Brenda Joyce (8 page)

William did not respond, and Margaret set to work.

* * *

T
WO
HOURS
LATER
, Margaret hurried into the great hall, where she found Alexander. Both tables were entirely occupied by his men; they were finishing breakfast. The tables were littered with plates piled with unfinished crusts, fish carcasses and meat bones. Conversation was rampant. As she rushed in, every man present turned her way and the room silenced.

She slowed her urgent stride, aware of thirty or more pairs of eyes upon her—the gazes of his men, her foes. From the head of one table, Alexander regarded her also, his expression impassive and impossible to read.

She approached him and curtsied.

“How fares your brother?”

“Not well.” She met his gaze, unsmiling. “He lost far too much blood. I cleaned both wounds, and I am very concerned. He is weak, my lord, and while there is no infection yet, we both know that one could set in shortly. The next few days are crucial.”

“I am sorry he was wounded.”

She tensed, because she was fairly certain he did not care about her brother, except as another useful hostage. “I am excellent with herbs and potions. I learned how to attend a great many maladies and war wounds from my mother. Now I must hope that the salves I have used were not used too late.”

He studied her. “Is that an accusation? My own man tended him yesterday, Lady Margaret, and as ye have said, he has no infection.”

She had been accusatory, but that would not get her anywhere. “I am grateful you had someone clean his wounds and bandage them. I am grateful you did not leave him to die.”

“Ye remain the worst liar. Yer not grateful, and yer sick with fear.”

She felt that fear then, as if a huge sob were about to choke her. “I have lost three brothers, brothers I dearly admired, brothers I loved. I cannot lose William, too!”

“And I hope ye do not. Will ye sit down, Lady Margaret?”

She had no appetite, but that wasn’t why she did not want to sit down at his table. A remembrance flashed in her mind, of being in his arms last night. It was a terrible recollection. “I was hoping to see my men today—before you hang them.”

He smiled grimly at her. “I will allow ye to see them, but if ye think to mount an insurrection at the last moment, be forewarned. They’ll die by my sword and it willna matter to me.”

“A rebellion at the last moment is not on my mind,” she cried. “Although I wish I was capable of mounting one.”

He studied her, his scrutiny so intense it was unnerving. “I thought we had come to some terms—last night.”

She trembled again. Last night she had glimpsed him as a powerful, sexual and handsome man. Last night, she had felt a moment of admiration and respect for him, but that moment was gone.

“We did not come to any terms. You are my captor, I am your prisoner, my brother might die in your care—and you are about to execute my good soldiers.”

He stood up abruptly. “I will take you to the dungeons.” He gestured at four men, who instantly arose, their swords clattering against the table’s edge as they did. He then pointed at Alan, too.

He led the way down to the dungeons, Margaret directly behind him, his five men behind her. Her heart raced madly now. She estimated it was half past eight in the morning. In four hours or less, Sir Neil, Malcolm and the others would die.

Little daylight came into the dungeons. One wall had two small, barred windows, set high above the prisoners’ heads. Otherwise, there was no possibility of natural light entering the cell, so burning torches had been set into the ground, which was dirt. Two of Alexander’s men had remained below, outside the single large cell where the prisoners huddled. Margaret remained directly behind Alexander now, aware of the temperature dropping dramatically. It was terribly cold belowground.

He came to an abrupt halt, and she stumbled not to crash into him from behind. Peeking past him, she saw the two guards leap to attention now.

“Open the door,” Alexander said to them.

Margaret had never been inside a dungeon before—although she had been inside the cellars at Castle Bain and Balvenie. Those cellars had had stone floors, and they had been dank and dark, too—but this was so much worse. The dungeons stank of urine and feces. She thought she could smell blood, too, and she felt so much despair.

This was all her fault.

Margaret peered past Alexander; Sir Neil, Malcolm and the others were all standing now, and staring at them. Or were they staring at her? With accusation in their eyes? Accusation she so rightly deserved?

She heard the key turning in the lock, a rusty groan. Alexander shifted to face her. “Ye may go inside.”

She met his gaze, realizing she was filled with trepidation now. How could she face her men, now? Did they even know they would soon die?

Alexander suddenly said, “Margaret, ye need not do this.”

She stiffened, condemning herself for her cowardice—when she was hardly going to hang that day. And she did not like the way he had addressed her—so intimately. But she would not dispute him now. She stepped past him.

Instantly, her gaze turned to Sir Neil and Malcolm as she entered the cell. “Are you all right?”

“Lady Margaret, you should not be here,” Sir Neil gasped.

She rushed to him and seized his hands—he had been wounded, she saw, in his shoulder, but it had been bandaged and there was not that much blood. “What happened? You were hurt!”

“Lady—I failed you!” He gripped her hands tightly. “And I beg yer forgiveness, I was to keep you safe, I failed. I was to ride for rescue, and I was captured!” Tears filled his dark blue eyes.

“Sir Neil, you could never fail me,” she cried, meaning it. “You are the bravest knight I know. You fought tirelessly for me. I want to see your wound!”

“It is a scratch,” he said. “Lady Margaret, are ye all right? Have ye been hurt?” Eyes blazing, he looked past her at Alexander with fury.

She hadn’t realized that Alexander stood behind them, openly observing them and listening to their every word. Now Sir Neil was murderous, and if looks could kill, Alexander would be dead. “I have been treated well, Sir Neil, and you must not worry about me.”

He studied her, clearly assessing if she spoke the truth. When he was reassured, he said, “I will always worry about you. I am your vassal. And you are my lady!”

She wanted to hug him, but that would be entirely inappropriate. Instead, she clung to his hands and he kissed each one. “I beg your forgiveness, Lady Margaret. I must know that I am forgiven my failures, before I die.”

“There is nothing to forgive.” She released him now, glancing at Malcolm. “Are you unhurt?”

He nodded. “Ye should not be here, Lady Margaret. The dungeons are no place for a lady.”

She looked past him at the soldiers and archers in the cell. No one was hurt, and for that, she was thankful. “Of course I came to see you. I must speak with you all.”

She took a deep breath. “I have failed you all. I refused to surrender to the mighty Wolf of Lochaber, when I am but a young, untried woman. My pride as a MacDougall knew no bounds. Pride led me to believe we could achieve the impossible—that we could defeat a superior force, that we could defeat the great Wolf.” She fought rising tears.

“Lady, we all wished to fight,” Malcolm said grimly.

“We would do so again, if we had such a choice,” Sir Neil cried.

“Aye,” the others agreed in a chorus.

She shook her head and said hoarsely, “Had I surrendered, you would all be free now. Instead, you are the Wolf’s prisoners.”

No one tried to speak now. Everyone was intent, awaiting her next words, her direction. And it amazed her that they would follow her still.

“I am not worthy of you, and certainly, I was not worthy to lead you. The Wolf said he would spare no one if I did not surrender. I should have considered that far more carefully when I chose to fight him. But I did not.” She paused, but not for effect. She hated what she must now divulge.

“I have begged him to change his mind. He will not do so.”

No one moved, and no one seemed surprised. Sir Neil said, “You were the most worthy leader a knight could have, lady, and I would follow you into battle another time.”

“Aye, I would follow ye again,” Malcolm said. “Yer the great lady of Fyne!”

“I would follow ye, lady,” one of her archers said. “We would all follow ye, a great lady like yer mother, into battle—or anywhere ye might lead!”

Everyone murmured in agreement.

Margaret could not believe the extent of their loyalty. She had never been as moved, as shaken. She whirled to face Alexander.

He stood as still as a stone statue, an arm’s length from her, his expression impossible to read.

“I cannot bear this burden, this fault of mine! If you hang them, you must hang me, too, MacDonald!” she cried. And she had never meant anything more.

Behind her, several men gasped. Alexander said, unsmiling, “Ye will not hang, Lady Margaret. I said so last night and I am saying so, now.” He was final.

Before she could argue with him, Sir Neil said, “Lady Margaret, do not prostrate yourself before him. Do not submit, do not bend. This is war. Men die in war. I am prepared to die. We are all prepared to die for you.”

Margaret hugged herself, tears now falling. She could not let them die...they would follow her into battle again...they would follow her anywhere....

She stiffened, seized with a terrible comprehension—she thought she knew how to commute their death sentences.

“You would follow me anywhere?” she asked.

“Aye,” everyone said.

Trembling, she turned to face her captor again. His gaze instantly narrowed. “You lost a great many men, yesterday,” she said.

With suspicion, he said, “Aye, I did.”

“My men have proven their loyalty—and their courage in battle.”

He waited.

“They will get down on bent knee before you, my lord, and swear their oath of loyalty to you now—if you will spare their lives.”

He stared and she felt his mind racing. After a long pause, she said, “They will be loyal in battle, my lord, and this is war. You need every soldier you can get.”

His stare had sharpened. “And ye, Lady Margaret? Will ye get down on your knee before me, will ye make an oath of fealty, too?”

She inhaled, their gazes locked. She did not dare look away now—not that she had the power to do so. It was as if time had stopped.

This was, beyond any doubt, a defining moment. She must save the lives of her men. But she was a Comyn and a MacDougall. Could she swear her allegiance to the Wolf of Lochaber—to Clan Donald?

Her mind felt frozen now. And there did not seem to be time to think. She only knew that if she refused, he would probably execute her men; if she accepted, he would spare them.

“Yes,” she said.

Sir Neil cried out. “Lady! You cannot do such a thing!”

She blinked back hot tears, thinking of her mother now. Even as she spoke, she did not look at Sir Neil—she only had eyes for Alexander. “I can, and I will. This is war, Sir Neil, and in war, men change sides all the time. Why can’t I change my loyalties, too?” But she felt a tear sliding down her cheek. Her mother would approve. She simply knew it. But she felt ill, because once she performed an act of homage to Alexander MacDonald, her family would be her enemy.

But she must not contemplate that now.

“Bring them up into the courtyard at noon,” Alexander ordered his guards, eyes ablaze. “The prisoners will make their vows before me—as will Lady Margaret Comyn.” With that, he looked at her.

Margaret was taken aback. Why was he angry?

But Alexander then whirled and strode out of the cell, across the dungeons, and vanished into the stairwell.

Margaret hugged herself, staring after him. And all eyes remained upon her.

CHAPTER FIVE

“Y
E
’
LL
SWEAR
YER
loyalty to the Wolf of Lochaber?” Peg had spoken with both disbelief and hostility.

It was noon. Margaret stood on the topmost step of the stairs leading from the great hall into the courtyard. Her men had already assembled there—Malcolm, Sir Neil, the archers and the soldiers. They were under a heavy guard.

The sun was high, amidst blue, cloudless skies, the mountains in the distance snowcapped. But she barely noticed the beauty of the land, for she was ill—very, very ill. In her stomach, in her heart—and in her soul.

She looked at Peg as she came to stand beside her. “He will spare them if I do.”

Peg’s eyes were on fire. “Yer mother despised the MacDonalds—as we all do!”

Margaret trembled, her stomach churning. What was she about to do? Could she really get down on one knee before Alexander MacDonald, and swear to keep her faith to him and him alone, as her liege lord, for the rest of her time on this earth?

“Mother would do what she had to do, to save her people,” Margaret whispered.

“She
hated
the MacDonalds!” Peg cried.

She had hated Clan Donald more than she had hated the English—that was true. But Margaret was certain her mother would have sacrificed her own interests, as Margaret was doing, to save the lives of the men who had fought so courageously for her.

“How will ye go to war against yer own family? Ye’ll have to fight every Comyn now, every MacDougall. What of William? He’d never let ye do this, Margaret, if he were not so ill!”

“Hush! Enough!” Unfortunately, every word Peg had uttered was true. Alexander was at war with all of England and half of Scotland—he was at war with the great Comyn family now. It would not be long before their armies met, the one on Bruce’s behalf, the other opposed against him. And what was she to do, then?

Would she be at Castle Fyne, awaiting word of a battle, whilst knowing her kin was fighting her liege lord?

She suddenly tensed, as Alexander emerged from the entry tower. He made a tall, proud figure, the wind whipping his dark hair about his shoulders, his mantle streaming like a cape behind him, both swords riding his thighs. The stiff breeze also buffeted his linen leine against his hard body. He appeared as powerful and as indomitable as when she had first glimpsed him.

She thought of his older brother, the lord of the Islay. Alasdair Og had married her maternal aunt, in spite of the hatred between their clans. She had heard so many tales about the couple, so it was impossible to know the truth—one such legend had it that Alasdair had abducted the lady Juliana from her bed, in the middle of the night, against her furious objections—and they had been married before dawn. Other tales claimed it had been love at first sight, and she had ridden off at midnight to meet him, against the explicit command of her father—risking her life to do so. It was also said that their marriage had been arranged during a brief truce between the clans.

If Juliana had been unwilling at first, then they had a great deal in common, Margaret thought. But this was not marriage. She was merely swearing to give her loyalty to Alexander in times of both war and peace, for as long as she lived. Juliana had had to marry the enemy; she had had to sleep with him and bear his children.

She realized she was staring at him, and that he was staring back.

“Oh, he makes a fine figure of a man,” Peg said angrily. “Is that why ye’ll swear fealty now? Betray yer beloved family? Did something happen last night? Do ye yearn for his embrace another time?”

Margaret was so angry, she could not breathe properly. “How dare you! I thought we were friends. I am trying to do what is right! This is hardly an easy decision.”

“This isn’t right!” Peg cried. “Yer a great lady—a Comyn lady! Ye usually think so hard. But not this time. I think he’s turned yer head! What of Buchan? Have ye thought at all about yer uncle now? Buchan will never forgive ye for this!”

He would disown her; of that, Margaret had no doubt, just as Sir Guy would, and she would have no one as a protector, no one except for the mighty Wolf.

“Go see William, then, at least tell him what ye intend,” Peg now pleaded.

Margaret wrapped her mantle more closely about her and started down the steps, leaving Peg behind. She approached Alexander, who stood with the guards, not far from her men.

She could not smile as he turned to her. “It is noon,” she said. “I will pay you homage first.”

“No. You will stand aside, until the end.”

She started, meeting his intense blue stare. Why did he wish for her to go last?

He turned away. “Bring me the first soldier.”

One of her archers came forward, bareheaded and unarmed. He got down on one knee, clasping his hands in prayer, which he then outstretched. “My lord Alexander, mighty Wolf of Lochaber, I, Duncan MacDougall of Ardvaig, promise on my faith to ye, now and for all time, as I live and breathe, to be yer loyal man, to never cause ye harm, and if I dinna keep the faith, may God strike me down.”

Alexander took his hands and clasped them. Solemnly, he said, “I, Alexander of Clan Donald, son of Angus Mor, lord of Glencarron, Coll and now of Castle Fyne, do accept yer pledge of fealty. Ye may rise, Duncan, and take up yer arms and join my men.”

Duncan stood, smiling, and Alexander clasped him on the shoulder, smiling back. Then another archer came forward, getting down on one knee, making his oath of fealty.

Margaret stood back, somewhat behind Alexander, watching as he received each of her men in their acts of complete submission. As each man came forward, she thought about her parents, her uncles, her betrothed. She thought about her brothers, all dead, and William, who still lived. She thought about Alasdair Og and Lady Juliana.

Scotland was never at peace. Every lord, whether great or small, had rivals; every clan had friends and enemies. Fathers lost sons and wives lost husbands. Politics changed in a single breath. Widows married rivals. Battles raged daily. Stolen cows might be at stake—or stolen crowns.

The politics of the land frequently changed. Hadn’t they just done so? The Comyns hated the English—now, they would surely fight for the English, against Bruce. This great lord, Alexander MacDonald, had once kept the law for King Edward in the wilds of the western islands. Now he fought against the king, in the hopes of making a new one.

She blinked back hot tears. Alliances changed, and now, she would be in a war, and on the side opposed to her entire MacDougall and Comyn families. Her heart felt as if it were breaking in two.

Sir Neil had come forward, his gaze on her, not on Alexander. Margaret brushed her falling tears away awkwardly, wishing she hadn’t succumbed to such female weakness. She met Sir Neil’s worried gaze again, and somehow, lifted her chin proudly.

Ignoring Alexander, who stared at them both now, Sir Neil said, “Lady, are ye certain? ’Tis not too late to change yer mind!”

If Sir Neil did not perform homage and swear fealty, he would be hanged. Margaret knew one thing—she would never let that happen. “I am not changing my mind, Sir Neil.” She spoke as firmly as she could, but heard the quaver in her own tone. Worse, she felt more hot tears burning her eyes.

His eyes filled with doubt. Margaret stepped forward and clasped his arm. “Please. We will fight for the Wolf now, we will fight for Bruce—we will put a Scot on the throne.”

His eyes flickered. She realized he might not be allied with Bruce, but he thought as she did—any Scot was better than King Edward.

Sir Neil smiled grimly at her and turned. “I beg your pardon, my lord,” he said.

“Ye have it,” Alexander said, and Margaret wondered at the slight flush mottling his high cheekbones.

Sir Neil knelt, extended his hands, and swore to be faithful to Alexander for the rest of his life, God strike him down otherwise. Alexander took his hands and accepted the pledge. When Sir Neil had arisen to his full height, Alexander dropped his hands. He did not clasp his shoulder, as he had thus far done to the previous men. For one moment, the two men stared at one another—as if antagonists, not friends.

“I will treat ye well, as long as ye remain faithful,” the Wolf said.

“I dinna care how ye treat me. She is my lady, ye must treat her well,” Sir Neil said.

“Go and receive your weapons and join my men,” Alexander returned evenly. But he glanced at Margaret, as did Sir Neil.

Margaret nodded at the knight, and he left. One of the MacDonald soldiers greeted him, grinning and clasping his arm. They walked off together, across the courtyard, to the weapons store in the north tower.

“He is very loyal to ye.”

She met Alexander’s gaze. “I do not know why. He only came into my uncle’s service six months ago. I do not know him well, although after these past few days, I can say he is strong, faithful and brave.”

“It is good, to have a loyal knight,” he said. Then he turned, gesturing impatiently; only Malcolm and Margaret were left.

She wondered at his words, though. It had seemed as if he meant that it was fortunate for her, that Sir Neil was so loyal. But he was not her knight now.

Her stomach churned. Soon it would be her turn. Could she really betray her family? But there was no choice. She had promised to do just that, and Alexander was fulfilling his end of the bargain.

Malcolm had paused before Alexander, and before he even spoke, Margaret knew a crisis was at hand. His shoulders were stiffly set, his head tilted with defiance. His gray eyes blazed.

Alexander’s calm demeanor changed; his hand went to the hilt of one sword. “Ye will not make homage today?”

“I will never swear an oath of fealty to ye, MacDonald,” Malcolm spat.

Margaret gasped as Alexander said, “Hang him.”

She rushed forward. “Malcolm, you will die this day if you do not make your vows!”

He faced her, eyes blazing. “I am a MacDougall, Lady Margaret, and I gladly die—a MacDougall!”

She cringed. He would never change his mind. “Oh, Malcolm! This is my fault! I should have surrendered the castle to him!”

“No, lady, ye were brave, and I am proud to have served ye, even in defeat. And I will not judge ye for what you have decided to do this day. I ken, ye wish to save the lives of yer men. But I canna go against my brothers, my uncles, my cousins...not even for ye.”

She started to cry.

Two of Alexander’s men now seized Malcolm, one of them shackling his wrists behind his back. They marched him across the courtyard, past the great hall. A scaffold was at the far end of the bailey.

Margaret watched the three men, Malcolm walking proudly between the MacDonald soldiers, until she simply couldn’t see. Her tears entirely blurred her vision.

“Ye have only lost one man today—and the choice was his, not yours, to make.”

She faced Alexander furiously. “You could still spare him!”

He studied her. “I cannot spare him.”

She actually understood why Malcolm could not be spared, but she hated Alexander anyway.

And she hated herself for crying. For failing to surrender when given the chance, and for what she must now do. Margaret dropped to both knees. She wiped her wet face on her sleeves, and joined her hands as if in prayer, then held them out. She could not breathe properly now. More sobs threatened, from deep within her chest.

He seized her hands. “Get up,” he said. As he spoke, he dragged her dead weight upward, until she was standing.

“What are you doing?” She tore her palms from his. “I haven’t made my pledge yet!”

“I will not accept yer vows.”

She was so distraught, so desperate, so angry, at first, she did not understand him and she stared through her tears. And as he stared back, his face hard, she realized what was happening. “You deceived me? Is this treachery? You said you would spare them, if I swore my oath of fealty, too.”

“I am not accepting yer oath, Lady Margaret,” he said, in that tone she hated, that tone that was as final as the word of God.

She screamed at him. “This is trickery! You have tricked my men! They were following me!”

He looked past her. “Get her maid. Take her away,” he said.

Her men were loyal to her. They had only pledged their faith to Alexander, because they were following her—because they expected her to do so, too! She could not allow her men to pledge to him, and then fail to do so, herself.

Margaret sank back down to her knees. She held out her hands, but gazed up at Alexander. “I, Lady Margaret Comyn, of Castle Fyne, daughter of Mary MacDougall, niece of the Earl of Buchan, do swear to you, Alexander MacDonald, lord of Castle Fyne, son of the lord of the isles, my faith, here and now, for as long as I live—God help me and strike me down if I lie!”

“Get up,” he snapped at her. “I dinna accept!”

She shoved her hands upward, at him. “Bastard!”

Flushing, he said fiercely, “Get her on her feet, and get her gone.”

Margaret was seized from behind. “Let me be,” she screamed at the men, struggling to become free of them as they held her arms from behind. But as she struggled viciously against them, she stared at Alexander, hoping he knew just how much she hated him. He had tricked her, and she had never hated anyone more.

He stared coldly back at her.

A loud thump sounded.

Margaret went still. Slowly, she turned her head, and saw Malcolm hanging from the scaffold, his hands on the noose at his throat as he frantically attempted to loosen it.

She choked on the horror, turning her head away. As she did, someone seized her and pulled her forward, and she was enclosed in a powerful embrace.

Margaret realized Alexander was shielding her from watching Malcolm die. But all the same, she cried.

* * *

M
ARGARET
KNELT
BY
William, who was unconscious, holding his hands. She could not stop weeping. Her heart was entirely broken. All was lost.

Castle Fyne was lost, her men were lost, and Malcolm had been hanged. And the damned Wolf of Lochaber had tricked her and her men.