Brenda Joyce (18 page)

“Margaret, I ken ye fear Buchan—as ye should. But he cannot harm ye here. He cannot harm ye while yer under my protection.”

Margaret tensed, realizing he was right—but she planned to escape. “Dughall must be sworn to secrecy,” she said.

“Dughall has already been sworn to secrecy.” He studied her. “But ye must have a care with yer maids.”

“I know.”

He glanced over his shoulder, into the hall. “I would like to stand here, speaking with ye, for some time, especially on this topic, but I canna. We are leaving. It is time.”

Her heart lurched. “When will you return?”

“I dinna ken. Months, mayhap. Even after Bruce has the throne, the war will rage on. King Edward will have to suffer many defeats to ever accept the loss of Scotland—as will men like your uncle Buchan.”

“I hate this war,” she said, aware of how uneven her tone sounded. “Bruce said the war would be a long one.”

“We fight for a throne. Such matters cannot be swiftly decided.”

“I want to see you again, Alexander. Do not die.”

His eyes blazed. “Then you will. God keep ye, Margaret.”

Their stares held, and then he was turning and striding away, his swords bumping his thighs as he walked. Margaret hugged herself. “God keep you,” she said harshly.

Then she realized that Padraig was staring, Sir Neil was staring, others were staring. She turned away, shaken, afraid her feelings had been written all over her face.

She heard them leaving, a thunder of booted steps across the stone floors and out the courtyard doors. Margaret told herself she must not feel such a sense of loss.

Peg stepped into the hall. “Margaret?”

Margaret understood and she looked at her. Peg wanted to know if they were putting their plan of escape into effect.

Alexander was gone. It would be months before he returned. And one night did not change who he was or who she was.

She had betrayed her family and Sir Guy last night, but that did not mean she had changed her loyalties. Besides, she could not remain at Castle Fyne, Alexander’s prisoner, knowing what she did.

“Be at the north door in two hours,” Margaret said.

* * *

T
HE
COURTYARD
HAD
been terribly crowded and filled with gawkers as Alexander and his knights had ridden out, but now it was quiet. Margaret paused on the steps leading into the yard, Eilidh behind her, both women in disguise.

Their hoods were full, their cowls long. Margaret wore Eilidh’s clothes. Both women looked like Highland maids. But Margaret did not move down the steps.

William’s plan would have been better, she thought, if they had left while Alexander and his knights were riding out, causing a great spectacle—most of the castle had turned out to watch and wave farewell. Now, the courtyard was too quiet. Some men and women were leading several cows into the yard, while a carpenter was making repairs to a door. Four children played in one corner and a pair of soldiers guarded the entry tower. On the ramparts, Alexander’s archers stood, and the watch was in all the towers.

She knew his huge army was on the march, and slowly leaving the camp it had made outside the castle’s walls, but from where she stood, she could not see it. Instead, she felt terribly exposed.

Her pulse raced. She told herself that no one would recognize her now, especially not from the ramparts above, and she started down the steps, Eilidh following. If they were to successfully escape, they must do so now.

She must not think about what she meant to do, either—she must simply do it. Aware of Eilidh on her heels, Margaret hurried across the courtyard, away from the entry tower, toward its northernmost walls.

Ahead, she saw Peg there, laughing with the Highlander guarding the north exit. Peg had been eager to help—as long as she could escape and go home with them. Margaret glanced behind them and relief arose—William was hurrying toward them in his own disguise.

Even though he remained a careful distance away from her, so they would not become an obvious group, she saw that his eyes were bright with excitement. She tried to smile back at him, aware that she did not feel the excitement he was feeling.

Glancing ahead, she saw Peg move into the Highlander’s arms. Beginning to kiss wildly, groping one another frantically, they moved against the wall—away from the door.

And a bell began to toll above them, loud and in warning.

Their disappearance had been noted, Margaret thought, stunned. Either someone realized she was missing, or, more likely, someone realized that William was not in his cell.

William cursed, looking back. So did Margaret—and she saw Padraig appear on the ramparts above the great hall.

And he looked down, right at William.

The two men seemed to make eye contact. Margaret could not see Padraig’s expression from this distance, but she saw his posture change—stiffening with surprise.

“He has recognized me!” William cried. Then, “Run!”

But as Margaret turned to do just that, Peg and the Highland guard broke apart, the guard turning toward the ramparts. Margaret glanced back and saw Padraig pointing at William—he shouted something.

Margaret turned wildly back, faltering, as she could hardly run past the guard now. As she stood there with Eilidh, he came running toward her, and for one moment, she thought he meant to seize her. But he did not. He was running over to William.

William changed course, veering away from the guard, and from the north exit. And then she heard a horrible sound—a sound she hated and feared.

It was the hiss of an arrow.

William cried out.

Margaret choked in horror as William fell, an arrow protruding from the back of his shoulder. “Will!”

His face ravaged with pain, he looked up at her. “Go, damn it, go, run, go!”

Margaret did not want to leave him lying there in pain, wounded from the arrow. But Eilidh tugged on her hand. The guard was already upon Will, and now she saw that Peg had opened the north door—and it was not guarded—it was not even watched!

Trying not to run, they kept walking toward the small doorway, and as they slipped outside, she looked back into the courtyard. She could not see Will now—he was surrounded by soldiers. Peg slammed the door closed before she could see anything else.

Outside, they paused for an instant, staring at one another. Was William seriously hurt? “I must go back,” Margaret began.

“No!” Peg seized her hand. “I dinna think they even ken we’ve escaped!”

Peg might be right,
Margaret realized, as there were no rude shouts coming from within the courtyard. Surely, if they had been noticed, there would be cries of alarm and shouted orders.

And the thick, almost impenetrable forest was just steps away. She could not see through it, but she could actually hear the army on the road on its other side.

“Let’s go,” she said decisively.

They ran. And a moment later Margaret skidded into the first rows of branches, pine needles and wood scraping her hands and face, and catching her hair. She did not stop, and saw that Eilidh and Peg were right behind her. They plowed on through the trees, the ground frozen and hard now, until the only sounds in the woods were their harsh, heavy breaths.

Margaret held up her hand and they stopped, collapsing against a tree. Everyone panted heavily, catching their breath.

And when the sound of their breathing was softer, Margaret strained to hear, listening for sounds of pursuit. It would have been easy for Padraig and his men to follow their tracks into the forest, if they had been remarked escaping. But once they did so, it would not be as easy to follow them, not at all. The forest was too thick. The ground was at times muddy and thawing, and in other places, frozen solid. However, it would be easy to guess what they intended—that they meant to slip into Alexander’s army.

But there was no sound of Padraig being anywhere close to them. Was it possible that their escape had yet to be noticed?

“I dinna think we’re being followed,” Peg whispered.

“I think you’re right,” Margaret whispered back. They exchanged looks. Margaret held up her hand, indicating that no one should speak. Very carefully now, they started south, at a slow pace, trying not to make a sound.

Perhaps a half an hour later they reached the other side of the forest. And there, upon the narrow road, was Alexander’s army.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

B
ALVENIE
SPRAWLED
ABOVE
them atop the hill, a massive red stone fortress.

Margaret halted her small mount. Peg and Eilidh had their own horses as well, and they also stopped, as did the three knights escorting them. She stared up at the welcome sight of Balvenie’s curtain walls crossing the hillside, its towers jutting into the bright blue sky.

“Balvenie,” she whispered, disbelieving. Three days ago she had awoken in Alexander’s bed, and now, she was home.

The River Spey was below them, churning rapidly through the forested hillside. Its frigid waters still rushed over frozen rocks. But snow was melting everywhere. Patches of new grass and thistle with small, tight, unopened blooms were emerging across the hillside and just beneath the thick castle walls.

“I will tell the watch that we have arrived,” one of their knights said. He spurred his mount forward and up the hill at a canter.

“We are home,” Peg cried, smiling. “I never thought to see the day!”

Margaret did not quite smile back at her. She was pleased to have reached Balvenie safely—she was relieved to have reached her uncle’s largest, most defensible home. But her happiness was somehow spoiled—and partly it was because Castle Fyne remained lost to the enemy, and William remained a prisoner there. But she knew that secretly, there was even more.

Secretly, she thought her homecoming spoiled by the night she had spent in Alexander’s arms.

For, at random moments in the day, and then, in her dreams at night, she recalled not just the passion they had shared, but other moments, too, moments in which he seemed like a powerful champion. Yet she did not want to think of him at all! And she especially did not want to recall how she had betrayed her uncle and her betrothed.

“It’s so grand,” Eilidh whispered, wide-eyed with awe.

“It is very grand,” Margaret agreed, and she started her mare up the hill, on the muddy road they traveled upon. Her two maids fell into line behind her, while the remaining two Highland soldiers rode abreast of her, having cast their furs aside.

They had stayed hidden in Alexander’s army for two entire days, but when it had made camp not far from Dumbarton, they had stolen away. Peg had managed to get them inside the royal fortress there, where Margaret had been warmly received by its governor, John of Menteith. Already aware of the attack about to take place the next day, he had wasted no time in sending her on, with three of his men as an armed escort. They had arrived at Dumbarton in the fading light of the late afternoon, and they left just a few hours later, as twilight stole upon the land.

Margaret saw the gates of the barbican being opened, and now, she could hear surprised cries coming from the ramparts, as the news of her arrival spread. She looked up as men, women and children appeared on the walls above her, waving eagerly, clearly jubilant over her return. She smiled and waved back, but inwardly, she was grim.

She had said that one night could not change anything, but apparently, it had changed a great deal. She could not shake an odd, lingering feeling of dismay. She was beginning to wonder if she regretted the night she had spent with Alexander, after all. Certainly, she no longer felt innocent. She had betrayed a great many loyalties, and she felt very grown up, a woman aged beyond her years.

They rode through the barbican and across the drawbridge. As Margaret entered the great cobbled courtyard, the huge door of the great hall opened. Isabella stepped outside, clutching a fur mantle, her red gown flowing about her. “Margaret!”

Margaret halted as Isabella ran down the steps and toward her. She was a tall, slim woman of nineteen, with surprisingly fair skin and thick brown hair, her eyes a stunning blue. “You are home!” she cried, beaming.

One of the soldiers helped her dismount, and before her feet even touched the ground, Isabella embraced her, hard. “Was there a ransom?” Isabella cried. “John said he did not think you would be ransomed!”

Margaret took her hand. “There was no ransom. We escaped. It is still cold out. Can we go inside?”

Isabella nodded, her eyes wide, and they hurried inside, followed by the other women and men.

The hall was filled with tables, tapestries and chairs. Rugs, not rushes, were on the floor. Fires blazed in two grand hearths.

“You must tell me everything,” Isabella exclaimed. “But first, how could you escape the Wolf of Lochaber?” She seized her hand and clasped it again.

“The plan was Will’s. We stole out the side door in disguise, and then joined Alexander’s army as it left. But he was captured before he could even cross the courtyard, and he remains a prisoner, even now. We traveled with the army until Dumbarton. No one ever looked twice at us.”

“Alexander?” Isabella’s brows rose. She pulled Margaret toward a pair of chairs in front of one fireplace.

Margaret tensed. “Alexander MacDonald—the Wolf of Lochaber.”

“It seems odd for you to call him by name. But then, you were his hostage for many weeks—for almost a month. Will you sit with me, Margaret? Will you share a glass of wine? You must be exhausted after traveling across half of Scotland! And I have missed you so!”

Margaret had missed Isabella, too. “Of course I will sit with you—we have so much to speak of.”

Isabella grinned as they both sat. “Peg, please bring us wine. And prepare a feast! We must celebrate Margaret’s safe return!”

Peg rushed off as Margaret handed her mantle to Eilidh, sighing, and stretched out her legs.

“Did you become friendly, then?” Isabella asked.

Margaret started. “I beg your pardon?”

“You call him Alexander now—you must have become somewhat friendly.”

She hoped her cheeks were not pink—they felt warm. Yet she knew Isabella’s question was innocently asked. She could hardly suspect that they had had an affair. “I do not know when I began to call him by name, but he remains the enemy. He is a MacDonald.”

Isabella studied her. “You must hate him,” she finally said. “He kept you prisoner, he holds Will even now and he has conquered Castle Fyne.”

“Sir Guy already tried to take the keep back. He will undoubtedly try again. And now that I am home, I will send a letter to Argyll, seeking his aid.”

“So you will not accept the loss of the castle?” Isabella cried.

“No, I will not. Would you?”

“I would not write letters to my kin, asking them to go to war for me! But then, I would have never thought to try to defend the castle in the first place. You are so brave!”

“It was a very foolish decision, Isabella. And I was terrified, and because I chose to fight, not surrender, many good men died.”

“He must have been so angry with you,” Isabella said after a pause. “If I had ever defied John in such a way, and attempted to battle against him, oh, he would hurt me terribly. Did he seek to punish you?”

Margaret rubbed her arms. Most men would have angrily punished such defiance, even though it came from a woman. “No, he did not seek to punish me. He was very angry but he was also reasonable. I did not suffer very much in his care.”

Isabella blinked. “A warrior who is reasonable? Are we speaking of the same man? Is he then not like the legends?”

Margaret smiled a bit. “He is exactly like the legends, Isabella. He is strong, mighty and brave, a great warrior. I have wondered if he will ever be defeated in battle.”

“You sound admiring!”

Margaret hesitated. “In some ways, I have come to admire him, and I certainly respect him.”

Her gaze sharpened. “Is he as dark and handsome as is claimed?”

Margaret decided to dissemble. “He is dark, but if he is handsome, I never noticed.”

Peg now returned, carrying a trencher with two mugs of wine. She gave each woman one, and Margaret thanked her. She sipped, aware of the extent of her lie. She thought Alexander one of the most attractive men she had ever seen.

“If he is as mighty as you say, you may never win Castle Fyne back,” Isabella said.

Margaret felt her momentary pleasure fade. “I am afraid of that. He has left a large garrison there.”

Isabella made a harsh sound. “John is furious over Red John’s murder, and he is spending all of his time planning war against Bruce. But my husband is very pleased with you. He has done little but boast about you since we first heard of the siege and your part in defending the keep. You may trust me when I tell you that you are high in his good graces.”

“Buchan isn’t here, is he?”

“No. He left weeks ago—to speak with our every friend, to raise men, to prepare for war—he fights with King Edward!” Her eyes darkened. “How he hates Robert Bruce.”

Isabella was one of the least political women Margaret knew, but like the entire family, she despised the English.

“I have news of the war, Isabella. I must speak with my uncle. It is important.”

“Can you write him?”

“No. I must speak with him in person,” Margaret said. She was not going to describe Bruce’s meeting with Alexander in a letter that could be intercepted by almost anyone.

“The information you have must be dear, indeed.” Isabella did not seem curious as she sipped her wine.

“It is.” This was as good a time as any to speak frankly with her sister in marriage. “Bruce spent a night at Castle Fyne.”

Isabella sat up in surprise, spilling some of her wine. Her entire demeanor had changed. Clearly, she was interested now. “You saw him?”

“I met him, yes.”

“How is he?”

She started. The question seemed odd—as odd as her wide-eyed expression. “He is a powerful liege lord, Isabella. One arrogant enough to think he can be king.”

She smiled. “I met him at Fife, before my marriage.”

“I did not know.”

“He was proud and arrogant then. I saw him after my marriage, too, at Lochmaben, and then at Dalswinton. He is a strutting cock of a man.”

Margaret stared closely now. “He asked about you—now I begin to understand—I hadn’t realized you had met one another once, much less several times.”

“He asked about me?” She seemed clearly pleased. “So he remembers me?”

Margaret seized her hand. Did Isabella think that Bruce recalled her because she was a beautiful young woman? “I do not know if he recalls your having ever met, but he knows of you. And I am very worried.” She leaned close and lowered her voice to a whisper. “He marches on Dumbarton—and then, to Scone. He will be crowned there soon.”

Isabella’s eyes were wider now. “He will be our king, Margaret—I am sure of it.”

Margaret jerked. This was not the reaction she had expected. “He cannot hope to defeat King Edward, Isabella. It is mad to even dream of doing so!”

“Why not? He is next in line to be king—and we cannot remain yoked to England for much longer. God must finally be on our side!”

Was this her pretty friend speaking? Isabella never voiced an opinion, especially not when it came to affairs of state or matters of politics. Margaret was disbelieving. “You wish for Bruce to be king?”

She hesitated. “He is next in line—everyone knows it.”

Margaret did not know what her hesitation signified. “Your husband will fight him to the end.”

She flushed. “Yes, he will.”

“Isabella! There is more. Bruce spoke of using you to aid him in his quest to be king.”

She gasped.

Margaret hurriedly explained. “He cannot summon your brother to the ceremony, and apparently the earls of Fife have traditionally participated in the crowning of every Scot king. He and Alexander discussed the possibility of using you in the ceremony instead. After all, you are still the Countess of Fife.”

Isabella’s color was now high. She was speechless.

“I have come to warn you,” Margaret said.

“Warn me? Oh, I am so glad you have told me this!”

Was Isabella
pleased?

“But how would I get to Scone to help crown him?” she asked.

Margaret shot to her feet. “Are you mad? I thought to warn you
against
him.”

Isabella stood. “I would love to help him be king!”

Margaret stared at her in horror.

Still red, her eyes bright, she cried, “I must get word to him! I must tell him I will help him in any way that I can! Or should I simply leave and go to Scone?”

Margaret seized her arm. “Buchan is against Bruce! He will disown you if you ever take Bruce’s side!”

Isabella shook her head, almost wildly. “I don’t care, Margaret. Let Buchan fret and fight, I don’t care! Bruce should be our king!”

“You are suddenly political? Since when? If you help him, your marriage is doomed.”

Isabella stared. “Then my marriage will be doomed.”

* * *

T
HEY
CAREFULLY
AVOIDED
the subject of Bruce for the rest of the evening, as well as the subject of Isabella’s marriage, but the next morning, while Margaret was taking a much-needed hand bath, Isabella paused on the threshold of her chamber. Her smile was tentative. “Margaret? May we speak?”

Margaret was clad only in a chemise, warm and wet cloth in hand. She smiled, handing the cloth to Peg. They had not spoken very much last night after that first disturbing conversation. Margaret had retired early, immediately after supper. She had been exhausted. “Of course. Good morning.”

Isabella glanced at Peg. “Could you bring us warm, spiced wine? I will help Margaret dress.”

So she wished for a privy word, Margaret thought with some dread. Peg left, and Isabella waited a moment, until her footfalls could no longer be heard. “Are you angry with me?” she blurted.

Margaret toweled off her damp arms and legs. “Why would I be angry?”

“You are the most noble woman I know. I fear I have disappointed you.”

Margaret set her towel down and pulled on a pale cote. “I love you, Isabella, no matter what you say or do. And you did not disappoint me yesterday—you surprised me.”

“Please don’t tell my husband about our conversation—and that I wish for Bruce to become our king!” she cried.

Margaret saw fear on Isabella’s face—and she was glad. At least Isabella sensed the ramifications of her taking such an opposing viewpoint to that of her husband. “I would never betray you that way,” Margaret said, meaning it. “But I am praying that you change your mind and support your husband in his causes—and in his war against Bruce. It is your duty, Isabella, as his wife.”