Brenda Joyce (36 page)

In panic, she prepared to flee, except the ravine was narrow—and there was nowhere to flee to!

A man seized her, pulling her from her mount. Terror gave way to relief when she slid into Alexander’s arms.

He dragged her across the ravine, through the fighting men, the wheeling horses, the bodies already strewn about, and shoved her into a crevice between several boulders. “Marjorie!” she cried.

“Stay here,” he ordered, and then he whirled and ran into the melee.

Margaret watched him swiftly engage an English knight, exchange blows and expertly knock the man’s sword from him. He pulled the knight from his horse and thrust his sword into his enemy’s chest. He then leapt astride the English charger and turned to face his next opponent, sword raised. He moved with such practiced grace and speed it seemed a blur.

Frantically, Margaret looked for Marjorie. Hundreds of men filled the ravine, most on foot, although a dozen knights were close to where she hid, including Alexander. Everyone was engaged in life-and-death combat.

Finally she saw Marjorie, on foot, hunched over, trying to run through the warring men.

“Marjorie!” Margaret screamed. But she knew she could not be heard, not when everyone was screaming, when arrows were whizzing, when horses were neighing....

Margaret glanced for Alexander, but he was far down the ravine, still astride, and slaying those in his path. She ran from the boulders.

She leapt over a body and saw Marjorie being seized by an English knight, one on foot. “Marjorie!”

Her friend was struggling frantically. Margaret hadn’t realized she clenched her dagger until that moment. With a howl, she leapt up and thrust the knife as hard as she possibly could into a spot on the base of the knight’s neck, beneath the mail of his helmet. He released Marjorie, howling. Margaret seized her hand and both women ran, Margaret leading the way.

She jammed Marjorie into the crevice. She was about to slip into the space as well, when suddenly her skin prickled.

Margaret whirled, pressing her back against the boulder, as Marjorie cried, “Margaret!”

A huge gray destrier faced her, blowing hard, pawing the earth. An English knight was mounted upon it, his visor down, and he was staring at her.

And Margaret could not move. She knew who it was before he lifted his visor.

“Treacherous bitch,” Sir Guy said. He withdrew his word from its sheath in a hiss, while smiling coldly at her.

He had no honor—he meant to kill her. Margaret had no doubt.

In that moment, she became paralyzed. She could not look away. His gray eyes burned with hatred. And he was walking his mount forward....

Margaret pressed her spine into the rock, wondering if she could somehow wriggle backward into the space there, knowing that if she turned to escape into the crevice, he would use his sword to cleave her back.

“How long have you been MacDonald’s whore?” he demanded, crowding her against the rocks.

She could feel the horse’s breath blowing upon her face; she could smell its breath. She did not dare answer.

“Tell me, whore!” he shouted.

“I love him!” she shouted back.

Sir Guy drove the destrier forward. Margaret screamed as the animal, having nowhere to go except over her, reared in protest. She saw its deadly hooves above her....

“A Donald!” Alexander roared.

Margaret covered her head with her arms as Sir Guy’s horse came down a mere inch away from her, and she heard their swords ring wildly. She looked up and saw Alexander and Sir Guy braced sword to sword against one another, each man’s face filled with vicious fury.

“Margaret!” Marjorie begged her to hide in the rocks.

Margaret ignored her, as the men exchanged enraged and violent blows. Both men were skilled. Both men were determined. Both men meant to kill the other.

And then Sir Guy’s sword danced off of Alexander’s arm, dripping blood. She cringed in dread. But Alexander parried so hard now, it was as if he hadn’t been wounded. A series of terrible blows were exchanged before both men moved their horses a few steps backward. Alexander was panting—so was Sir Guy. Neither man ever looked away from the other.

In unison, they both leapt to the ground, swords raised. Their horses raced away. Alexander and Sir Guy began circling one another. Alexander’s smile was cruel and menacing. Sir Guy’s smile was as vicious.

And they both struck at once.

Blow after blow was dealt and parried. Margaret could not stand it, when suddenly Sir Guy’s sword went flying from his hand.

Sir Guy froze, his expression one of fear.

Alexander smiled ruthlessly, in triumph, as he raised his sword and brought it ruthlessly down....

Margaret closed her eyes, but she heard the terrible sound of the blade driving through a human body. And she heard Sir Guy scream.

There was another horrific sound, followed by a thump. A moment later Alexander closed his hands upon her shoulders. “It is over, dinna look.”

She opened her eyes, meeting his burning blue gaze—careful not to look past him, where she knew Sir Guy lay dead, his body probably decapitated. Margaret somehow nodded, trembling, in shock.

Sir Guy was dead.
She could not believe it.

And then she realized that the battle was also over. She looked in the opposite direction from where Sir Guy lay. The ravine there was littered with the bodies and corpses of dying and dead horses and men. She sank against Alexander in relief, and for another brief moment, he held her.

The queen. Isabella.

Margaret looked wildly down the ravine, and finally saw Sir Nigel with Queen Elisabeth, both on foot, and both, apparently, unhurt. She now remarked Isabella, Sir Neil, Christina Seton, and then she saw Robert Bruce. He was astride his mighty warhorse, giving orders to his men.

Tears blinded her. Those dear to her had survived this battle, but for how long?

Alexander put his arm around her again. “We must tend to the wounded,” he said. “And if ye can, we could use yer help.”

Margaret gathered up her composure and nodded. “Of course.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

M
ARGARET
SAT
WITH
Isabella, arm in arm, in exhaustion. They had gathered up the wounded and fled the ravine. In a more defensible area, they had paused and Margaret had spent the afternoon with the other women taking care of their wounded.

Margaret leaned tiredly against Isabella, her cheek upon the other woman’s shoulder. The camp was spread out before them. The wounded lay in one area; the women had gathered near them while the able had gone to forage for their supper. The horses grazed. “I am too tired to move.”

“I am afraid,” Isabella whispered.

Margaret took her hand. “We’re all afraid.”

She was so tired that she did not want to think. But she had to contemplate the future. Bruce had lost hundreds more men. His army had been reduced to almost nothing. His men were exhausted. The horses were exhausted. They had no supplies, no food. Now what would they do?

She had heard bits and pieces of their conversations all afternoon. Sir Guy had not led the attack. It had been devised and commanded by Argyll’s son—John the Lame. They remained on MacDougall lands. Everyone expected to be attacked a second time.

Bruce was considering a different path of flight, into the lands of his close ally, the Earl of Lennox. But Lennox had not been seen nor heard from since Methven....

She saw Alexander walking slowly toward her. He was so tired. She saw it not just by his pace, which was more sluggish than usual, but in the set of his broad shoulders.

Nevertheless, he smiled at her. “Can we speak?”

“Of course.” He put his arm on her shoulder and guided her aside. “What will we do now?”

He smiled again and tilted up her chin. “Bruce has decided to send the women back to Kildrummy. They’re not safe here, and he needs to travel swiftly now, in order to hide from those who seek to hunt him down and kill him.”

Margaret trembled in dismay. Kildrummy was now safe? Since when? “I do not want to return to Kildrummy,” she began.

He held up his hand, silencing her. “Bruce is sending the horses with the women. It will be too hard to find grazing for them.”

Margaret had thought the situation very dire before. Now, he meant to hide in the forests with his remaining men, on foot! “They will not move as swiftly on foot.”

“They will move swiftly if they do not wear mail.”

She inhaled. They would abandon their armor. “So they will flee with but sword and dagger?”

He nodded.

She was suddenly furious. If an English army found them, they would be destroyed. A man on foot could not fight a man on horseback. No one would survive such an encounter. “God, and you will flee with them?”

“No. He sends me back to Kintyre to warn Angus of what has happened—to beg him for his aid and for refuge.”

He was leaving Bruce and his decimated army—she was relieved!

“I want ye with me, Margaret.”

She took a deep breath, but before she could speak, he said, “Kildrummy has never been under siege. But I fear for the queen and her women with Aymer in control of so much of the north. I could be captured, Margaret,” he warned. “If yer with me, ye’d be captured, too.”

She nodded tearfully. “I don’t care. I will come with you, Alexander.”

They stared at one another for a long time. “I’ll tell Bruce.”

Dunaverty Castle—late August, 1306

“I
AM
EAGER
to acquaint ye with my brother,” Alexander said, smiling.

She could not believe they had reached the great MacDonald stronghold. Margaret walked beside Alexander, his arm around her. She had been exhausted, for they had ridden long and hard for the past four days, only pausing to rest for a few hours at night.

Just a short while ago they had been at sea in a vessel borrowed from a fisherman, crossing the Firth of Clyde. The seas had been choppy, with a strong breeze filling the single sail, and they had swiftly approached Kintyre. Margaret had been seated in the bow of the tiny vessel, clinging to its side. When Dunaverty had come into view, a bulky castle perched high above the sea upon great cliffs, her exhaustion had vanished. It had been immediately replaced with excitement and awe.

They had escaped the mainland. They had left the war behind.

Finally, they were safe.

And maybe, just maybe, this was a new beginning....

They were strolling through the castle’s large outdoor courtyard, now. Margaret smiled up at Alexander; he smiled back.

He thinks this is a beginning, too,
she thought.

The MacDonald flag with its dark field and red dragon flew proudly from one high tower, whipping in the wind. Highlanders stood above them on the ramparts. And then she heard the sound of Alexander’s name, and she slowed and turned, as did Alexander. Highland soldiers had come to the edge of the ramparts to look down upon them.

“Alexander!” they called. “The mighty Wolf returns!”

Chills swept over her; tears filled her eyes. These men were his kin, and they worshipped him.

His name was being echoed amongst them again and again. And a refrain began, one that turned into a chant.

“Alexander! The mighty Wolf is home! The mighty Wolf returns! Long live the mighty Wolf of Clan Donald!”

His grasp on her shoulders tightened. He leaned closer. “Welcome to Dunaverty, Margaret.”

She looked up at him, overcome with relief. She reached for and squeezed his hand. “They love you,” she whispered.

He smiled at her, a twinkle in his eyes—one she had never before seen. “And soon, they will love ye just as much,” he said. “Come.”

She stiffened, even as he propelled her inside the great hall of the castle. For his meaning was clear. Soon, she would be his wife, the lady MacDonald.

She thought of her mother, Mary MacDougall. Somehow, she knew Mary would be happy for her, and that she would be pleased.

Margaret’s attention was diverted. The great room had high-beamed ceilings, and two massive stone hearths. Otherwise it was sparsely furnished, with one table, benches and a few chairs. Rushes were upon the floors, banners hanging from the high rafters. Fires blazed. And a tall, dark-haired man was at the far end of the room.

Even without the MacDonald plaid worn about his broad shoulders, Margaret would have recognized him instantly. He looked so much like Alexander—no one could doubt that they were brothers.

Margaret thought him in his early thirties. He was taller than most men, with broad shoulders, and arms sculpted from the years he had spent wielding swords and axes. His dark hair was shoulder-length. His eyes were sky-blue. He was an attractive man, one resonating power and command.

Angus Og, lord of the isles, approached. He was beaming.

Alexander hurried forward, smiling, as well. Both men embraced, the hug filled with warmth and feeling. Then Angus withdrew, clasping his brother’s shoulder. “I dinna expect ye. What news?”

Alexander sobered. “None of it is good, Angus. Bruce hides in the forests. He has been defeated twice this summer, at Methven and Dalry. At Methven, there was treachery and a massacre—he lost most of his army. John the Lame and Sir Guy de Valence ambushed us at Dalry. Sir Guy is dead.”

Angus was grim. “News of Methven reached us a few weeks ago. But not of Dalry. Where is Bruce now? What men does he have left?”

“I left Bruce in Argyll, not far from Dalry. He has few men, no horses and his women have been returned to Kildrummy Castle, with few knights to guard them and no stores.”

“Is it true that Aymer has six thousand men?”

“Aye, and he holds a great many castles once taken by Bruce. He continues to hold Perth.”

“And Bruce?” Angus pressed.

“Bruce thinks to pass to the west of Loch Lommond and then onto the lands of Lennox. But we dinna ken if Lennox survived Methven. He has sent Neil Campbell ahead to procure ships. If he can cross into Campbell territory, he will need the vessels to cross to Dunaverty.”

Angus stared at Alexander, his expression impassive and impossible to read.

“I have been sent ahead to ask ye fer yer help,” Alexander said.

“Bruce is Scotland’s rightful king. I promised him my support long ago. He will have it now, in his darkest hour.” And as if the conversation were concluded, his gaze veered to Margaret briefly. He seemed surprised, and he took a second glance at her, before returning his attention to Alexander.

Alexander nodded with hard satisfaction. “It is up to Bruce then—and to Lennox if he lives, and to Campbell. But I have been instructed to begin to raise a new army for him.”

Angus’s smile was knowing. “He has many here in the isles who will support him. We’ll sit later and discuss it.” He now turned and faced Margaret. “Introduce me to yer lady, Alexander.”

Alexander smiled. “Brother, there is nothing I wish to do more. She is Lady Margaret Comyn.”

Angus Og approached. “The Lady of Loch Fyne.”

Margaret had tensed. She and Alexander now planned to marry, and she wanted his brother’s approval. But she was a MacDougall by birth—she was the blood enemy of his entire clan. “My lord,” she said. “I am Lady Margaret Comyn. I pray it does not distress you that I am here, imposing upon your hospitality now in our time of need.”

He seemed amused as he studied her. “I ken who ye be, Lady Margaret. I heard the tale long ago of how bravely ye tried to fight off my brother.”

Margaret hoped that was praise. “At the time, he was the enemy, and there was no other choice.”

“How old are ye?”

“I will soon be eighteen.”

“Most women yer age would not have tried to defend a castle with but a handful of men.”

Alexander said, “She is not most women. She is uncommon.”

Angus glanced at him with a smile. “Uncommonly brave, uncommonly beautiful. I can see why ye keep her. Ye remind me of yer aunt, Lady Margaret.”

Margaret was surprised.

“Ye look very much like Juliana. She is another MacDougall who is brave and beautiful—who dared to love one of my brothers.”

Margaret wasn’t sure how to respond.

Angus said, “Do ye love my little brother?”

“Yes.” She bit her lip. “I love him greatly...I hope that pleases you.”

He studied her. “It would please me to know that ye have truly forsaken yer MacDougall loyalties.”

Of course he cared mostly about her loyalty to the clan he hated more than anything and anyone. “I will always be loyal to Will—my only remaining brother. I will always be loyal to my mother and my father, God bless them, for they are dead. But—” she looked at Alexander, and tears arose “—I love Alexander. I never meant to love him, but it came to pass. When I fled the Englishman I was meant to wed, I knew I was giving up my every ancient loyalty. I am loyal to Alexander, my lord. For now and forever.”

Alexander slid his arm around her. “I have asked her to marry me—many times, actually. She has only recently agreed.”

Angus’s stare remained upon her and it was thoughtful. “The last time a MacDougall married a MacDonald, ancient loyalties were tested and torn asunder. It isn’t easy to love the enemy.”

“I know,” Margaret whispered.

“But Juliana never wavered—my older brother never wavered—and ye remind me of her.” He walked to Alexander and laid his hand upon his shoulder. “If ye love her as our brother loves Juliana, she will be fortunate, indeed.”

Margaret trembled, holding back tears. They had just been given Angus Og’s blessing.

He smiled at them then, and suddenly turned and exited the hall, leaving them very much alone.

Alexander reached out. Margaret gave him her hand.

“Will ye marry me now?”

Speechless, her heart thundering, she nodded.

He laughed and swept her into his embrace. His forehead against hers, he said thickly, “Now I can tell ye how I never thought to see this day.”

“Me neither,” she answered.

He lifted her into his arms. Margaret gasped in surprise as he carried her from the hall. “Alexander!”

“Ye said yes,” he teased, striding up a narrow stairwell and hunching over to do so.

“It isn’t noon!” she protested, clinging to his shoulders.

“So? I happen to ken well that ye like sex in the morning better than at night!”

She could not believe he would speak so openly, and she felt her cheeks flame. Fortunately, they were alone as he reached the landing and strode down the corridor. And she had no desire to protest.

The tradition of handfasting was as old as time. She had agreed to the union. As soon as they made love and consummated it, they would be man and wife.

He kicked open a door and she saw a dark bedchamber, but knew it was Alexander’s. An old, rusted shield hung on one wall, and a coat of mail, worn and in need of repair, cloaked a straw replica of a man. Instinctively, she knew the shield and armor had belonged to his father, the last lord of the isles, Angus Mor.

He kicked the door closed and laid her down on the bed, coming down on top of her. She met his dark, intense stare.

“Will ye marry me now?”

“Yes.”

His gaze did not waver. “Will ye be as loyal to me as Juliana is to my brother?”

“Yes.”

“Till the death?” His tone was now thick.

She could not speak then, so she nodded, then managed, “Yes.” Then, “I will love you for all time, Alexander. And you? Will you be loyal to me—will you love me—for all time?”

“Yes.” He leaned low and covered her mouth with his.

Margaret had never loved him more. She reached for his face and held him, letting him kiss her deeply. When he finally ended the kiss, she realized she was crying.

He brushed her tears away with his fingers, then untied her girdle, tossing it aside.

Margaret had become breathless. Desire had risen up, hot and hard, joining the impossible surge of love.

He removed her surcote and cote together, lifted her chemise, and then settled his hard thighs between her legs. He thrust deep, watching her, and Margaret did not move. Pleasure took her breath away. So did love.

He said, “We’re man and wife now.”

* * *

A
FEW
WEEKS
later, Bruce arrived at Dunaverty Castle.