Brenda Joyce (4 page)

She wondered if she was dreaming. She was actually considering breaking a truce and murdering a man. But she knew she must not stoop to such a level.

She had been raised to be a noble woman—a woman of her word, a woman of honor, a woman gentle and kind, a woman who would always do her duty. She could not murder the Wolf during a truce.

Finding it difficult to breathe evenly, Margaret went up the narrow stairwell, Sir Neil behind her. As she stepped outside onto the ramparts, it was at once frigidly cold and uncannily silent. There was light, but no sun. Her archers remained, as did her dozen soldiers and the women and children who had been present earlier. But it almost seemed as if no one moved or breathed.

Sir Neil touched her elbow and she crossed the stone battlements, still feeling as if she were in the midst of a terrible dream, trying to find her composure and her wits before she spoke with her worst enemy. Standing just a hand-span from the edge of the crenellated wall, she looked down.

Several hundred men were assembled between the barbican and the forest. In the very front they stood on foot, holding shields, but behind them the soldiers were mounted on horseback. Above the first columns a white flag waved, and beside it, so did a huge black-and-navy-blue banner, a fiery red dragon in its center.

And then Margaret saw him.

The rest of the army vanished from her sight. Frozen, she saw only one man—the Highlander called the Wolf of Lochaber.

Alexander MacDonald was the tallest, biggest, darkest one of all, standing in the front row of his army, in its very center. And he was staring up at her.

Black hair touched his huge shoulders, blood stained his leine and swords, a shield was strapped to one brawny forearm, and he was smiling at her.

“Lady Comyn,” he called to her. “Yer as fair as is claimed.”

She trembled. He was exactly as one would have expected—taller than most, broader of shoulder, a mass of muscle from years spent wielding swords and axes, his hair as black as the devil’s. His smile was chilling, a mere curling of his mouth. She stared down at him, almost transfixed.

And when he did not speak again, when he only stared—and when she realized she was speechlessly staring back—she flushed and found her tongue. “I have no use for your flattery.”

The cool smile reappeared. “Are ye prepared to surrender to me?”

Her mind raced wildly—how could she navigate this subject? “You will never take this keep. My uncle is on his way, even as we speak. So is the great Lord Badenoch.”

“If ye mean yer uncle of Argyll, I canna wait. I look forward to taking off his head!” he exclaimed, with such relish, she knew he meant his every word. “And I dinna think the mighty Lord of Badenoch will come.”

What did that mean? She shuddered. “Where is my brother?”

“He is safely in my keeping, Lady Comyn, although he has suffered some wounds.”

She was so relieved she had to grip the wall to remain standing upright. “He is your prisoner?”

“Aye, he is my prisoner.”

“How badly is he hurt?”

“He will live.” He added, more softly, “I would never let such a valuable prisoner die.”

“I wish to see him,” she cried.

He shook his head. “Yer in no position to wish fer anything, Lady Comyn. I am here to negotiate yer surrender.”

She trembled. She wanted to know how badly William was hurt. She wanted to see him. And hadn’t Malcolm said that the Wolf was a liar? “I will not discuss surrender, not until you have proven to me that my brother is alive.”

“Ye dinna take my word?”

She clutched the edge of the wall. “No, I do not accept your word.”

“So ye think me a liar,” he said, softly, and it was a challenge.

Margaret felt Sir Neil step up behind her. “Show me my brother, prove to me he is alive,” she said.

“Ye tread dangerously,” he finally said. “I will show ye Will, after ye surrender.”

She breathed hard.

He slowly smiled. “I have six hundred men—ye have dozens. I am the greatest warrior in the land—yer a woman, a very young one. Yet I am offering ye terms.”

“I haven’t heard terms,” she managed to say.

That terrible smile returned. “Surrender now, and ye will be free to leave with an escort. Surrender now, and yer people will be as free to leave. Refuse, and ye will be attacked. In defeat, no one will be spared.”

Margaret managed not to cry out. How could she respond—when she did not plan to surrender?

If only she knew for certain that Argyll and Red John were on their way with their own huge armies! But even if they were, for how long could she withstand the Wolf’s attack? Could they manage until help arrived?

For if they did not, if he breached her walls, he meant to spare no one—and he had just said so.

“Delay,” Sir Neil whispered.

Instantly Margaret understood. “You are right,” she called down. “You are known as the greatest warrior in the land, and I am a woman of seventeen.” How wary and watchful he had become. “I cannot decide what to do. If I were your prisoner and my brother were here in my stead, he would not surrender, of that I am certain.”

“Are ye truly thinking to outwit me?” he demanded.

“I am only a woman. I would not be so foolish as to think I could outwit the mighty Wolf of Lochaber.”

“So now ye mock me?”

She trembled, wishing she hadn’t inflected upon the word
mighty.

“Yer answer, Lady Margaret,” he warned.

She choked. “I need time! I will give you an answer in the morning!” By morning, maybe help would have arrived.

“Ye call me a liar and think me a fool? Lady Margaret, the land is at war. Robert Bruce has seized Dumfries Castle—and Red John Comyn is dead.”

She cried out, her world suddenly spinning. “Now you lie!” What he claimed was impossible!

“Yer great Lord of Badenoch died in the Greyfriars Church at Dumfries, four days ago.”

She turned in disbelief. Sir Neil looked as stunned as she was. Could the patriarch of their family be dead? If so, Red John was not coming to her aid! “What do you mean—Red John died? He was in good health!”

Slowly, the Wolf smiled. “So ye want the facts? Ye’ll hear soon enough. He was murdered, Lady Comyn, by Bruce, although he did not deliver the final, fatal blows.”

Margaret’s shock knew no bounds. Had Robert Bruce murdered Red John Comyn?

If so, the land would most definitely be at war!

“Bruce is on the march, Lady Comyn, and yer uncle, the MacDougall, is on the march, as well—in Galloway.” He stared coldly up at her. “And do ye not wish to know where yer beloved Sir Guy is?”

Sir Neil had taken her arm, as if to hold her upright.

“He was also at Dumfries, sent there to defend the king.”

She had not given her betrothed a thought since that morning. Had Sir Guy fought Bruce at Dumfries? If so, he was but two days away. She did not know what the Highlander was implying, but Sir Guy would surely come to her rescue. “This castle is a part of my dowry. Sir Guy will not let it fall.”

“Sir Guy fights Bruce, still. Argyll is in battle in Galloway. The Lord of Badenoch is dead. Ye have no hope.”

Now she truly needed time to think—and attempt to discover if his claims were true. For if they were, she was alone, and Castle Fyne would fall.

“He could be lying,” Sir Neil said, but there was doubt in his tone.

She met his gaze and realized he was frightened after all. But then, so was she. She turned back to the Highlander standing below her walls. “I need a few hours in which to decide,” she said hoarsely.

“Yer time is done. I demand an answer, lady.”

She began shaking her head. “I don’t want to defy you.”

“Then accept my generous terms and surrender.”

She bit her lip and tasted her own blood. And she felt hundreds of pairs of eyes upon her—every man in his army stared at her—as did every man, woman and child upon the ramparts. She thought she heard Peg whisper her name. And she knew that Sir Neil wanted to speak to her. But she stared unwaveringly at the Wolf of Lochaber. As she did, she thought of her mother—the most courageous woman she had ever known. “I cannot surrender Castle Fyne.”

He stared up at her, a terrible silence falling.

No one moved now—not on the ramparts, not in his army.

Only Margaret moved, her chest rising and falling unnaturally, tension making it impossible to breathe normally.

And then a hawk wheeled over their heads, soaring up high into the winter sky, breaking the moment. And disgust covered the Wolf’s face. Behind him, there were murmurs, men shifting. More whispers sounded behind her. The sounds were hushed, even awed, from behind and below.

Finally, he spoke, coldly. “Yer a fool.”

She did not think she had the strength to respond. Sir Neil flinched, his hand moving to his sword. She had to touch him, warning him not to attempt to defend her. She then faced the dark Highlander below her again. “This castle is mine. I will not—I cannot—surrender it.”

She thought that his eyes now blazed. “Even if ye fight alone?”

“Someone will come.”

“No one will come. If Argyll comes, it will be after the castle has fallen.”

She swallowed, terrified that he was right.

It was a moment before he spoke again, and anger roughened his tone. “Lady Margaret, I admire yer courage—but I dinna admire defiance, not even in a beautiful woman.”

Margaret simply stared. She had given him her answer, there was nothing more to say.

And he knew it. The light in his eyes was frightening, even from this distance. “I take no pleasure in what I must do.” He then lifted his hand, but he never removed his eyes from her. “Prepare the rams. Prepare the siege engines. Prepare the catapults. We will besiege the castle at dawn.” And he turned and disappeared amongst his men, into his army.

Margaret collapsed in Sir Neil’s arms.

* * *

P
EG
SHOVED
A
cup of wine at her. Margaret took it, desperately needing sustenance. They were seated at one of the trestle tables, in the great hall. Night was falling quickly.

And at dawn, the siege would begin.

Sir Neil sat down beside her, not even asking permission. Malcolm took the opposite bench. Peg cried, “Ye should have surrendered, and it isn’t too late to do so!”

Margaret tensed, aware that Peg was terrified. When she had left the ramparts, she had gazed at some of the soldiers and women there—everyone was frightened. And how could they not be?

Alexander MacDonald had been forthright. If they did not surrender, he would defeat the castle and spare no one.

She hugged herself, chilled to the bone. Should she have surrendered? And dear God, why was such a decision hers to make?

She inhaled and set the cup down. “Is it possible he is telling the truth? Is it possible that Red John is dead—and that Robert Bruce has seized the royal castle at Dumfries?”

Sir Neil was pale and stricken. “Bruce has always claimed the throne, but I know nothing of this plot!”

“Even the Wolf would not make up such a wild tale,” Malcolm said. “I believe him.”

She could barely comprehend what might be happening. “Is Bruce seeking the throne of Scotland? Is that why he attacked Dumfries?” And did that mean that Sir Guy was there with his men? Sir Guy was in service to King Edward. He was often dispatched to do battle for the king. Was that why MacDonald had claimed no one would come—because Sir Guy would be occupied with his own battles for King Edward?

Sir Neil shook his head. “Bruce is a man of ambition, but to murder Red John? On holy ground?”

“If the damned Wolf is telling us the truth,” she said, “if Red John has been murdered, Buchan will be furious.” The Comyns and Bruces had been rivals for years. They had fought over the crown before—and the Comyns had won the last battle, when their kin, John Balliol, had become Scotland’s king. “A great war will ensue.” She was sickened in every fiber of her being—these events were too much to bear.

“Lady Margaret—what matters is that if this is true, Red John will not be coming to our aid. Nor will Sir Guy.”

Margaret stared at Malcolm as Peg cried, “We can still surrender!”

She ignored her maid. “But Argyll will come to our aid if he can.”

“If the land is at war, he might not be able to come,” Sir Neil said grimly. “And MacDonald claims he has the means to stop him.”

She looked at Sir Neil and then Malcolm. “I am frightened. I am unsure. So tell me, truly, what you think I should do?”

Malcolm said, “Your mother would die defending Castle Fyne.”

Sir Neil stood. “And I would die to defend you, my lady.”

God, these were not reassuring answers!

“But, my lady, if you decide you wish to surrender, I will support you,” Malcolm said.

Sir Neil nodded in agreement. “As would I. And no matter what MacDonald has said, you can decide to surrender at any time—and sue him for the terms he has already said he would give you.”

But that did not mean the Wolf would give her such terms. He had been very angry when they had last parted company.

Margaret closed her eyes, trying to shut out the fear gnawing at her. She tried to imagine summoning MacDonald and handing him the great key to the keep. And the moment she did so, she knew she could not do such a thing, and she opened her eyes. They all stared at her.

“We must fight, and pray that Argyll comes to our aid,” Margaret said, standing. If they were going to fight, she must appear strong, no matter how terrified.

The men nodded grimly while Peg started to cry.

* * *

M
ARGARET
DID
NOT
sleep all night, knowing what would begin at dawn. And because Peg kept telling her that she must surrender, and that she was a madwoman to think to fight the Wolf of Lochaber, she had finally banned the maid from her chamber. Now, she stood at her chamber’s single window, the shutters wide. The black sky was turning blue-gray. Smoke filled the coming dawn. The sounds of the soldiers and women above her on the ramparts, speaking in hushed tones as they stoked the fires and burned pots of oil, drifted down to her.