Brenda Joyce (9 page)

But of course he had. Someone had said, from the beginning, that he was clever and shrewd and not to be trusted. She would never trust him again.

Why had he refused her oath of fealty? She was so distraught she could not think of a single reason for him to have done so.

Holding her brother’s hands, she laid her cheek on the pallet, tempted to crawl into bed with him. But he was hurt and the pallet was narrow and she did not want to disturb him. God, she was so alone! She needed comfort from someone, anyone, but there was no one to offer it to her.

When her tears finally ceased, she curled up on the floor beside William’s bed, exhausted. There were no rugs in his chamber, and the stones were freezing, but she almost welcomed the chilling cold. She did not care if she lived or died.

And when strong hands grasped her, and she was lifted into powerful arms, she was too exhausted to fight him another time.

Alexander carried her to her chamber, and left her there in her bed.

* * *

M
ARGARET
AWOKE
AND
was surprised, because a bright, strong light was shining through her chamber’s single window, indicating it was midafternoon. For one moment, she was confused, as she attempted to sit up. She was so oddly weak—as if she had been ill. And then there was total recollection.

She sank back down onto her bed, recalling the siege, her captor, her men performing homage to him, and the hanging of Malcolm. And for one moment, she lay very still.

Why had Alexander carried her from the entry tower to her own chamber? And why had he refused her oath of fealty?

She was so weak—and so hungry—that she could not think clearly. She could not recall when she had last been as ravenous. Margaret attempted to sit up again, and this time, she felt dizzy.

She took her time, now concerned—she must not become ill. Castle Fyne had fallen, and she had lost her men, but the country was at war—Robert Bruce was fighting the English, and seeking Scotland’s throne. Castle Fyne could be retaken—it had to be retaken. Now, she thought about the first messengers, sent by Malcolm before the siege. Had the one headed for her mother’s brother ever reached him?

And where was Sir Ranald? Would he return with help? He would never abandon her!

Margaret managed to shove her feet to the floor, trembling from the exertion. Someone had removed her shoes, and they were on the floor, but she ignored them. She stood, her balance so precarious that she staggered to the door and fell upon it, sinking to her knees on the floor.

The door was opened immediately. “Yer awake!” Alan cried, sounding relieved. He stooped over her, extending his hand. “Let me help ye.”

“Don’t touch me,” she warned. She seized the door handle and stood up. How could she be so weak, when she needed to be so strong?

Alan met her gaze, his wide, and he turned and rushed off.

Margaret paused, gathering up her strength, hoping Peg might appear, to help her sort through the facts—and plot the future. As she did so, she heard
his
determined strides, on the stone stairwell, and she tensed.

Alexander appeared on the stairs, Peg behind him. His gaze locked instantly with hers.

She found it difficult to breathe. “Why am I so weak? What has happened?”

“Ye slept for three entire days, and Peg says ye haven’t eaten since the siege.”

She felt her stomach contract with pain. “How is William?”

“He is weak, but he is healing. There is no infection,” Alexander said. “Do ye have a death wish, now? To stand barefoot on the stone in the midst of winter?”

“I have no plan to die.” As if he cared—but then, of course he did—she had a great value to him as his hostage.

“How pleased I am to hear that.” He faced Peg. “Get her shoes.”

Peg fled past him into the chamber, seizing Margaret’s shoes. She stepped into them, never removing her gaze from his. “Why did you deceive me? Why did you refuse my act of homage? I could be your vassal now.”

“Do ye wish to come down and dine?” he asked flatly, indicating he had no wish to answer her.

She said, very coldly, “I would rather starve than dine with you.”

“I am not foolish enough to invite ye to dine with me. Ye hate me. I ken. But ye must eat.”

“I am your hostage so you want me alive. I am tempted to starve myself just to deny you.” How she meant it. Thwarting him in any way would give her a great satisfaction.

Behind him, Peg gasped. His eyes were chilling now. “Yer defiance will not serve ye well, and yer clever enough to comprehend that.” He turned. “Feed her.” He strode back down the stairs.

Margaret held out her hand and Peg rushed to her, seizing it. “How can ye defy him? He is our master now!”

“I can and I will—and he will never be my master,” Margaret said. Then, “Is William truly getting better?”

“He is awake, and there is no infection. But he remains weak, having lost so much blood. Still, he is asking about ye. Oh, I have been so worried about ye, Margaret!”

Margaret smiled grimly at her. At least her brother was on the mend, and she thanked God for that. She ignored Alan, who remained at attention, not far from his stool. “And Sir Neil? How is he?”

Peg started. “He has been terribly worried about ye, Lady Margaret. We all have.”

She absorbed that. “And what of the fact that MacDonald would not let me swear fealty to him? Are they furious?”

Peg hesitated. “I dinna think so. I think they’re relieved.”

Margaret grimaced, imagining that Peg was right.

“And they are occupied with the tasks being given them,” Peg added. “Every man has been set to repairing the fortifications. Our soldiers are getting on with the Wolf’s men. They do not seem to mind being his men, either.”

She wondered at that. “Has there been any news? Any news of this war between Bruce and the English, any word of Buchan or even Sir Guy?”

Peg lowered her voice. “I have only heard the Wolf speaking once, to Padraig—that Bruce went directly to Glasgow from Castle Ayr.”

She was so weak and so hungry, it was hard to make sense of this fact. “That is all you have heard? What does that mean? Why would Bruce go to that city?”

“To seek absolution for his sins,” Peg said. She shrugged. “’Tis what I heard, and he did murder Red John inside a church!”

“He cannot receive absolution,” Margaret said. “He will surely be excommunicated by the Pope—if he hasn’t already been. Oh, if only we could learn whether or not Buchan and Sir Guy know of the fall of Castle Fyne! Peg, we must have war news!”

“Aye, in time, but right now, his lordship is right, ye must eat, Lady Margaret, so ye can gain back yer strength—if ye still wish to fight him.”

Peg was right—she needed her strength, and all of her wits. “Peg, I am a Comyn and my mother’s daughter. I will fight him until I take Castle Fyne back—or until I die.”

Peg flushed. “I dinna think ye’d have changed yer mind. But ye should not speak of dying.”

Margaret nodded. She was seventeen, and she did not want to contemplate dying anytime soon. They went down the narrow stairwell side by side, Peg supporting her by holding her elbow. The great hall was empty, and Peg left Margaret alone at the table, rushing off for a meal.

Margaret stared at the hall. No one had changed the rushes, and no one had scented them with lavender. She saw some scraps and bones along the walls on the floor, where his men’s pallets were piled up until the evening. There were some rotting morsels of meat on the table, too, not far from where she sat.

Her every instinct was to order the rushes removed, the floors swept clean, the tables scrubbed, and new rushes brought in. But this was his keep for the moment, and she must not lift a finger to improve it.

Peg returned with a platter of bread, cheese and cold venison. Margaret was starving and for the next ten minutes, she ate ravenously, and in silence. When she was done, she thanked Peg and got up. “I am going to inspect the keep,” she said. “I want to see what he is doing.” She left Peg clearing the table, and went outside.

She paused in surprise, as the courtyard was a hive of activity, and the ramparts above were as busy. The castle had suffered a great deal of damage during the siege, and Alexander’s men were everywhere, some firing anvils, others sawing wood, others with hammers in hand. The walls were being repaired with mud and stone, the stone having clearly been brought in from the countryside. The drawbridge had been damaged somewhat in the siege, and it was down, a dozen men bent over it with hammers, planks of new wood and rope. The gates of the barbican were open and great planks of wood were being used to fortify it after the destruction caused by the Wolf’s battering rams.

There was even more. Other men were dragging huge casks from the cellars, and some of those casks were being winched up onto the ramparts. Still others were entering the keep, leading horse-drawn carts filled with rocks and stones or firewood.

Ignoring Peg, who had come outside behind her, Margaret walked down the stairs, realizing that this was why the Wolf was such a mighty warrior. He took nothing for granted. Clearly, these repairs had been underway since she had collapsed, as clearly he was preparing the castle for war.

Images flashed of the siege she had just resisted, of men climbing up the walls of her ramparts, of arrows and missiles flying, of her archers lined up, shooting at them, of her women attempting to stop them with burning oil. She felt sick.

She did not want to be a part of another siege again, yet she desperately needed just such an attack, if the castle were to be freed.

War now frightened her as never before, for it was no longer an abstract concept. Her gaze moved over everyone in the crowded bailey, and then in the barbican. She realized she was trying to locate the Wolf. Not having done so, she looked up at the ramparts.

Her heart lurched. Alexander stood there. He was with a great many men, directing their actions. He had shed his swords and mantle, and the breeze outlined his leine against his powerful body, while his dark hair streamed in the wind.

How mighty he appeared. Was she a madwoman, to think she might ever defeat him?

He glanced down at her.

She instantly turned away.

“Lady Margaret!”

She turned at the sound of Sir Neil’s voice. He was hurrying to her, clad only in his leine and boots, a dagger at his waist, a hammer in hand. He was smiling and she smiled back. “I heard you were awake,” he exclaimed. “We have been so worried about you.”

“I am sorry to have caused alarm,” she said, searching his gaze as he paused before her. “How are you, Sir Neil?”

He sobered. “In truth? I didn’t care for the Wolf’s trickery, lady, but he is a good leader. He is fair and strong. He works us hard, but he feeds us well.”

“You swore fealty, so you must be his advocate now.” She somehow smiled when she did not feel like smiling at all.

“But I will still protect ye,” Sir Neil said. “My one vow cannot change the other.”

Margaret decided not to point out the falsity of that. “This is rather impressive,” she said, glancing around. “Is he expecting an attack?”

“He has not said so, but I watch him closely, lady, and I believe he is. He has been urging these repairs and preparations, and when we are not mending stone and wood, we are in the fields, practicing with our swords and riding our horses.” He touched her sleeve. “Sir Guy is on the march.”

Her heart slammed. “Is he marching here?”

“I don’t know, my lady. He left Castle Ayr days ago, when it fell to Bruce.”

Was Sir Guy marching toward them? If he attacked, could he win? His reputation was an impressive one, but not as impressive as the Wolf’s. Would his brother, Aymer de Valence, aid him? If so, perhaps sheer numbers would win the day.

“How many men does Alexander have?” she asked.

“He has five hundred here. But he has the support of his brothers—I have heard that he can summon hundreds more, lady.”

“So can the English,” she said rather tersely.

Sir Neil started at her tone. Then he flushed, as Alexander said, from behind her, “Be careful of what ye wish for.”

She felt an impossible tension, and slowly, she turned. “How could I not wish for your defeat?”

“If I am defeated, Castle Fyne falls—it could easily be destroyed.”

Margaret was taken aback. “It is a great stronghold—are you telling me it could be razed to the ground?”

“No castle is indestructible, lady, not in this modern day, when we have siege engines and battering rams.”

“Sir Guy would never destroy Castle Fyne, not when we are to be married.”

“A razed castle can be rebuilt,” he said.

She shuddered. “Will Sir Guy attack?” She realized that, as much as she wished for him to do so, she was afraid. She had just been in a siege, and dear God, how she hoped to never have to endure another one.

“King Edward would wish for him to command this castle,” Alexander said. “Just as Bruce wishes for me to command it.”

She took comfort in the fact that Alexander expected Sir Guy to attack, sooner or later, while she now feared her home’s strategic importance in this war.

The watch from one of the towers shouted in warning. Margaret froze. Fear rose up.

Alexander touched her arm. “We are not being attacked, Margaret. A rider has come.”

She whirled to face him with sudden hope. Could the rider be from Buchan? Argyll? Sir Guy? Perhaps someone had come with a demand that she be released!

“It is my scout, returning with war news.”

* * *

A
LEXANDER
’
S
SCOUT
WAS
about her age, his hair long and blond, his nose freckled. The moment he rode into the courtyard on his blowing mount, he was warmly greeted by Alexander and Padraig. The two men instantly took the lad inside.

Margaret did not think twice, she quickly followed. And now, she wondered at the relationship of Alexander and Padraig. The auburn-haired Highlander was clearly highly trusted by him. This was not the first time she had seen them together, and she thought that Padraig might be second in command.