Brenda Joyce (37 page)

The news of his arrival swept the castle. Margaret was putting away clothing that had recently been washed when she heard a young maid running past her chamber, crying out to her as she did so. Bruce had come! Dropping the pile of tunics, Margaret ran after the maid.

They charged up to the ramparts, which were filled with men and women, everyone hanging over the walls. “Bruce!” a man shouted.

“The Bruce!” another cried.

“King Robert Bruce!” men and women cheered.

Margaret reached the edge of the crenellations and hung over them breathlessly. It was a brisk autumn day, the seas beyond the beach choppy with white foam, the sky above bright and blue, clouds racing across it. She saw six galleons beached below, and then she saw Bruce striding up the last of the road leading to Dunaverty’s front gates.

Three dozen men were behind him. Everyone carried their swords, but nothing else. Bruce was thin and gaunt, as were his men—frighteningly so. And many of the men were barefoot. Their hair was long, she now realized, their clothing in tatters. She was shocked.

When she and Alexander had left Bruce at Dalry, they had not been so lean, and he had had no more than twenty men. Tears filled her eyes. She could not imagine what had happened as they had tried to flee the mainland of Scotland to Kintyre.

But the cheers did not abate. Bruce had not changed otherwise. His head was high, his shoulders square. He did not look like a man who had suffered defeat after defeat. He smiled, holding up his hand. The crescendo increased. The crowd roared its approval.

When Bruce had disappeared from view into the entry tower, Margaret returned to the keep. She hurried inside, intent on getting down to the hall, for she wished to learn what had happened.

Bruce stood with Alexander and Angus before one hearth, the rest of his men already being given wine. Margaret slowed her pace as she approached.

The king saw her. He smiled. “Lady MacDonald. Congratulations. You have made a fortunate choice.”

Margaret bowed her head. “Your Majesty.” Then she met his piercing blue stare. The moment she did, she saw the resolve in his eyes—the strength in his demeanor.

Robert Bruce had been defeated, but nothing had changed. He was Scotland’s king.

He turned back to Angus and Alexander. As she listened, she learned about how he and his men had been reduced to surviving upon roots, berries and small game. With winter approaching, it had been terribly cold, causing everyone to suffer. They had found shelter in caves.

They had been able to avoid a dangerous journey through MacDougall lands at Loch Lommond, by finding a sunken boat to carry them across the loch, in stages. By now, they were near starvation. Bruce divided his men into two hunting parties, as they were desperate for venison. And by sheer good fortune, the sound of their hunting horns was heard by the Earl of Lennox, who was also out hunting that day. A wonderful reunion ensued, as each man had thought the other to be dead.

Bruce and his men then joined Lennox at his camp, as he was in hiding, as well. There, they managed to eat and drink, and then go on to meet Neil Campbell, who had been sent ahead after Dalry and who had two galleys waiting for them.

Bruce now paused, handing his cup to a passing maid for more wine. Angus clasped his shoulder. “But ye live. The king of Scotland lives.”

“Was there ever doubt?” Bruce asked with his usual arrogance. “There can be no delay. I am sending my brother to Ireland to raise men from my estates there, and I will visit my brother’s wife, Christiana of the Isles, as she will also give me men.”

Margaret heard them discussing an invasion of Scotland in the following spring. She was in disbelief. Bruce’s army had been reduced to a handful of starving knights. Yet he intended to invade Scotland and rejoin the war against King Edward in a matter of months! Aghast, she left the men.

But as she went upstairs, she began to think of how Bruce had thus far stolen Scotland’s crown, and survived attack after attack by the mightiest army in the land. His ambition knew no bounds. If anyone could raise a mighty army now, it was Robert Bruce.

She was alone in their bedchamber, needlepoint in her hand, when Alexander came in many hours later. He smiled at her. “How can ye see to sew now?” Only two tapers were burning, while a small fire crackled in the hearth.

She set the embroidery down. Her heart had filled with warmth the moment Alexander had entered the chamber. How she loved him, for better or for worse. “Will Bruce be able to raise another army—one strong enough to fight King Edward?”

“Can ye doubt it?” Alexander came to her and took her into his arms. “I ken ye hate war.” He kissed her temple. “But ye married a warrior, Margaret. Do ye have regrets?”

She turned and put her arms around him. “I will never regret loving you or becoming your wife.” For a moment, she simply pressed her face to his chest. Then she looked up. “I am glad Bruce lives, Alexander.” And she meant it.

“Yer becoming a MacDonald, Margaret,” he warned, with a gentle smile.

“I hope so,” she said.

* * *

A
LEXANDER
WAS
THE
one to bring her the letter from her brother. It was a crisp October day, the skies bland and gray, the seas dark, the waves high. “Ye have a letter, Margaret, from William,” he said, smiling.

His smile seemed odd but she ignored it, thrilled to have a missive from her brother. She had written to him shortly after her marriage, telling him that she was now Alexander’s wife. She had written a lengthy and similar letter to Buchan. She did not know if her uncle would ever reply, but she was ecstatic to hear from her brother.

She eagerly read his every word. “He is at Balvenie now,” she reported to Alexander. She read on and looked up. “He is enjoying days spent hunting and fishing.” She read more. “He does not mention Buchan’s reaction to my letter!”

Alexander sat down next to her. “Is there more?” he asked quietly.

She suddenly realized that his eyes were dark, his expression grim—something dire had happened. She picked up the parchment and read the final two paragraphs, her insides curdling. “Kildrummy has fallen.”

“Aye,” he said.

In horror, she reread what William had written.

“‘Sir Nigel and Sir Neil valiantly defended Kildrummy Castle, but it fell on the tenth of September,’” she read. “‘There was treachery from within the castle, Margaret, otherwise, perhaps they might have triumphed over Aymer.’”

He then changed the topic, inquiring about her well-being, and ended by saying that there was word in Scotland that Bruce would return, and he expected a resumption of the war in the spring.

Margaret was horrified, and she stared at Alexander, mistakenly crumpling the page in her hand, she held it so tightly.

“The women were not there, Margaret.”

She choked in relief. “How is that possible?”

“They never went to Kildrummy. Sir Neil and Sir Nigel were left behind to defend the castle, while the women fled north with Atholl.”

Kildrummy had been besieged, but the queen, Isabella and the other women had not been there. For that, she was thankful. But there was no relief. “Sir Neil? Sir Nigel?”

Alexander hesitated.

They were dead, she thought, suddenly faint.

“They were caught and hanged. Margaret, dinna ask me for the details.” He put his arms around her.

She wanted to weep and scream. Her beautiful Sir Neil had been hanged. And Sir Nigel, Bruce’s handsome, courageous brother, had been hanged with him!

“This is war, Margaret. Men die in war.”

She pulled back and looked up at Alexander, sick with anguish, but furious, too. “If there is more bad news, you must tell me. Now! Is the queen hidden safely? Is Isabella?”

He studied her for a moment, and then he slipped away.

“Alexander!” she screamed, already knowing his answer.

He paced past her and closed the shutters. “It is truly cold in here.”

“What happened to them!”

He slowly faced her. “They sought sanctuary at St. Duthac. They were all captured, Margaret. They are King Edward’s prisoners.”

Tears flooded her eyes. “What will he do to them?” she managed to ask.

“I dinna ken.”

“Liar.”

“Margaret!”

“Tell me the truth!” she cried. “Do you think I haven’t heard how vengeful King Edward has been? I know what he did to Sir Christopher, he was drawn and quartered, Alexander, after he was hanged! What did they do to Sir Neil? To Sir Nigel?” she screamed.

He pulled her into his embrace. “I willna tell ye.”

“I will find out, anyway!”

“Let it rest, Margaret,” he said.

She wept against his chest then. Alexander held her and stroked her hair. And when she had spent a tiny portion of her grief, she looked up. “Where is Isabella? Marjorie? Christina?”

“They were being held at Aberdeen. I dinna ken where they are now.”

She swiped away her tears. “I want to see them. I want to see Isabella.”

“No. I willna allow it.”

As they stared at one another, Margaret realized her demand had been impossible. She and Alexander would be captured if she went to visit her friends.

Her mind raced. Buchan would visit Isabella. Wouldn’t he?

“I must see my uncle, Alexander.”

His eyes widened. “Fer what cause?” Then comprehension covered his face. “So ye can beg him to spare Isabella his wrath? Ye canna do so, Margaret!”

“I must beg him to show her mercy! Buchan is an ally of King Edward. If he wants his wife back, King Edward will surely agree! Please! I must convince my uncle to take Isabella back! She will be better off if he is the one to punish her! God only knows what her fate will be otherwise!”

Alexander shook his head, resigned. “I must be mad—to agree to such madness.”

Kilmory Knap Chapel, Loch Sween—November, 1306

A
LEXANDER
AND
HIS
men had gone into the small stone chapel where Margaret was to meet her uncle. In spite of the promises that had been made, he wished to make certain that they would not suffer an ambush. After all, the chapel was on MacSween land, and they were allied with the MacDougalls—they had taken up arms against Bruce.

But the meeting had been arranged by Alasdair Og and his wife, Juliana. Everyone had agreed that Juliana would be able to best bring both sides together, as she was a MacDougall by birth, and married to a MacDonald.

For Buchan, such a meeting posed little danger. Although Alasdair Og had managed, through his wife, to obtain the promise of safe passage for them, they were in the midst of the enemy’s territory. Alexander trusted no one. Neither did Margaret.

She shivered, although fur-clad, astride her mount as she waited outside the chapel. It was a frigidly cold day. Snow covered the ground, weighed down the evergreens, and capped the mountain peaks. The loch was as dark as iron as it swept out to the sound.

Alexander came outside, a fur swinging from his broad shoulders. Margaret breathed hard as he strode to her.

He was not happy; his mouth was downturned. “They’re within—waiting fer ye.”

Tension filled her, so much so, she could barely breathe. Somehow she nodded.

Alexander came forward to help her slide down from her mount. “Ye dinna have to meet him, Margaret. ’Tis not too late to turn back.”

“I am not turning back,” she said. If she could, she hoped to be forgiven by her uncle for falling in love with Alexander. For months, she had yearned to explain to him what had happened and how it had happened. But her needs were mostly irrelevant now.

She had one real ambition—to save Isabella.

Alexander guided her forward and they walked along the snow-covered stone path to the chapel’s door. Alexander swung it open for her, but then he made her wait so he could enter first. Margaret only followed when he turned and indicated that it was safe for her to do so.

Margaret stepped inside the century-old stone church. She saw the group of men standing at the end of the knave, which included William and her uncle.

Buchan looked at her, his eyes dark with anger. She cringed.

William ran up the knave, toward her. “Meg!”

Her tension vanished. She could not believe how much he had grown since she had last seen him! He had seemed more of a boy then, but suddenly, she was faced with a grown man. “Will!”

She leapt into his arms and he hugged her, hard, rocking her as he did so. Then he stepped back and stared, amazed. “How beautiful you are!”

She smiled. “You look so well, too. I am happy, Will.” And then she saw him glance at Alexander and she watched the two men whom she loved most in this world exchange long looks. There was a great deal of relief. She understood that both men had come to terms with one another—for her sake.

She glanced at her uncle now. He was so angry with her. Trembling, sick with dread, she slowly walked to him. “Uncle John.”

He was breathing hard. “Ye betrayed me.”

“I did not mean to fall in love with him.”

“Love? Love has
nothing
to do with marriage!” Buchan said harshly.

“Uncle, I love you, I always have and I always will—but I fell in love with Alexander. I did not mean to. I fought my every emotion.”

“You fought your emotion? You married him.”

“I had to choose.”

“There was no choice to make!” her uncle cried. “I made the choice for you!”

She brushed aside incipient tears. “Is it too much to ask for your forgiveness?”

“You turned your back on us all, on your mother, your father, on your brother, on me!” Buchan said. His nose was red and moisture glistened upon his eyes. “I will never forgive you, Margaret. I disowned you the day you fled Sir Guy—and swore your fealty to Bruce.”

She inhaled, trembling. “I so wish for your forgiveness, but so be it. Just know, Uncle, that I am in grief over losing you.”

He made a harsh, dismissive sound. “Is this why you have asked for a meeting? To seek my forgiveness? If so, you have wasted my time.”

“I had to see you, I had to explain and I had to try to persuade you to forgive me. But there is more.” She paused.