the yellow flag it rode.

“Ye’ll go in now,” Alexander said.

Margaret hesitated, sensing that something else was at stake; she simply did not know what it could be.

She met Eilidh and Peg on the stairs, as Alexander vanished down them ahead of her. She quickly told them of their duties. Both maids were wide-eyed, at once filled with trepidation and excitement, for Bruce was a legend in the land.

But as she planned a great dinner for him, her mind raced. She turned to Peg. “Can you please begin the preparations?” she asked.

Peg glanced at her, as if she guessed that subterfuge was afoot, and she nodded, hurrying off. As she did so, Margaret pulled Eilidh into her chamber, shutting the door. “I have other duties for you.”

There was a small voice in her head, warning her not to delve into the important affairs of powerful men. Margaret dismissed it. “Bruce is at war with King Edward, and we are allied with the king. Remember, Castle Fyne was stolen from me—Alexander is the enemy.” She took the maid’s hand. “I want you to listen very carefully to every word that is said tonight.”

Eilidh gasped. “I’m to spy?”

“We must discover all the news that we can, Eilidh, and I am depending upon you.”

Eilidh was incredulous. “What if I am discovered?”

Alexander was ruthless, and they all knew it as Malcolm had been hanged. “If they truly wished for a privy conversation, they would bar everyone from the hall.” She hoped her smile was reassuring. “Alexander has barred me from the hall, and that is why I need you.”

Eilidh nodded, but she appeared frightened now.

Margaret gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. She was not sure how any war news would affect her fate, but they would be plotting and planning at her great table, in her hall—she had to know what they discussed.

* * *

T
HE
KITCHENS
WERE
so hot that Margaret had shed her mantle and rolled up the sleeves of the blue surcote she wore. She had also pinned her braid up into a coil, but the heat was unbearable still. Perspiration gathered on her brow, her temples and in her cleavage.

Fires burned in every oven and hearth as venison, hen and lamb were roasted. Breads and pies baked. Oats were rolled and boiled. The kitchen was the scene of constant, frantic activity.

Bread, wine, cheese and smoked fishes had been served. Eilidh now returned to the kitchen with an empty trencher, her cheeks flushed.

Margaret rushed to her, taking the tray from her hands. “Well?”

Her eyes were huge like saucers in her small face. “He is so mighty, my lady, and so handsome, and so much like a king!”

Margaret had never met Robert Bruce, but tales had been told about him from the time he had ridden with William Wallace as a young man, attempting to overthrow King Edward even then. He was renowned to be not just a great soldier and a brilliant commander, but a handsome nobleman and, in spite of a second marriage, a ladies’ man. “What have you heard?”

“They are talking of wars and battles, my lady, and it was so confusing.”

Margaret was dismayed, but then, Peg returned with an empty tray, and Margaret smiled at Eilidh. “Get more fare and continue to eavesdrop,” she said softly. It was too noisy in the kitchens for anyone to overhear them.

Peg put her tray down and came over. Her eyes were filled with respect. “He is a fine man, Margaret. I think he will be our king.”

Margaret knew she must not trust Peg, but the maid loved to gossip. “Did you hear their conversation?”

“I did. Bruce cannot tame Galloway—he has just come from war there. He cursed the Gaels for their stubborn independence. And his men have lost Tibbers—and he will march on Dumbarton next.”

“They have lost ground—they must be irate.”

“No, they are boasting about the future—they think to win this war,” Peg said.

Margaret remained amazed by the rebels’ confidence. They truly thought to defeat King Edward.

“There is more, Margaret. They have gained new allies—the earls of Atholl and Lennox.”

Margaret stared, stunned. The Earl of Atholl, John Strathbogie, was a good friend of her family—he would never turn his back on her uncle! She did not believe it.

A rising scent interrupted her thoughts. “God! Something is burning!” She rushed to an oven to help remove a shank of lamb before it was ruined, from the corner of her eye watching both maids leave, their trenchers full once again.

Having salvaged the shank, Margaret paused to sip some wine, wiping perspiration from her brow and her chin.

Eilidh returned a few moments later, very breathlessly. “Bruce leaves tomorrow, at dawn.”

“Here.” Margaret handed her a cup of wine and watched as she drank some of it. She could not decide if she would be pleased by such an abrupt departure. Bruce had upset the household, but if she did not learn anything of value that night, it was all for nothing.

Eilidh set her cup aside. “He is on the march to Scone, my lady, for the crown.”

Margaret had been taking a sip of wine, and she choked. “Already?” she cried.

The maid nodded, but Margaret was disbelieving. It was March 5th. He could be at Scone in a week. And now she understood somewhat. He was advancing on Scone, and taking what castles he could along the way—including Dumbarton. He would need reinforcements if he were to claim the crown, as the act would launch the largest war with England this land had thus far seen. But the crowning of Scotland’s king was a very traditional ceremony. A great many bishops and barons would have to be present. They would have to be summoned in advance of any coronation.

Did Bruce really plan to take the crown within months—or even weeks? “Have they decided upon a date for a coronation?”

Eilidh was so pale now. Nervously, she whispered, “I think they said March the twenty-fifth, but I am not sure, because they argued a bit.”

Margaret went still, but her heart thundered. If a coronation had been set for March 25th, she must relay such information to her uncle, immediately. “When you go back, you must listen very closely—if a date has been set, we must learn of it.”

Eilidh nodded, seeming tearful. “Will they really crown him, Lady Margaret?”

“I don’t know. Eilidh—why did they argue?”

“The Wolf asked about the Stone of Scone. Bruce became angry. I do not know why.”

“King Edward stole the Stone of Scone years ago—and it is a part of the ceremony.” Margaret wondered if a coronation could even be valid, without the ceremonial relic.

Peg came rushing into the room, directly to them. She spoke in a rapid whisper, her eyes as wide as Eilidh’s. “Margaret, they’re discussing a coronation! They have summoned Scotland’s great earls and bishops!”

So it was about to happen—Bruce would seize the crown.

“Margaret! We will soon have a king!”

Margaret looked at Peg, realizing that she was filled with excitement. She decided not to bother to remind her that Bruce was the sworn enemy of her family.

But Peg stepped even closer, and lowered her voice so it was almost inaudible. “They are speaking about Isabella,” she said.

Margaret became rigid. “Not Isabella—my cousin by marriage?” Isabella was Buchan’s young, pretty wife—and a dear friend.

Peg nodded, her stare intense.

“Why would they discuss Isabella?” Margaret cried.

“There is a tradition for a king to be crowned. The Earl of Fife must lead the new king of Scotland to his throne, and there, he sets the crown upon his head. But they have no Earl of Fife.”

Isabella’s young brother, Ed, was the Earl of Fife—but he had been taken into King Edward’s custody some time ago. He was, in fact, a royal hostage. Isabella was the Countess of Fife, as well as the Countess of Buchan, now that she had married Margaret’s uncle.

Margaret had not realized that this was a part of the coronation ceremony. But then, she had never attended the coronation of a Scot king. “If Bruce wishes to follow tradition, what will he do? He will never be able to summon young Ed to the coronation.”

“Bruce thinks they could summon Isabella to do the honor, in the Earl of Fife’s stead.”

Margaret gasped. “He must be a madman. Isabella is the Countess of Buchan now. She is against Bruce, not for him. Yet he would force her to commit treason?”

“I dinna ken, Margaret, and I am as surprised as ye.”

Anger rippled through her. Isabella was her friend. They had met two years ago, when she was a bride. Isabella was only two years older than Margaret, which gave them some common ground, but more important, she had been somewhat forlorn at having left Fife. She had also been intimidated by her powerful, older husband—Margaret’s new guardian. As Margaret had been rather intimidated by the earl as well, they had quickly become friends.

Surely, they would quickly realize that Isabella would never participate in the coronation. Or did they already know that, and not care? Would they abduct her and force her to help crown Bruce?

Margaret had to know what Bruce planned, and if his plan included her friend. She also had to warn Isabella, if she was in such danger.

“I am finished hiding here in the kitchens,” she said, with sudden determination. She would not hide from Bruce any longer. She began plucking apart her braid. She shook her hair out and took off the apron she wore, then adjusted her gold girdle, and smoothed down her skirts. If they wished to plot and plan the theft of the crown, so be it—she intended to be present while they did so.

“My lady, the Wolf ordered ye to stay away from the hall,” Eilidh protested.

“He did. But I cannot spy—Alexander would recognize me. Therefore, I am joining them. After all, I am the lady of this castle, and it is my right to welcome my guest.”

Margaret left the kitchens, her pulse pounding. As she approached the great hall, she heard the conversation from within, which was loud and raucous and very male. She could now glimpse the many Highland men inside. She saw a great many English knights as well, and she was somewhat surprised—but Bruce was the Earl of Carrick, so he would have vassals from England, as well. Everyone seemed to be in good spirits, she saw, and her maids were mostly serving wine now, as the dinner was over. Glancing across the crowded hall, she saw Bruce and Alexander.

For one moment she hesitated on the hall’s threshold, not to gain composure, but to assess the man who was bold enough to dare to seize Scotland’s throne and fight off the might of England. He sat beside Alexander, his back to the wall, and his profile to her.

He was as tall as Alexander, meaning that he stood inches above most other men, as broad-shouldered, his arms those of a warrior accustomed to wielding swords and axes. Even from across the hall, she saw that his features were strong but pleasing. His hair was shoulder-length and reddish-brown. He was dressed in the manner more common to the borders and Englishmen, in a long-sleeved blue cote and a sleeveless brown tunic, his red mantle pinned at one shoulder. And then he turned aside from Alexander, as if aware of her presence, and instantly their gazes met.