Brenda Joyce (5 page)

She could not bear the waiting, and she had never been as apprehensive. She heard footsteps in the hall on the landing, and she picked up her mantle, threw it on and hurried out. Sir Neil stood there, holding a torch.

“Are we ready?” she asked.

“As ready as we can be. If they think to scale our walls, they will be badly burned, at the least.”

And that was when she heard a terrible sound—a huge and crushing sound—accompanied by the deep groaning of wood.

“It has begun,” Sir Neil said. “They are battering the first gates on the barbican.”

“Will they break?”

“Eventually,” he said.

Margaret hurried past him, heading for the stairwell that went up to the crenellations. He seized her arm from behind. “You do not need to go up!” he exclaimed.

“Of course I do!” She shook him off and raced upstairs, stepping out into the gray dawn.

Smoke filled the air from the dozen fire pits, as did the stench of burning oil. The sky was rapidly lightening, and Margaret saw men and women at the walls, but no one was moving. “What’s happening?” she asked.

Malcolm stepped forward and said, “They are just moving their ladders to our walls.”

Margaret had to see for herself, and she walked past him.

She stared grimly down. Dozens of men were removing ladders from carts drawn by horses and oxen, pushing them toward her walls. She could not tell what the hundreds of men behind them were doing, and she glanced south, toward the barbican. Several dozen men were pushing a huge battering ram forward. She held her breath as the wheeled wooden machine moved closer and closer to the gates, finally ramming into it.

The crash sounded. Wood groaned.

In dismay, she realized the gates of the barbican would not hold for very long. A slew of arrows flew from her archers upon the entry tower, toward those men attacking her barbican. Two of the Wolf’s soldiers dropped abruptly from their places by the battering ram.

Instantly, other soldiers ran forward, some to drag the injured away, others to replace them.

“It isn’t safe for you to remain up here,” Sir Neil said, and the words weren’t even out of his mouth before she saw more arrows flying—some toward the men below, who were erecting the ladders upon her walls, and others coming up toward her archers and the women on her ramparts. Sir Neil pulled her down to her knees, arrows flying over them and landing on the stone at their backs.

“You are the mistress of this castle,” Sir Neil said, their faces inches apart. “You cannot be up here. If you are hurt, or God forbid, if you die, there will be no one to lead us in this battle.”

“If I am hurt, if I die, you must lead them.” Just then, the arrows had not hit their targets, but she was not a fool. When the Wolf’s archers were better positioned, they would strike some of her soldiers, and perhaps some of the women now preparing to throw oil on the invaders. And as she thought that, she heard a strange and frightening whistling sound approaching them.

Instinctively, Margaret covered her head and Sir Neil covered her body with his. A missile landed near the tower they had come from, exploding into fire as it did. More whistles sounded, screaming by them, rocks raining down upon the ramparts now, some wrapped in explosives, others bare. Two men rushed to douse the flames.

Margaret got onto her hands and knees, meeting Sir Neil’s vivid blue gaze. “You must tell me what is happening—when you can.”

* * *

T
HE
SOUNDS
OF
the Wolf’s siege became worse, and did not cease. The battering of the front gate, the screams of missiles and explosives, the locustlike whirring of arrows. But other screams accompanied these sounds—the frightened whinnies of horses, the cries of the men who were shot, and worse, the screams of those in agony as boiling oil scorched their heads, shoulders and arms.

Margaret now stood in the south tower, not far from the entry tower and the barbican. From her position at the uppermost window on the third floor, she could watch the battle. Thus far, no MacDonald soldier had made it over her walls, and the gates of the barbican were holding. Her archers were great bowmen, she now knew, and a great many of the Wolf’s men had been shot by them, both as they climbed the ladders and as they wielded the ram.

But his men were not the only casualties. His archers were causing damage, too.

She had seen three of her men struck by their arrows and missiles on the wall adjacent to the south tower. He had hundreds of men in this battle, while she had less than fifty. She could not afford to lose even three of her archers.

And he commanded his army by riding back and forth amongst his men. He was never alone, and he rarely rode out of the column of his knights and foot soldiers. Still, she had espied him the moment she had come to stand at the tower window. He was an unmistakable figure, powerful and commanding, even from a distance.

She had never hated and feared anyone more.

And she refused to admire his courage as her archers were continually firing upon him.

“How can ye watch?” Peg asked.

Margaret did not face her. “I do not have a choice.”

“There is always a choice,” Peg said bitterly.

Margaret turned. “You have been very clear, Peg, and while I have valued your opinions in the past, they are not helpful now.”

“We will all die here,” Peg said, bursting into tears.

Margaret grimaced, finally leaving the window. “We will not die,” she said, taking her into her arms. “Not if my uncle Argyll comes to our rescue.”

Peg sniffed. “You are as brave as your mother, and now, the whole world will know it.”

Margaret knew she wasn’t brave—she was sick with fear, but she would never tell her maid that.

She began to worry that the tides of battle were changing. The cadence of the striking battering ram quickened—more men had been added to its service. Fewer men were being struck by her archers—she did not see wounded soldiers dropping to the ground as she had at the start of the battle, and more were climbing up. Fewer arrows flew from her walls at the Wolf’s army while the hail of arrows and missiles from below had become a constant barrage.

She saw one of her archers fall from her walls, very close by the window where she stood, an arrow protruding from his chest. She could not stand it. She ran from the tower, and as she did she heard a great crash from outside, from the barbican, and the huge sound of splintering wood.

Margaret rushed onto the ramparts and paused, trying to adjust to the chaos around her. MacDonald soldiers were literally atop the crenellations now. Dozens of women stood throwing oil at them. Arrows and stones were a constant hail, raining down upon them. Explosives intermittently landed, detonating.

“They have breached the barbican!” someone shouted.

A woman her own age was heaving a pot of burning oil at a soldier who was now standing on her ramparts. As she threw the cauldron at him, he thrust out his arm, knocking the pot aside. Hot oil spilled, but he only grunted. Then he seized the woman by the hair.

A dagger flashed in his hand.

Margaret did not think twice. From behind, she stabbed him in the back.

He roared, turning, enraged. Before she could strike again—now to defend herself—Sir Neil struck him through with his sword from behind. His eyes widened in shock, and then he fell, clutching his bleeding midsection.

“You cannot be here,” Sir Neil said to her.

She ignored him, seizing the pot the woman had thrown and rushing to the fire pit with it. For an instant she paused, uncertain of how to put the hot oil into her pot.

The young blonde woman, whose life she had saved, now held a ladle and she scooped the boiling oil into her cauldron. Their eyes met.

Margaret smiled grimly, turned and found herself flinging oil onto another soldier climbing across her walls. From the corner of her eye, she saw Sir Neil wielding his sword against an enemy soldier, the two men exchanging frightening blows.

Her oil struck the man on his face, neck and shoulders. He screamed, falling off her walls.

But another man was behind her. Margaret whirled, throwing the contents at the next man. As he fell, she thought,
This is impossible. We will never keep this up.

But for the next few minutes, or perhaps the next few hours, that is exactly what she and the blonde woman did. Even as the invaders fell from the ladders and the walls, others succeeded in landing upon the ramparts, where Sir Neil, Malcolm and his men engaged them with their swords, maces and daggers.

“Lady,” she heard Sir Neil call.

Margaret had just thrown oil over the side of the ramparts, at a very young boy, whom she had missed. He now hung to his ladder, grinning at her, a dagger clenched in his teeth. Arrows rained past him, over her.

She had become accustomed to the barrage and she did not flinch or even duck. She glanced at Sir Neil, who was bleeding from his shoulder. “They are about to scale the walls below the first tower, and once they are within, they will lower the drawbridge,” he panted.

For an instant, she simply stared at him.

“It is over, we have lost—you must flee.”

Their gazes were locked. Then Sir Neil took his sword, raising it threateningly. The boy she had been fighting ducked, and then raced back down his ladder.

Margaret tried to comprehend him. Dying men littered the floor of the ramparts, alongside the already dead. Some were MacDonald soldiers, others were her own archers and men. Two women, one elderly, also lay as corpses.

Margaret had never known such despair—or such desperation. “Is there any chance we could hold them off below?”

“We have lost most of our archers. No.”

She inhaled, hard.

“It is a matter of hours, or even less, Lady Margaret, and they will have breached our walls entirely. We do not have enough men to fight them now. Your horse is ready. I will take you to safety.”

Sir Neil was in earnest now—he meant to rush her away. They had lost.

She knew she must not fall into the Wolf’s hands. But she stared across her ramparts. The women continued to boil oil and throw it at the enemy, but they were so clearly exhausted. The blonde stared at her now, her mouth pursed. Had she heard? Did she know that Sir Neil wished for her to flee? A few of her soldiers were fighting the enemy with daggers, not far from her. And she had only four archers left, but they were not even firing their arrows now. Instead, they were staring at her, too, as was Malcolm.

How could she leave them now? When the Wolf intended to execute them all?

“I am not abandoning my people,” she heard herself say.

Sir Neil choked.

She had no will to explain. But the men and women who had survived were her responsibility.

She must beg for the Wolf’s mercy, she thought.

“It is time to surrender,” she said tersely.

“Lady Margaret,” said Sir Neil, “he will not accept your surrender now, when victory is but hours away!”

God, was he right? She knew nothing of warfare! “If we try to surrender now, maybe he will show mercy later.”

Sir Neil was aghast. “You will be his captive, Lady Margaret, and you’re too valuable to be taken hostage. We must go! I swore to keep you safe!”

He was right—she would be taken prisoner. In that moment, Margaret knew she would rather be a hostage for the rest of her life than flee her people, leaving them to be slain by the Wolf of Lochaber. She must fight him tooth and nail, she thought, until he showed them mercy.

One battle had ended, now, another had begun.

“Raise the white flag,” she said.

CHAPTER THREE

M
ARGARET
STARED
UP
at the gray sky, watching the white flag of surrender as it was hoisted high above the south tower. It slowly unfurled.

Tears blurred her vision as the hail of arrows lessened, as the barrage of missiles and stones ceased. The clang of swords was silenced, as were the whistling screams from the projectiles, the whirring from the arrows, the shouts of men being burned and falling to their deaths.

Castle Fyne was lost. The Wolf had won.

Pain stabbed through her chest. It was over.

She glanced around carefully. A great many women had survived the battle for the keep, but only four archers, three soldiers, Malcolm and Sir Neil remained from amongst her men. Dismay sickened her.

She did not want to count the dead, which littered the ramparts. But there were dozens of wounded who needed care.

But no one moved. The women simply held their pots; her four archers their bows. Malcolm had come to stand beside her with Sir Neil. The enemy hung on to their ladders, while the other MacDonald soldiers, already atop the ramparts, remained unmoving.

It had become silent and still below, too. The sounds of the battle in the barbican were gone. She glanced across the army below her, which was still, and she heard a bird chirp. She scanned his hundreds of men, looking for him. Then she heard another bird, and another one.

“Where is he?” she spoke in a terse whisper.

“There,” Sir Neil said.

Margaret looked back down at the assembled army, but still, she did not see him. “Sir Neil, it is time for you to go. You must tell Buchan what has happened.”

Sir Neil hesitated; she knew he did not wish to leave her.

“You must go, I am commanding you to do so!” She did not know if the MacDougalls would attempt to take the castle back from MacDonald, but Buchan would be furious, and he would assemble an army. Or would he?

“Very well,” Sir Neil said. He ran into the north tower.

And then she heard Alexander MacDonald. “Lady of Fyne!” It was a harsh, unfriendly shout.

Her gaze veered to the sound as he now rode his gray stallion forward, appearing alone in front of his hordes of men. Margaret gripped the edge of the wall and leaned over it. Revulsion began.

It was laced with anger, replacing the fear, and for that she was grateful.

He halted the steed. A wind whipped his long dark hair as he stared up at her. A lengthy, terrible moment passed.

Margaret could not see his expression, but she knew he was angry—she felt it.

“So ye surrender now,” he said to her.

Their gazes had locked, even from this small distance. “Yes.” She trembled, realizing that she clutched her dagger still. Aware of how close he was, and that her archer stood just above him, she stared.

“Ye should have surrendered last night.”

She looked at his hard face. He had high cheekbones, a strong jaw. Most women probably thought him attractive.

She looked at his broad shoulders. His leine was bloodstained. Had he been wounded? How she hoped so! He wore two swords, both sheathed. Another dagger was in his belt. A shield remained strapped to his left forearm. His thighs were bare, his boots muddy and wet.

She lifted her gaze back to his. “I am a woman, not a warrior. I made a choice, and it was the wrong one.” She realized she clutched her dagger. She lifted it, showing it to him, and then, symbolically, she dropped it over the wall.

It twirled as it fell down to the ground, not far from him.

“No, Lady Comyn, yer a warrior, and ye have proven it this day.” His eyes blazed. “Have yer men open the front gates.”

She thought about Sir Neil, who was probably just slipping out of the side entrance in the north tower, which could accommodate a single man and a single horse. She hoped to give him as much time as possible to escape. “I will come down and open it for you, myself,” she said.

His gaze narrowed.

“My lord.” She looked quickly away.

* * *

T
HE
CASTLE
WAS
shockingly silent as Margaret descended to the courtyard. Only an infant could be heard mewling, and some horses snorted outside, amidst Alexander’s army. Malcolm walked with her, past the elderly men, women and children who had gathered, to the raised drawbridge beneath the entry tower. Great bolts locked it into place, and everyone had come to watch her open it and admit their conqueror.

Margaret was using all of her strength to appear calm and dignified—and unafraid.

“Ye may not be able to draw the bolts back by yerself,” Malcolm said.

Good, she thought. For she wished for Sir Neil to be long gone by the time she let the damned Wolf in.

Margaret strained to pull one bolt back. In the end, she could not manage, and Malcolm had to help her. Then they went to the winch, which she would never be able to move. They exchanged glances. Margaret pulled on the lever with all of her weight. When it did not move, she tried for a few more minutes, until she had no choice but to signal her few remaining men. They leapt forward, and slowly, the great bridge began to come down.

Margaret stepped back from the tower with Malcolm, her hands at her sides, fists clenched. The courtyard remained eerily silent, except for the groaning of the bridge as it was lowered.

She heard his horse’s hooves first. Then the gray steed appeared, the Wolf astride, his face hard, a dozen Highland knights behind him. The sound of their chargers echoed, and it was deafening.

He crossed the bridge and emerged from the entry tower. He halted the charger before her, leaping from it and striding over to her.

Margaret did not move as he approached, their stares locking. How she hoped to appear brave and defiant—yet how frightened she actually was.

He looked exactly as she had imagined the Wolf of Lochaber to be—he appeared a mighty, indomitable warrior—a legend among men.

There was hostility burning in his blue eyes, and it was chilling. His gaze skimmed over her, from head to toe, and then he held out his hand.

She reached down to her girdle. Her hand trembled. She could not still it so she ignored the obvious sign of her agitation. She detached and then handed him the castle’s great key ring. As she did, their gazes met again, and this time, they held.

“All of Scotland will speak of this day.”

She squared her shoulders, instantly furious. For the first time in its history, Castle Fyne had fallen. For the first time in a hundred years, it was no longer a MacDougall stronghold.

“All of Scotland will speak of the Lady of Fyne and the Wolf of Lochaber and the battle waged betwixt them,” he said.

She trembled. What was he trying to say?

His gaze never moved from her face. “Few men would dare to fight me. The bards will sing of your courage, Lady Margaret.” And grimly, he inclined his head.

Was he showing her respect? She was incredulous. “I have no care for what you think,” she said, hoping she did not spit the words out. “But I have a great care for the men, women and children here—and the wounded, who need immediate attention.”

His gaze narrowed as he studied her. “Yer hatred shows.” Then, “Come with me.” His black-and-blue plaid swinging about his shoulders, he started across the courtyard. The crowd remained silent.

Margaret hesitated, even though the command had been sharply uttered. Then she saw several women bow to him as he passed. He nodded curtly at them.

Margaret realized she must wage a careful game now, to gain his mercy. She hated him, but she must hide it. She walked after him, slowly.

He was already within the great hall, flinging off his plaid. Peg and two other women were hovering nervously there. Fires were burning. “I am hungry,” he said, pacing. “As are my men. Bring food and wine.”

Margaret stood very still, having just entered the hall, as a dozen huge Highlanders came inside. Alexander turned to several of them. “Remove all prisoners to the dungeons, including the wounded,” he said.

“Aye,” Padraig, the messenger, said.

“And inspect every room. Make certain no one is in hiding, and that no weapons are hidden, to be used against us.”

Margaret wished she had thought to hide some weapons to use against him. Padraig and four other Highlanders left.

Then she saw that he had turned his attention to her. “Stay here,” he said. Alexander jerked his head at two men, and went to the north stairwell. He gestured at three more men and vanished up it with them.

Margaret looked across the room at Peg, aware that three other huge enemy Highlanders remained—to guard her. But then, she would hardly be left alone, even if there was no means of escape. Ignoring her guards, she said, “Bring them sustenance. And do your best to keep him pleased.” Peg nodded and rushed off to obey.

MacDonald returned, clearly having gone up to the ramparts to assess it. He spoke with his men, and she heard him ordering a watch, then arranging his garrison within the castle. She hugged herself, trying to overhear him. So many of his men would sleep within the castle walls, but hundreds would be camped outside. As for the excessive watch, was he expecting an attack—perhaps from her uncle Argyll, or Red John, if he had lied about his death?

“Ye fought bravely—ye have the courage of a man—but ye should have surrendered last night.”

She stiffened. “I could not surrender. Castle Fyne was my mother’s, and it was mine.”

“Did ye truly think to best me?”

“I hoped to hold you back until my uncle arrived. This is MacDougall land!”

“’Twas MacDougall land,” he stated, pointing at her. “’Tis MacDonald land now.”

She inhaled, the sound sharp. She now hated the MacDonalds as much as her mother had. “The Lord of Argyll will never let you take this keep from me,” she said, when she could speak. “And my uncle Buchan will be furious. The one or the other, or together, they will take Castle Fyne back.”

“If they attack, I will destroy them.”

She tensed, because it was hard not to believe him. When he made a statement, it was as if he could move a mountain with his bare hands. But he was human; he was
not
a hero in a legend, even if a legend had been made about him.

“Why?” she asked. “Why did you attack now?” She wanted to know what moved him. “Your brothers are Alasdair Og and Angus Og! You have islands aplenty throughout the high seas! You have lands aplenty, here in Argyll. Castle Fyne has been on your borders for years.”

He folded his massive forearms and said, his gaze chilling, his tone soft, “I have always wanted Castle Fyne. Whoever commands the castle controls the route into Argyll from the sea.”

“You will cause a war.”

He laughed. “Will I? We have been at war for as long as I can recall, you and I—MacDougall against MacDonald.”

“Is this about routes from the sea—or revenge?”

“Yer clever, Lady Margaret. Of course we lust fer revenge.”

She felt ill. “So you seek vengeance now, against my uncle? For the massacre of Clan Donald? Even after all these years—even when my aunt Juliana married your brother?” She heard how high and tight her tone was, hoping to appeal to him with the reference to the marriage between their rival clans.

His chilling smile vanished. “There is more here than vengeance, lady—a kingdom is at stake.”

He was referring to Bruce, but every Highlander she knew cared more for revenge than anything else. “You told me you looked forward to fighting my uncle.”

“I do. Did I not tell ye that a great war rages in the land? That Robert Bruce is in rebellion against King Edward? Castle Fyne is even more important now.”

Her heart slammed. For years, the damned MacDonald lords of the isles had been agents of King Edward, upholding his rule. Could they have suddenly changed their allegiance? “You rebel against King Edward? You favor Bruce, all of a sudden?”

“We ride with Bruce, Lady Margaret. We war for Bruce. Bruce is Scotland’s next lawful king. King Edward will rule us no more.”

Had she seen pride in his eyes? God, what did this mean, for her, for her family? “Is my cousin, Red John Comyn, truly dead, then?”

“Aye, he is truly dead.”

Margaret’s heart thundered. “Did Bruce
murder
him?”

Staring relentlessly, he nodded.

“Why?” she cried. “Why would Robert Bruce kill the Lord of Badenoch—enraging half of Scotland?”

“He did not mean to kill him. They argued,” Alexander said, watching her closely. “Christopher Seton stepped into the fray, defending Bruce. In truth, Roger de Kirkpatrick delivered him to God.”

Margaret had to sit down. Suddenly it felt as if her entire world had been turned upside down. The patriarch of her family had been murdered, and his bitter rival was on the march, seeking the throne, intending to win it by war. Dear God, Robert Bruce was in open rebellion against England.

And, apparently, Alexander MacDonald and his clan were his allies.

And Bruce surely approved of the attack on Castle Fyne. The great Comyn family had always been his enemy. He would be seizing what castles and garrisons he could. He would want MacDonald, his ally, to control a major route into Argyll from the south and the islands.

Margaret walked past him and sat down at the table, shaken. What did all of this mean? How did this affect her, her family and Castle Fyne? Especially now that she was his hostage?

In one fell swoop, all the alliances and allegiances of the past decade had changed. As for rescue, he had said her uncle Argyll would not come now. Was it possible? He had always hated the English. But he would never ally himself and his kin with his blood enemy—Clan Donald. Was her family truly on England’s side, as well?

She considered Buchan now—her uncle would be furious over his cousin’s murder. He had always despised Robert Bruce—he had despised his father. Her powerful guardian would be plotting revenge against him. Of that she had no doubt. He would never stand idly by and allow Bruce to become Scotland’s king. Saving her would be the last thing on the Earl of Buchan’s mind.

She shivered. William’s words from the day before echoed.
He is throwing you away!