Brenda Joyce (21 page)

Beneath the table, Isabella took her hand. Somehow, Margaret smiled at her, in spite of how frantically her thoughts were racing. Then she beseeched her uncle. “This talk of war has given me a terrible headache. Could I be excused?”

“I think we are done—for now. But Margaret? They may wish to ask you more questions before we leave on the morrow.”

Margaret nodded and got up. Isabella leapt up to join her. “Husband? May I go up, as well?”

He smiled fondly at her. “Of course you may.”

“Shall I show you to your rooms?” Marjorie asked, also rising. She seemed relieved to be able to leave the table.

As she followed Marjorie and Isabella up the stairs, Margaret thought about what she had just learned: they might try to divide Bruce’s army from Alexander’s. They would then destroy Alexander first.

“Marjorie? I must use the privy chamber,” she said.

Marjorie smiled at her over her shoulder, and she and Isabella turned the corner upstairs.

Alone on the stairwell, Margaret turned and raced down the winding steps. She hurried to the threshold of the great hall, but did not step across it. Instead, her heart pounding, she pressed against the wall, trying to hear.

The men were speaking loudly enough that she caught bits and pieces of their conversation. She heard Bruce’s name being mentioned several times, as well as Alexander’s. She heard them mention Scone.

“What are you doing?” Sir Ranald seized her arm.

She gasped, facing him. His expression was hard.

He did not wait for her to answer. “You must go upstairs, Lady Margaret, before Buchan catches you.”

She tried to devise a plausible explanation for her eavesdropping.

“Go,” he insisted.

Margaret fled.

* * *

M
ARGARET
WAS
ABOUT
to climb into her bed in the chamber she had been given when Isabella stepped into the room.

She started. It was very late now, but if Isabella had come to speak with her, it meant that the men were still downstairs.

“You gave me such a fright,” she said, closing the door. She wore but a long, loose robe, her hair in plaits.

Margaret knew she was speaking of the interview that had taken place an hour earlier in the hall below. “I was not going to reveal Bruce’s plans for you,” she said. “But surely, after seeing how angry all the men downstairs are, you realize you must never acquiesce in his attempt to steal the throne.”

“If he comes for me, I will go with him,” Isabella said.

“What would make you think that he will come for you? Surely, you have not received a message from him?”

Isabella flushed. “How could I receive word from him? But if he wants me at Scone, I would need men and horses in order to get there. He would have to come for me.”

Margaret was filled with doubt. Had Isabella received word from Bruce or a crony? Was it possible?

“What about you, Margaret?” Isabella approached her and sat down on the bed as Margaret stood beside it. “Do you support Bruce now?”

“Why would you think that?” But hadn’t she betrayed her uncle and his allies a moment ago? By failing to reveal all that she knew?

She had done so not to support Bruce, but to protect Alexander.

Isabella’s stare was steady. “Because you did not tell them everything that you know. You did not tell them that there is a date for the coronation, or that they wish for me to stand beside Bruce when he puts on the crown.”

“I am against Bruce!” she cried. But she felt a nagging doubt—her actions thus far said otherwise.

She could not be entirely against Bruce as long as Alexander rode with him, she realized. She simply could not.

“But if you had spoken up,” Isabella said, “Buchan would keep me under guard, and there would be no possibility of my ever being at Scone. If you had spoken up, they would ride for Scone shortly, and lay a trap there for Bruce.”

Margaret’s heart thudded. She did not know what to say.

Isabella stood up, their gazes locked. “Is it Bruce?” she asked, low. “You met him. Did he persuade you that his cause is the just one?”

She wet her lips. “No.”

Isabella began to shake her head. “He has an eye for the ladies. You are so beautiful. He must have flirted with you—perhaps tried to take you to bed? And he is a handsome man. He has convinced you, Margaret, to betray the family, hasn’t he?”

“He has not!” she cried, in real horror. “He flirted a bit, but most men do. And he did try to impress upon me that it would be advantageous if I changed my loyalties—but I refused. I am loyal to Buchan. I am a Comyn!”

Isabella studied her intently. “I believe you. But from your actions, you are not as loyal to my husband as you think.” She walked to the door, then swiftly returned and kissed Margaret’s cheek. “Good night, Margaret. And thank you for keeping my secret.”

* * *

T
HE
WIND
WHIPPED
the trees that lined the road they traveled upon, the skies above gray and threatening rain. Margaret rode beside Isabella, huddled in a fur, their horses restlessly tossing their heads. Buchan and Sir Ranald rode ahead of them, the rest of the escort behind. It was midafternoon and they were but a few miles from home.

“I am frozen to the bone,” Isabella said, her teeth chattering.

Margaret was as cold, but before she could speak, Sir Ranald called out, holding up his hand, and every horse in the cavalcade halted. Ahead, a rider was streaking down the road toward them, at a full gallop.

Buchan nodded and Sir Ranald galloped toward the oncoming rider, the two meeting some ways down the road, neither man very visible from this distance. A moment passed as they spoke to one another, and then Margaret watched as Sir Ranald and the rider turned as one, riding back to their group.

When they were close enough to be identified, Margaret recognized the rider as one of Buchan’s soldiers. Sir Ranald said, “The Wolf of Lochaber is camped upon the River Spey, not far from Balvenie.”

Margaret almost cried out. Instead, she clamped down on the cry, and stared, disbelieving. Why would Alexander be at Balvenie?

Sir Ranald rode up to Buchan and held out a rolled-up parchment. “He has sent this to you, my lord.”

Feeling dazed, Margaret watched her uncle leap from his stallion and take the parchment. Sir Ranald also dismounted, and Buchan handed his horse’s reins to him. He immediately untied the parchment, unrolled it and began reading.

Margaret realized she was holding her breath. What did the Wolf want? If he sent but a letter, she would assume it was news of Will—or a request for a ransom. But he was camped just down the road on the banks of the river.

It was incredible.

And then she saw an expression of disbelief cross Buchan’s face. He whirled and looked up at her.

A terrible tension struck her. “What is it? What passes?” she managed to ask.

“He wishes to trade Will for you—for you as his bride.”

For one moment, Margaret did not understand him.

Buchan tore up the parchment then, furiously.

“He has asked for my hand?” she gasped, as comprehension began.

Buchan faced her, red-faced. “The bastard! He wishes to strengthen his control of Castle Fyne! If he marries you, no one will question his command!”

Margaret was reeling. She felt Isabella reach out and touch her arm. She could not look at her—she stared at her uncle, instead.

Alexander had proposed a marriage between them.

She could marry Alexander instead of Sir Guy.

And for one instant, her heart leapt. For one instant, she was relieved.

“He has said he will await your answer, my lord,” the outrider said.

Buchan turned. “Damn him to hell! My answer is no! Tell him I demand a ransom for my nephew, and he will suffer my wrath if he does not ask for one!”

Margaret gripped the horn of her saddle tightly, and her mare was prancing about, as she sensed her rider’s tension. What had she been thinking?

Her family hated Alexander’s family; the clans were rivals and blood enemies.

A war now raged, pitting the Comyns against him and Bruce.

Of course they could not marry. He was her enemy!

And he had only asked for her hand in marriage because of Castle Fyne.

The rider was galloping off toward the north, where Alexander was camped, and would soon tell him that her uncle had refused his offer.

She began to shake. Did she feel dismayed? She must be mad, if so.

Buchan faced her. “You are to marry Sir Guy and he knows it.” He then seized his horse’s reins and leapt astride. “To Balvenie,” he roared, still enraged.

Margaret watched him gallop away, and then realized she must follow, when she was so stunned, she was merely sitting there in a daze.

“Come, Lady Margaret, as it will rain soon,” Sir Ranald said, having ridden up to her.

She flinched, as he had taken her by surprise, she was so enraptured in her thoughts. She had avoided looking at him the entire day, after he had caught her eavesdropping the night before. Now she was surprised, because his expression was kind.

She took a deep breath. “Yes, we must hurry to Balvenie—before it rains.”

* * *

M
ARGARET
DARED
TO
cross the great hall, where Buchan paced, still in a temper, and now surrounded by his men. He did not even see her, and for that, she was relieved. She ran upstairs to her chamber. Once inside, she halted, breathing hard.

Now what should she do?

Alexander was but a few minutes away, and Buchan had refused a union between them, and rightly so.

She hugged herself. If only she could think clearly. But now, she had one thought. She kept thinking about how different it would be if she married Alexander instead of Sir Guy.

Peg rushed into the room, her eyes wide. “MacDonald offered marriage? And he is at the River Spey?”

Margaret nodded. And as she stared at Peg, she thought about Will, who would have been freed if Buchan had agreed to such a union. Poor Will.

Peg said, “He is a MacDonald. The enemy of yer mother’s kin. But Sir Guy is English—and every bit as much an enemy.”

“We ride with the English now.”

“Fer how long?” Peg challenged.

Margaret shrugged helplessly and said, “Peg, we are at war.”

“Fer how long?” she repeated relentlessly.

Before Margaret could respond, Isabella came to the threshold of the room and stared at her. “Ye are white,” she finally said. “What has happened?”

Margaret bit her lip. “I never imagined he would ask to marry me.”

Isabella stepped into the room and closed the door. “What did you imagine?”

Margaret tensed. Isabella suspected something. But she could never know the truth. It was too dangerous. “I imagined that eventually we would war against him and take Castle Fyne back,” she finally said.

“But he has decided marriage is better than war. How interesting—but then, you are so beautiful. Is he smitten?”

“I doubt Alexander would be smitten by any woman, Isabella.”

“He was smitten by his mistress, the woman he fought to make his wife—the woman who died giving birth to his child.”

Margaret tensed. “That is legend.”

“Everyone knows it is true.”

She folded her arms. “He is not smitten with me. He wishes to keep Castle Fyne securely in his control.”

“You seem distraught, Margaret.”

Isabella was right. She was upset as never before. She could not marry Alexander, and it had more to do with the war for the throne of Scotland than it did the ancient enmity between their clans.

I would be proud if ye ever fought to defend what was mine.

She froze, having just heard Alexander as clearly as if he stood beside her. He admired her. He respected her. And he had spoken those words to her after Sir Guy had berated her for defending Castle Fyne from his attack.

Alexander had appreciated what she had done. Sir Guy had not.

And when Alexander touched her, desire swelled; when Sir Guy touched her, she was repulsed.

“Do you have some interest in the Wolf of Lochaber, Margaret?” Isabella asked, taking her hand.

Margaret jumped as if burned. “Of course not.” She felt her cheeks heat.

And then Margaret heard her uncle roar from the hall below. If she hadn’t misheard, he had shouted her name.

Isabella blanched, dropping her hand.

Margaret ran to the door and opened it, and as she did, Eilidh appeared, running as hard as she could toward her. “The earl wishes ye downstairs,” she cried, appearing pale and frightened.

“Margaret!” Buchan shouted again.

Something had happened—another message from Alexander, perhaps? As frightened as the rest of the women, Margaret lifted her skirts and ran down the hall and downstairs, Isabella and her maids on her heels.

Buchan was pacing, flushed with anger once again. As she skidded into the hall, he halted, facing her, arms akimbo. “You know him, do you not?” he asked. “You must know him well!”

Had someone betrayed them? Peg? Dughall? Did Buchan speak of her infidelity now?

“Well?” he demanded, striding to her. “What does he want? He has just demanded a meeting!”

She almost fainted; she was so relieved. Isabella steadied her and said, sharply, “John! She is distraught! You must not shout at her.”

He glanced at her and said, “I am distraught!” But he did not shout now.

Margaret caught her breath and faced him. She sought composure. “I cannot imagine what he wants. But he has Will.” Her mind began to race, frantically. He had Will; he wanted a meeting. “You must go!” She caught herself and softened her tone. “Uncle, can you please speak to him? Perhaps you can arrange Will’s release!”

“Of course I am going to speak to the bastard—he has your brother and Castle Fyne!” He whirled to Sir Ranald. “Tell him we will meet at the red rocks in two hours. He may bring ten men, no more. I will do the same. Then have a hundred of our best soldiers ready, and fifty knights. We go to the red rocks in an hour.”

Margaret tried not to tremble. As Sir Ranald left, she said, “You will deceive him—and ambush him?”