Brenda Joyce (38 page)

He slowly smiled at her, but it was unpleasant and cold, as if he knew what would come next. “Of course.”

“Uncle, I wish to talk to you about Isabella.”

“Do not bring up her name!”

“Please, forgive Isabella. She is young and foolish, impulsive and reckless. She did not know what they wanted of her—and she did not think it through. Bruce took advantage of her—a young, naive woman. And had she not helped him, he would have forced her.”

He snarled, “She is a whore.”

“She was used by an older, powerful and clever man! You loved her! I know—I saw it, time and again! How can you stop loving her now?”

“I stopped loving her long ago.”

Margaret believed him. But she had never thought their marriage salvageable. She only wanted to save Isabella’s life. “This is her time of need. How can you refuse to aid her? I understand why you will not take her back as your wife, even if, in God’s eyes, she will always be your wife. But do you want to see her hanged? Just aid her, Uncle, just help her escape the king’s rage, help her avoid execution.”

He was shaking, but he smiled tightly now. “King Edward is not having her executed. How fortunate for Isabella.”

Margaret froze. His smile was so savage that she feared whatever punishment had already been meted out.

“King Edward has ordered her
caged.
”

“Caged?” Had she misheard?

“She is in a cage at Berwick! She has been caged like an animal, and she has been displayed so anyone, everyone, can see her, taunt her, insult her, condemn her for the treacherous bitch she is! And she will stay in that cage until she dies!”

Margaret stared, stunned.

“God damn her to hell. And God damn you, Margaret,” he choked. “I trusted you!”

“I am sorry,” she managed to say. As they stared at one another, both of them in tears, for an instant she thought he was going to come to her and forgive her after all. But then he whirled and strode through a back door and out of the chapel.

William rushed to her. “I love you,” he said.

She could not speak now and she nodded.

“And I am happy for you!” With that, he turned and hurried after the Earl of Buchan.

Margaret did not move. Alexander put his arm around her. She looked up at him. “I am truly a MacDonald now.”

“Aye.”

Castle Fyne, Scotland—January, 1307

M
ARGARET
PAUSED
ON
the threshold of the bedchamber that had belonged to her parents, holding her slightly protruding belly in both hands. She looked down at her tummy and smiled warmly at her unborn child. “We are home, little one,” she whispered. “Welcome.”

There was so much disbelief—and so much relief. Castle Fyne was hers again. They were home.

As she stood there, she could hear Alexander in the great room below with his two brothers. He had been planning his attack upon Castle Fyne ever since she had met her uncle and Will at the MacSween chapel. A January siege had been devised. The entire plan was to retake Castle Fyne, fortify it, and then Alexander could join Bruce.

Bruce had been forced to flee Dunaverty after all, as the English pursued him there, and he had hidden upon Rathlin Island. But he continued to solicit support amongst a great many clans, including those in the western islands. Promises of men and arms had begun to come to fruition. Bruce had sent a small army to raid the castle upon Arran, as it was being supplied by the English. The raid had been a success, and now Bruce was gathering up several armies, a great many ships, preparing to launch an attack upon the mainland.

As for the attack on Castle Fyne, it had been swift. With Sir Guy now dead, a great many of his men had simply fled the battle. His remaining men had not been eager to defend the stronghold. The keep had fallen to the MacDonald brothers in a single day.

Margaret knew she had no right to the happiness she felt then. But her pregnancy had changed everything. Even with the war looming, she had never been as happy, and she had never loved Alexander more. She wandered to the chamber’s open window and stared down at the loch. Patches of ice floated upon the nearfrozen waters. Snow-clad trees covered the shores.

She thought of her mother, her heart lurching. How pleased Mary MacDougall would be—Margaret had no doubt. She had loved her husband, and she had given her daughter Castle Fyne. Now Margaret was following in her mother’s footsteps, loving Alexander, and being able to one day bequeath her daughter with the same gift.

It was foolish, but she almost felt her gentle presence, as if she were close by, smiling at her.

She could still hear the men below in animated conversation—the three brothers were warriors, and they were relishing their victory. Cups of wine were being raised. Boasts were being made, jests were being told. Food was demanded.

And she recalled the first time she had ever seen Alexander, below the castle walls, when he had come to demand her surrender. She smiled. He had been a proud and great warrior then, he remained a proud and great warrior now, and he was her husband.

How frightened she had been. How the past year had changed their lives. How fortunate she was, that they had both survived the first months of Bruce’s war.

She sobered, thinking of Christina Seton—and then of Marjorie. Atholl had been captured with the queen and her women—he was in London, awaiting trial. No one believed he would survive; the trial was meant to be a spectacle. She prayed for him and the women daily.

She prayed for Isabella.

How she wished she could visit her. How she wished she could send her a letter. But she could not. All Margaret could do was send her prayers and love.

A soft knock outside the open tower door interrupted her thoughts. Margaret turned, warmth rushing through her.

Juliana MacDougall stood there. And she looked so very much like her mother, there was no doubt that they were sisters. She was a slim, beautiful woman with red-brown hair and bright blue eyes. They had met when Alasdair Og and she had come to Kintyre. They had become friends instantly. Juliana understood what it was like to love one’s enemy, and to choose that love over family.

She came into the room. “What a wonderful day this is. Mary would be so proud of you.”

Margaret clasped her hand. “I thought I felt her here, a moment ago. Silly, isn’t it?”

“You don’t believe in ghosts?” Juliana smiled.

Of course she did. It was a Scottish tradition. “Thank you for your help—yours and Alasdair’s.”

“We were pleased to help you meet Buchan, and even more pleased to help young Alexander take Castle Fyne.”

“I am so glad I have a new friend,” Margaret said impulsively.

Juliana took her hand. “When it is time for the birthing, send for me. I wish to be here.”

Margaret nodded, too moved to speak.

Rapid footsteps sounded, booted spurs clinging. Margaret felt her heart skip and she turned. Alexander came striding into the room, appearing very satisfied.

He smiled at Juliana. “My brother is asking for ye, Lady Juliana. He wants ye to join him at our table. He says he hasn’t seen in ye in two entire days!” Alexander laughed.

Margaret thrilled at the sound, as it was so rare.

“Men,” Juliana said to Margaret with mock exasperation. “Just remember to always be at your husband’s beck and call, and your marriage will be fine.” Juliana kissed her cheek, patted Alexander on the arm and left.

Margaret went into his strong arms. “Thank you.”

He raised his brows as if he had no idea of what she spoke. “Fer what, pray tell?”

“For taking Castle Fyne back for us—for our daughter.”

His eyes widened. “Do ye carry a girl?”

“I don’t know...but I do know that one day we will have a daughter, and Castle Fyne will be her dowry, just as it was mine.”

“And what of our sons?”

“You will have to win more lands,” she said, at once teasing and also meaning it.

He smiled at her. “I will manage that, Margaret, if it is yer wish.”

She clasped his face in her hands. “I am so fortunate.”

“I am the one with good fortune,” he said.

And then they both turned to admire the majesty of the Highland day in the midst of a snow-filled winter.

The loch below gleamed as brightly as a diamond. Dark and lush, green forests covered the land. Snowy mountain caps jutted into the sky. Eagles soared.

They held hands and Margaret whispered, “It is so beautiful—so quiet, so peaceful.”

“Aye.”

She knew he was thinking that the respite from Bruce’s war for Scotland’s independence was almost over. “We must enjoy these next few days and weeks,” she said.

He pulled her close. “Dinna be afraid.”

She looked up at him. “I’m not.”

She thought about how brave and bold Robert Bruce was—how great his ambition. He had stolen a crown, he had gone to war against the mightiest army in the land, he had survived massacres and defeats, and now he returned to fight for Scotland another time.

And Alexander would be at his side. He was a warrior in his heart and in his soul. She had known it before she ever loved him, just as she had known it when they married. She could not imagine him differently. In times of war, he would go to battle; in times of peace, like these, he would be at her side.

How she hoped King Robert defeated the English, and quickly, so a real and lasting peace might befall Scotland.

She was beginning to believe that he would succeed.

She realized the nature of her thoughts and she smiled. “I am such a MacDonald now.”

“Good.” He smiled back at her.

Bruce would return, because he was Scotland’s rightful king. He would fight to free the country from England’s yoke. And if God willed it, he would triumph, with Alexander at his side.

While she would be at Castle Fyne, caring for their newborn child.

And now, she would leave politics and wars to the men. She had had enough of wartime intrigues, enough to last a lifetime.

* * * * *

Dear Readers,

When my publisher asked me if I would like to write a series of romance novels set in the Highlands, my immediate reaction was yes—if the period could be medieval. And as I began to dig into the era, I never imagined that such a huge, epic story like
A Rose in the Storm
would result. There is nothing that inspires me as much as an innocent heroine swept up in historical events beyond her control, and in this case, the war for Scotland’s throne.

This novel is a work of fiction. However, I have tried to portray historical events and historical figures as accurately as possible. But this period in Scotland’s history is filled with conflicting accounts and huge gaps in information, leaving me to pick and choose what I want to write, and where I wish to fill in the blanks. It is also a period of myriad and ever changing politics and alliances. I have done my best to sort through what must seem to be terribly confusing characters and events. Any errors in fact are mine.

For the sake of the story, I have deliberately taken a few liberties.

Margaret Comyn is a fictional character, but the great Comyn family, both the earls of Buchan and Badenoch, are not. The Comyn family came to power in the north and south of Scotland in the thirteenth century, and their power increased when their relation, John Balliol, became king in 1292. Likewise, the great Clan Dougall also became preeminent under King John. Alexander of Argyll was married to a Comyn, making for a powerful alliance between the Comyn family and Clan Dougall.

The Comyns and MacDougalls fought against the English in Scotland’s Wars for Independence until the very day that Bruce murdered Red John Comyn, Lord of Badenoch, in a church in Dumfries. On that day, old alliances were broken, and new ones formed. On that day, both Comyn and MacDougall took to the field against Robert Bruce, in support of King Edward.

Margaret could have existed. History in this time period is not kind to women. It is usual to find a family tree where the sons’ names are listed, but the daughters are unnamed—although their husbands might be named. Often the birth of a female was not even recorded.

Her father, Master William, was supposed to have received the bishopric of St. Andrews, and was disappointed when he did not. I have discovered nothing else about him. But that is the beauty of this time period—sometimes, historical details abound; more often, they do not. And then the lucky author—me—gets to fill in the gaps.

Alexander MacDougall of Argyll did have two sisters, Mary and Juliana. When I first “invented” Margaret, I gave her a MacDougall mother: Mary MacDougall, a completely fictional character. Imagine my surprise when I learned that Alexander of Argyll really had a sister named Mary, and therefore, he was really Margaret’s uncle (another invention of mine). However, in history, Mary was married to three other men; it is pure poetic license on my part to have had her married to William. Unless, of course, she was married a fourth time....

Alexander MacDonald, the Wolf of Lochaber, is also a fictional character. I based the legend of the Wolf of Lochaber very loosely upon a different legend. In the late fourteenth century, the notorious Wolf of Badenoch was excommunicated for choosing his mistress over his wife, and in revenge, he burned a cathedral to the ground—along with a nearby town. It was unforgettable, and so Alexander, the Wolf of Lochaber, was born.

But he could have existed, as well. Angus Mor had two sons, Alexander “Alasdair” Og and Angus Og, as I have described. The enmity between Clan Donald and Clan Dougall was a blood feud. Yet Alexander Og did marry Juliana MacDougall, sometime before 1292. It is not clear why, or how the union came to be. Some historians believe that Alexander Og died in 1299 in the Massacre of Clan Donald. Others believe that he died in 1308, when he was captured while fighting against Bruce—having taken his wife’s family’s side in the war. If he did die in 1299, then no one quite knows who the other Alexander MacDonald was in 1308, or where he came from.

In 1309, Bruce wreaked his vengeance upon the Comyn family in the north of Scotland, ending their power for all time. A deliberate misrepresentation on my part was the battle led by John the Lame of Argyll against Robert Bruce and his men in the late summer of 1306, when Bruce and his army were in hiding after the massacre at Methven. There were two battles, not one. After the first successful attack, Bruce sent the women to a castle on a nearby loch for safety, and then there was the second, as devastating, attack. He then sent the women and his warhorses back to Kildrummy as I have described, while he made his way across Scotland and to Dunaverty.

Sir Guy is also a fictional character, Guy being a family name (Aymer had an uncle of that name). But the mighty and oh-so-impressive Aymer de Valence—who was King Edward’s military commander in Scotland, and the following year, became Earl of Pembroke—was not.

And finally, there is Isabella, both the Countess of Buchan and the Countess of Fife.

Poor Isabella. She did ride away in the middle of the night to attend Bruce’s coronation, and stand in for her brother, the Earl of Fife. One can only assume that her husband, the Earl of Buchan, was enraged. Gossip held at the time that she and Bruce were lovers. And her fate was to be captured with the other women at St. Duthac, and imprisoned in a cage for four years. She was moved to a friary, perhaps because she remained an important prisoner, at which point, her fate remains unknown.

I have always been fascinated by the struggle of women to find courage and strength in bygone times of great adversity, when all power was reserved to men, when women were either chattel or pawns, and merely wives and mothers. I hope you have enjoyed Margaret’s story of struggle, challenge and survival—and yes, of love.

Sincerely,

Brenda Joyce