Brenda Joyce (30 page)

Margaret managed to remain impassive, but inwardly, she cringed. So swiftly, they were on opposite sides of the war, as he had feared—as she had feared.

Sir Guy now stared at her. “Bruce sent his wife and her women to Aberdeen. King Edward wants them captured. Aymer has offered me the task.”

Alarm flooded her, and she feared it was evident. “Is it possible to capture them? They must be well guarded.”

“I have heard they are not well guarded—that they are in the care of Bruce’s brother, Sir Nigel, and a handful of his best men. Are you now fond of Elisabeth de Burgh?”

She wondered if she could send word to Queen Elisabeth, and warn her that Aymer de Valence wished to capture her and her ladies-in-waiting. “I have barely said a word to her—and she has barely said a word to me.”

“Ah, yes,” he mocked. “You fear for Isabella.”

She hadn’t given Isabella a thought until then, but she imagined her fate would be dire if the queen and her women were captured. She decided not to speak.

“We have matters to discuss before I leave,” Sir Guy said. “I will speak with you downstairs.” He nodded curtly, spun on booted heel and left.

Margaret’s shaking increased. He wished to speak with her
downstairs?

He hadn’t summoned her to the adjacent chamber. Dear God, was she being given another respite? Relief began to flood her. Moisture gathered in her eyes. Images flashed of that brutal encounter. But now was not the time to think about it.

“You are afraid of him!” Will cried weakly.

She looked at Will and nodded. And she did not think she should confide in William about what had happened—not because he was weak, but because he would be enraged.

“I knew you should not marry an Englishman! But what has happened—does he dislike you, too?”

She leaned over him. “Do not bother yourself now! You are too weak to become impassioned.”

Will panted and said, “At least he got Castle Fyne back for us.”

Did she dare tell him about her relationship with Alexander? Did she dare share her feelings? Was Alexander right? Would he approve of their union?

“Are you going to marry him, Meg? Is the marriage still planned?” Will asked feebly.

She stroked his hair. “I am supposed to marry him, but I cannot. Even if it means losing Castle Fyne, I cannot marry him—I despise him.” She felt ill again—enough so to use the chamber pot.

Will stared widely in surprise. “Is he that horrid?”

“I do not like him, and I never have.” She paused, tears filling her eyes. How she needed Will’s support, his blessing. “I love someone else.” And it was true. But hadn’t she known on some level, for some time, that she loved Alexander?

She did not know when she had come to love him. Perhaps it had been at Balvenie, when he had come for her and Isabella in the middle of the night. Or maybe it had been the morning after the first night they had made love, when they had met in his hall, and each had admitted to not having a single regret.

But he had been so disappointed and so angry when she had left him to attend William. Was he angry, still? Surely he would forgive her eventually, and understand why she had gone to Castle Fyne.

But now what? She looked at William, who was stunned. “You have fallen in love? In such a short time?”

“Yes. I wish to marry someone else.”

And dear God, it was true. Her heart leapt with excitement now. She wished to marry Alexander. Even though it meant changing sides in this war—she had already changed sides!—and it meant giving up every loyalty she had lived with for her entire life. The time had come to choose. Sir Guy had made that very clear.

“Who has claimed your heart?” Will asked harshly.

It was a moment before she spoke, fearful of his response, yet praying he would approve. “Alexander MacDonald.”

Will choked in disbelief. “Meg? Is this a jest?” When she did not speak, when she sat stiffly, staring, he flushed with anger. “Are you mad? He is not just our blood enemy—he does not just have MacDougall blood on his hands—he rides with Bruce, in a war against us. Against me—against you!”

She trembled. “Bruce is king, Will. He was crowned a few days ago at Scone.”

Will sat up, as white as snow. “And he will be hanged as the traitor he is! You have lost your wits! We are fighting Bruce, Meg—we are, you and I!”

“Did you not once say that any Scot, even Bruce, would be a better king for Scotland than King Edward?”

“You dare to argue?” He now collapsed against the pillows, panting.

“You are tiring yourself!” she cried. She quickly placed a linen compress in the icy lake water, and laid it on his forehead. “You will become ill again. Please, we should not discuss this, now.”

“Does Buchan know? Of course he does not!” Now, his eyes closed.

She decided not to answer, but it was very clear—Will was not about to approve of her feelings for Alexander, and he was not going to bless a marriage between them.

“I am sorry,” Margaret whispered, choking.

But Will was now asleep.

* * *

W
HEN
M
ARGARET
ENTERED
the hall, she saw that Sir Guy was immersed in a deep conversation with three of his men, and she overheard them discussing the transportation of three siege engines. She folded her arms, standing by the threshold, trembling. She could not have a natural reaction to him; she remained utterly afraid of Sir Guy.

“Where is Bruce now?” one of his knights asked him.

“He is on his way to Dundee, and that will be a lengthy battle.” Sir Guy turned, having become aware of her.

Margaret stared back at him, aware of how ill she felt. But she dismissed the terrible, haunting sensation. In the heat of their struggle, she had lost all discipline, shouting her true feelings about their marriage to him. Now, they were serious rivals.

Her mind raced. If he believed her in opposition to their marriage, she would be held a prisoner, certainly. She might be held prisoner anyway. No matter what, no good would come of her having disclosed the truth of how she felt and what she wanted. She must somehow convince Sir Guy that she would meekly obey him, even if she did not mean it.

Sir Guy was staring at her. Not looking at his men, he said, “These matters can wait. Leave us.”

The three knights turned and hurried out, leaving them very much alone in the great hall. Somehow she asked, “When are you leaving?”

“As soon as we can, within hours, or less,” he said, starting toward her. He paused before her. “How that must please you.”

She did not reply and she did not allow her facial muscles to move.

He smiled unpleasantly at her. “I am leaving a very strong garrison here. But MacDonald will not attack—if that is your hope. He is with Bruce now. Castle Fyne remains ours.”

She fought to keep her expression unchanged as she prayed to God to keep Alexander safe. And it did not escape her attention that Sir Guy had referred to the stronghold as theirs. “I hardly wish for Castle Fyne to be attacked another time.”

“Then, finally, I am pleased with you,” he said.

She had her opening. “I am also sorry to have displeased you.”

“Really?” His single word was a challenge. “I am a knight, and when called to battle, I go,” he said harshly. “But I will return here as soon as I can, to finish this consummation. And Margaret? I will write Buchan immediately.”

Of course he would. Perhaps she could get her own missive to him, defending herself, and begging him to support her decision to abandon his plans for her marriage to Sir Guy. If Buchan could be dissuaded from their union, it would change everything! But she knew that was not likely.

“You are a mere woman. You do not get to choose whom you will wed, or whom not to wed.” His gaze narrowed. “While I am gone, you should think about our upcoming nuptials, and what serves you best when I return. Fighting me is not in your better interest.”

“I know I do not get to choose my husband, nor do I get to refuse a husband. And I regret losing my temper, Sir Guy, but you frightened me terribly.”

“So the fault is mine?”

“Of course not.” Carefully, she said, “Sir Guy, I became frightened last night. I have been expecting a June wedding. And I am also afraid that we do not suit—that I continually displease you. I lost all reason. I wish to apologize.”

He made a harsh, disparaging sound. “I have always thought you clever—too clever. Do you think to convince me that you are not opposed to our marriage? You will have to do better. You will have to change your nature, and your ways. And Margaret? If you are being insincere, know this—what you wish doesn’t matter. We will marry, either here, in a handfast, or in June.”

She somehow nodded.

“At least you are obedient today.” His stare hardened. “I hope you are sincere. It is claimed that you are an honorable woman. If so, you will do your duty, cease your disputes, and gladly.”

“I am a woman of honor.”

He seemed skeptical, still. “Time will tell. In the meantime, you will remain here, behind these stout walls, where you will be safe. You remain a valuable prize to MacDonald, to Bruce—and to me.” With that, he turned and strode across the hall and left.

Margaret heard him calling to several men. Slowly, she walked over to the table, and there she sank down.

In a few more hours he would be gone. She could not wait.

* * *

T
HE
ENTIRE
CASTLE
was asleep. Alone, Margaret sat at the table in the great hall, one taper burning. She dipped her quill in the ink and wrote upon the vellum spread out before her.

April 15, 1306

My dearest friend Isabella,

I am safely arrived at Castle Fyne, attending to my brother. William was wounded when Sir Guy attacked the stronghold, but he is out of danger now. Sir Guy has ordered me to remain here, while he marches to Berwick to join his brother, Aymer. He has left a strong garrison behind, leaving us secure and defensible. Soon William will be well enough to return to Balvenie. I am to await Sir Guy’s return.

Margaret thought she heard a footfall and she froze, listening. Sir Guy would never allow her to write to Isabella. But Marsaili would smuggle the letter from the keep to the village below the castle, on Loch Fyne’s shores. There, one of the villagers would be well paid to forward the letter to another courier, in another village, and eventually, the letter would arrive in Aberdeen.

Without a single messenger, it was a painstaking way to get her message to Isabella, and there was always the possibility that Isabella and the queen and her court would be gone by the time the missive arrived. Still, there was no simple way to send the letter, not when she was writing to her friend who was behind enemy lines.

And there was always the chance that her missive would be intercepted. Margaret knew she must be careful about what she said and how she said it. She wished to warn the queen that Aymer had been instructed to send his men to capture them, and she also wished to inquire after Alexander. She continued.

I am praying you are well and safe, in a time of war and intrigue, when spies are everywhere, when even women can be pursued as outlaws. Have you become friendly with any of the women you are with? Could you give my regards to Elisabeth?

She did not dare refer to her as the queen, and she doubted Isabella would understand the message she was trying to convey. She could only hope that her friend allowed the queen to read the letter.

I am isolated now and I should like any news that you could possibly send. We have no war news now, no news of friends or family, making these times even more difficult. I can only pray for us all.

Your dear friend,

Margaret Comyn

“To whom are you writing?”

Margaret leapt up, knocking over the ink, but fortunately, she did not damage the letter. She stared in shock at William.

Ten days had passed since Sir Guy had left Castle Fyne. William had been improving on a daily basis, but this was the first time he had walked any distance, much less on his own. “How did you get downstairs?” she cried.

He smiled. “As one usually does.” He was leaning on a cane. “I am much better, Meg.” His eyes were bright. “In a few more days, I will be well enough to go home. Well?”

She had no intention of lying to her brother. “I am writing to Isabella.”

His smile vanished. “She is a damned harlot—the damned enemy!”

By now, William knew that she and Isabella had left Balvenie in the middle of the night and that they had been at Bruce’s coronation—and that Isabella had participated in the ceremony. He had heard the gossip about her affair with Bruce, too.

He was a Comyn first, and in an instant, his affection for her had turned to animosity. “How can you write to her?” he asked, rather coldly.

“She remains my friend,” Margaret said.

His stare hardened and he limped over to the table.

“Will you now read my privy correspondences?” she asked.

He jerked to look at her. “I suppose not. I am your older brother, Meg, and I could forbid you from writing to her. We both know that neither Buchan nor Sir Guy would allow it.”

“I am not a lackey to be bullied about,” she said tartly. Then she softened. “Will. Poor Isabella. She has ruined her life. I am her friend. She needs me!”

He sighed. “She is a fool as well as a strumpet.”

“Will!”

“It’s the truth.” Then his stare became searching. “Is that the only letter you are writing?”

“I already wrote Buchan.” She had written their uncle the day Sir Guy had left—and not just to defend Isabella. She had asked him if she could return to Balvenie with William. Remaining at Castle Fyne, awaiting—and dreading—Sir Guy’s return, was impossible. And once there, she would reveal that she could no longer marry Sir Guy—and perhaps, she might even reveal why.

And once at Balvenie, she would be somewhat free of Sir Guy—she would not be his prisoner—and she would be so much closer to the war...and to Alexander.