Brenda Joyce (19 page)

“I have never been as honorable as you,” Isabella said softly.

Margaret felt guilty—she was not as honorable as Isabella thought. “And surely you now realize that you could never help Bruce take the crown. Such an act is treachery against your husband.”

Isabella smiled grimly, but it was almost a pursing of her lips.

And then, from outside, they heard cries from the watchtower.

Margaret tensed, her reaction an instinctive one, but no one would ever attack Balvenie! The fortress was too mighty a stronghold. Besides, the wars with England rarely brought battles this far north.

Still, someone was approaching. She ran with Isabella to the chamber’s only window.

The shutter was open. It was a bright, sunny springlike day. Most of the snow outside the castle walls had melted. And an armed group of riders was approaching.

The red, black and gold flag of Buchan waved proudly above them.

“John has come home,” Isabella breathed, her tone terse. Margaret saw that she did not smile, and she was pale with tension.

Her gaze narrowed. Her father had died a year and a half ago—she had moved to Balvenie shortly after his death. Isabella had become Buchan’s wife perhaps six months earlier. As Buchan was in residence often, she had seen Isabella and her husband together dozens of times. Their marriage had seemed quite usual.

But now, she paused.

She recalled watching Isabella at the opposite end of the great table, politely listening to her husband’s every word. She recalled the way they would leave the company after supper, hardly exchanging a word, although Buchan always had his hand on his wife’s waist. And she thought of how Isabella would greet him when he returned from attending affairs of state, or a hunting party. Buchan was usually boisterous, Isabella demure. Yet when he was away, the hall rang with her laughter.

She had never thought about the nature of their marriage before, and she did not know why she wondered about it now. Isabella had a lively nature, but she was usually quiet around her charismatic, handsome older husband.

“We should go down to greet them,” Isabella said, a small flush upon her cheeks.

Margaret agreed.

* * *

T
HEY
STOOD
OUTSIDE
the open front door, upon the top step of the stairs, awaiting the earl and his men. Although the day appeared benign, it was only early March, not even the fifteenth, and the breeze was brisk. Both women shivered, neither having bothered to don plaids or mantles.

The Earl of Buchan trotted into the courtyard with two dozen Highland knights. He was a tall man with dark hair—he was sometimes called Black John—and he rode at the group’s forefront, his mount a black charger. He appeared a powerful figure of a man, and he was powerful—before his cousin’s death, he had controlled half of northern Scotland. Now, he commanded the entire Comyn family, and no other family controlled as much of the north.

The horses were muddy, as were most of the riders. The group paused, Buchan halting his charger before the steps where they stood. His expression brightened as he saw them, and then he was quickly dismounting, his smile wide.

“Margaret!” He rushed up the stairs, eyes wide with surprise, and he hugged her, hard.

Margaret felt tears arise. Of course he cared about her. How had she been in any doubt? She smiled as he released her. “Good morn, Uncle.”

He clasped her chin and lifted it, his dark eyes searching. “We heard a rumor—that you had escaped—but we did not believe it!”

“I escaped, Uncle. It is a bit of a harrowing story.”

“So the rumor was true!” His eyes widened with obvious admiration. “I should have known. You are exactly like your mother!” Then he turned and beamed at Isabella. “Wife! What a pretty sight you are!”

Margaret watched as Isabella smiled and as Buchan swept her hard into his embrace. He kissed her, and Margaret looked away. In that moment, there was no doubt that Buchan adored his beautiful young wife.

Turning back, Margaret gasped as she saw that Sir Ranald stood holding two horses, grinning at her.

She flew down the steps. “Sir Ranald! I heard you had escaped the Wolf during the battle in the ravine!”

“I did escape—and I rode directly to Badenoch—only to learn of the murder,” Sir Ranald said, his smile disappearing. “My lady, how do you fare? We lost the battle of the ravine, and left you to defend Castle Fyne! I have heard the tale of how bravely you did so—and how many men were lost.”

She hesitated, but she had no interest in dissembling now. “I hope to never be in a siege again, Sir Ranald. My soldiers were terribly brave. So were the women, but there was never any hope, not against the Wolf.”

“Thank God you escaped.”

Margaret reached for his hand. She was about to answer, when she recognized the man who had just dismounted, and now stood behind Sir Ranald. She felt her expression freeze.

Sir Guy bowed, low. “Lady.”

Her heart slammed.
Sir Guy had come to Balvenie. Of course he had.

Sir Guy, whom she was to wed in June—whom she had so recently betrayed with another man.

Somehow, she swallowed, somehow, she breathed. And then she smiled, coming down the steps slowly, her gaze now locked with his. “Sir Guy! I am so pleased that you are here.”

His gray stare swept her from head to toe. He still did not smile. “I will pray to God tonight, and give thanks, for His keeping you safe during your travails.”

She bit her lip, nodding. “Thank you.”

His gaze was searching, and she wished to avoid it. Suddenly she was terrified that he might guess her secrets—and suspect her infidelity. But he said tersely, “I owe you a vast apology, Lady Margaret, for my rude behavior when we first met.”

She was taken aback. “You owe me no such apology, sir.”

“I was dismayed to see you upon the battlefield—and in my worst enemy’s hands. I fear I could not think clearly. Some think me gallant, but you could not, not after our meeting in such dire circumstances. I hope to redeem myself in the next few days.” He bowed his head this time.

Did he regret his behavior, truly? If so, she should be glad—she should be impressed! Margaret touched his sleeve briefly. He wore an armored breastplate over his brown surcote. Armored plates covered the hose over his knees. “You need not think about redemption.” She smiled. “Thank you for offering an apology, but none is needed.”

“You are as kind as you are beautiful.”

He was a handsome man, his nose broad, his cheekbones high. Alexander had said that many women found him both charming and gallant, and of course, he had the blood of both the French and English kings running in his veins. She felt a new tension. Would she become charmed? And why did that idea disturb her? Why did Alexander’s image now dare to haunt her?

“Margaret!” her uncle boomed. “We may all break the fast together, and you can tell us your tale of escape.”

Margaret turned, almost relieved to have the intimate conversation interrupted. “Of course, Uncle,” she said.

* * *

I
SABELLA
HAD
LEFT
to supervise the breakfast, and Margaret found herself seated at the table with her uncle, Sir Guy, Sir Ranald and a dozen other knights, some of whom she recognized, others who were English and clearly under Sir Guy’s command. Wine, bread and cheese were served, the men instantly taking up the food and drink. Margaret wasn’t hungry, and she toyed with her cup of wine, stealing glances at Sir Guy as he ate.

Her heart raced as she looked at him—not because she desired him, but because she would eventually be his wife. Thus far, he had been gallant. But she could not shake her first impression of him. She feared her initial opinions were correct.

Isabella returned to the table, taking a seat beside Buchan. He smiled at her then turned to Margaret. “So? Will you tell us your story?”

Margaret tore her gaze away from Sir Guy. “There is not much to tell. We were disguised as common maids, and we stole from the castle while the Wolf’s army was leaving, and then slipped into his ranks. It was easy to do, and we stayed hidden that way until they made camp outside Dumbarton. My maid Peg got us into the castle. John of Menteith received us warmly, then gave us an escort and sent us immediately on our way.”

“How simple you make such bravery sound,” Buchan said. “How is Will?”

“He was shot with an arrow while attempting to escape with us. Can you send a messenger to inquire after him?” Margaret asked.

“I will do so today,” Buchan said, pushing his plate aside.

“Is there any war news? Did Dumbarton fall to Bruce?” Margaret asked him.

Sir Guy said, “John of Menteith refused to surrender and Bruce retreated.”

She wondered where Alexander had gone. Margaret wanted to ask about him—and she wanted to ask about Castle Fyne. Did she dare? “MacDonald left a large garrison at Castle Fyne.”

“I heard. Have no fear—Castle Fyne will be ours again, by the time we wed in June.”

She stiffened. “So you have a plan to attack?”

“I am plotting with my brother. We will have Castle Fyne back, Lady Margaret, you may have no doubt on that.”

She had so much doubt. “Will Aymer send his troops to fight with yours?”

“Aymer will give me men, yes.” His stare remained riveted upon her. “You ask many questions.”

“I want Castle Fyne back.” She turned to her uncle hastily then. “Bruce was at Castle Fyne, Uncle, for a single night.”

Buchan choked on his wine. “My God! Did you learn anything from him?”

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that there might be a coronation on March the 25th. But then she thought about the fact that if she said such a thing—and the date was right—Bruce and his allies would be attacked by King Edward. Alexander would be attacked. She shifted in her seat. She did not even know if Eilidh had heard the date correctly. “He marches to Scone to be crowned there.”

“The world knows that!” Buchan exclaimed.

Sir Guy sent her a look. Was it as odd as she thought it was?

“They are seeking many earls, and I heard Lennox and Atholl will attend.” Now, she was aware of Isabella staring at her. She did not look back.

“Atholl will never attend,” Buchan said. “You must be mistaken, Margaret.”

“I did not hear that myself—I had my maids spy on Bruce and MacDonald,” Margaret said.

“You are clever,” Sir Guy said thoughtfully.

She flinched, staring at him.

“I know Atholl well. He opposes Bruce, just as we do.” Buchan was firm. “He is one of us.”

Sir Guy smiled. “We have spies everywhere—even amongst Bruce’s best friends. We will learn if Atholl is our friend—and we will learn when Bruce thinks to steal the crown.”

Margaret wondered if Alexander knew that there were spies amongst Bruce’s army.

“Bruce will be captured, and he will hang.” Sir Guy drained his wine and set the mug down hard. “As will all of his damned friends.”

Margaret hoped she did not appear appalled.

“We will be avenged, Lady Margaret, I vow it.”

Somehow, she spoke. “I do not like this blood feud, Sir Guy.”

His dark brows rose. “You opine against me?”

“I am afraid! Two great men—each seeking to kill the other!”

He stood, his stance wide, a warrior braced for attack. “He took Castle Fyne, he took you. And once, not long ago, we were friends! That bastard does not know the meaning of honor. So I will teach him the meaning of revenge.”

Sir Guy was angry—his gaze blazed. She decided not to speak.

“Surely, Lady Margaret, you wish for revenge, too?”

She tensed. What should she say? “I despise war. I have suffered through too many wars to count! War only brings death. So no, I do not wish for revenge, as it only brings death, too.”

“Then you will have to change your mind, lady. If I seek revenge, it must please you, too.”

She looked down at her hands as they lay on the table. Most men thought as Sir Guy did, so she should not be dismayed. But she was both. “Of course,” she murmured.

His gaze narrowed. “I will make certain,” he said, after a pause, “that you are with me when we hang the mighty Wolf.”

She trembled, looking up, wondering if fear was written all over her face.

* * *

E
VENING
HAD
FINALLY
fallen. Margaret thought that the day had been one of the longest of her life. She slowly went up the stairs, aware of the tension within her that she had not been able to shake all day. How she yearned for the privacy of her own chamber now.

She had caught Sir Guy watching her closely a dozen times that day. His enigmatic stare was so disconcerting! She could not imagine what he was thinking, but she had the terrible inkling that he suspected her of some grave failing.

But what was worse was that she did not care for him—not at all. In fact, she did not even like him. And she did not know how to change her thoughts. She did not know what to do.

Will had asked her if she were being sent to the gallows, would she meekly go? She had said no. Her impending marriage now felt like the gallows. Margaret paused by a ledge in the hall outside her door, a window above it. Outside, the night was a pale, soft purple, with many winking stars just beginning to emerge in the sky.

If she married Sir Guy, she would be told how to think. She would be told what to do. She would be criticized if she did not conform to his expectations of her. Margaret was certain.

Did she dare be honest with herself? She no longer wanted this marriage!

She thought of Alexander and felt a terrible pang—as if she missed him. But she must not miss him. What they had done was wrong. And even if she never married Sir Guy, Alexander remained a mortal enemy—in possession of both her brother and Castle Fyne.

Did she dare speak with her uncle about the marriage? He was so pleased with her now. Could she somehow convince him to change his mind about it?

Margaret instantly knew better than to try. Now that the Comyn family fought with King Edward against Bruce, her marriage had become more important than ever.