Читать книгу A Rose in the Storm - Бренда Джойс, Brenda Joyce - Страница 9
ОглавлениеCHAPTER TWO
MARGARET STARED ACROSS the castle’s ramparts, feeling as if she had been transported to a different place and an earlier, frightening time. The battlements she had walked earlier no longer resembled any castle she had ever visited in her lifetime. Trembling, she hugged her mantle to her cold body.
The ramparts were crowded with casks of oil, piles of rock and stone, slings and catapults of various sizes, and a dozen pits for fires. All the women of the keep were present, as were a great deal of children—they had sorted through the rocks and stones, assembling the various piles by size and weight, while preparing the pits for the fires they might later light, some still coming and going with armloads of wood. Although the drawbridge was closed, a small side entrance in the north tower was being used now. Margaret had quickly realized that they could not run out of wood for the fires, or oil, or stones. Not if they were besieged.
Her archers remained at the walls. Perhaps fortunately—for so she was thinking—they only had two walls to defend. Because the keep was on the cliff overlooking the loch, two of its sides were insurmountable. They had three dozen archers on the vulnerable walls, and quivers of spare arrows were lined up behind each man. Another dozen warriors stood beside the archers, armed with swords, maces and daggers.
Margaret did not have to ask about the extra dozen soldiers. Although she had never been in a siege, she took one look at them and knew what their use might be: if the walls were successfully scaled, the archers would become useless. The battle for control of the castle would turn into hand-to-hand combat.
Margaret stared down at the glen, where the huge MacDonald army was gathered. It had not moved for the past three hours.
How she prayed that meant that William and Sir Ranald were picking off each and every enemy soldier as the Wolf attempted to traverse the ravine.
She felt a movement behind her and half turned. Malcolm smiled at her. If he was afraid, he had given no sign, but then, everyone seemed terribly brave. Margaret was so impressed with the courage of her people. She hoped that no one knew how her heart thudded, how light-headed she felt—how frightened and nervous she was.
“Has there been any word?” she whispered. Malcolm had sent two scouts out earlier to report on the ambush.
“Our watch has not returned,” he said. “But it is a good sign that the Wolf cannot move his men forward.”
She shivered. Hadn’t she also heard that the Wolf had a terrible temper? He would be furious at being thwarted. Unless, of course, he was dead.
How she prayed that was the case!
“Ye should go down, my lady,” Malcolm said kindly. “I ken ye wish to hearten the men and women, but it is growing very cold out, and if ye sicken, ye will dishearten them all.”
Margaret remarked Sir Neil, on the other side of the ramparts, as he and an elderly Highlander attempted to fix one of the catapults. Peg was with them, apparently telling them how she thought it best repaired. Had the situation not been so dire, Margaret would have been amused, for Peg was so nosy all of the time. And she was also a bit of a tease, and Sir Neil was terribly handsome with his fair complexion and dark hair.
He had been indefatigable. She did not know him well, but she was impressed with his tireless efforts on behalf of the keep—on her behalf.
Of course, if they were besieged and defeated, they would all die.
She looked at Malcolm. “Is it true?” She kept her voice low, so no one would overhear her. “That the Wolf slays all of his enemies—that he never allows the enemy to live?”
Malcolm hesitated, and she had her answer. “I dinna ken,” he said, with a shrug meant to convey ignorance.
How could such barbarism be possible? “Have you met him?”
Malcolm started. “Aye, my lady, I have.”
“Is he a monster, as claimed?”
Malcolm’s eyes widened. “Are such claims made? He is a powerful soldier—a man of great courage—and great ambition. ’Tis a shame he is our enemy and not our friend.”
“I hope he is dead.”
“He will not die in an ambush, he is far too clever,” Malcolm said flatly. And then his gaze veered past her and he paled.
Margaret whirled to stare down into the glen and she choked. The army was moving, a slow rippling forward, like a huge wave made of men. “What does that mean?” she cried.
Before Malcolm could answer, Sir Neil came running across the ramparts with a red-haired Highlander, Peg following them both. “Lady Margaret,” Sir Neil said. “One of our watch has returned and he wishes a word with you!”
Margaret took one look at the watchman’s frozen face and knew the news was not what she wished for it to be. And while she wanted to shout at him to declare the tidings, she held up her hand. “You are?”
“Coinneach MacDougall, my lady.”
“Please, step aside with me. Malcolm, Sir Neil, you may join us.” Her heart was thundering, aware that everyone upon the battlements was gazing at them. She led the three men down the narrow stairwell and into the great hall, where she turned to face them. “What happened?” She kept her tone quiet and calm.
“The ambush has failed, my lady. The Wolf and his army are passing through the ravine now. Within an hour, they will be at our front gates,” Coinneach said, his expression was one of dismay.
She knew she must not allow her knees to give way—not now. “Are you certain?”
“Yes. Some dozen of his knights are in the pass, even now.”
Margaret stared at him, unseeingly. “My brother? Sir Ranald?”
“I dinna ken, my lady.”
She supposed no news was better than the news of their deaths. Please God, she thought, let William and Sir Ranald be alive—please!
She did not think she could bear it if she lost her brother.
“Do you know if any of our men are alive?” she asked.
“I saw a handful of yer knights, my lady, fleeing into the forest.”
She breathed hard. “They will return here, if they can.” She had no doubt.
“It might be better if they rode hard and fast for Red John or Argyll,” Sir Neil said. “We will soon be under siege, and they could attack MacDonald from the rear.”
Maybe her men were not returning, after all. She squashed her instant dismay, turning back to Coinneach. “Is the Wolf—is Alexander MacDonald—alive?”
“Aye—he is at the very front of his men,” Coinneach said, his blue eyes now reflecting fear.
She felt sick.
Footsteps pounded down the stairwell, and they all turned toward the sound. Peg skidded into the hall, her eyes wide. “A man is below, outside the barbican—with a white flag!”
Margaret was confused. She turned to Malcolm, who said quickly, “The Wolf has sent a messenger ahead, my lady, I have little doubt.”
She felt her eyes widen. “What could he possibly want?”
“Yer surrender.”
* * *
MARGARET PACED FOR the next half an hour, as she waited for Sir Neil and Malcolm to disarm the messenger—verifying that was what he was—and then bring him safely and securely to her. Peg sat on one of the benches at one of the trestle tables, staring at her, her expression aghast. Margaret was accustomed to her friend’s wit and humor, not to her silence and abject fear.
She turned as they entered through the front door, having used the narrow side entrance in the north tower. A tall Highlander in the blue, black and red plaid walked inside, between Sir Neil and Malcolm. He was middle-aged, bearded and lean. He had been disarmed—his scabbard was empty, as was the sheath on his belt where a dagger should hang.
When he saw her he smiled, but not pleasantly. Margaret shivered.
“Margaret of Bain?” he asked.
She nodded. “Do you come from the Wolf?”
“Aye, I do. I am Padraig MacDonald. He wishes to parley, Lady Margaret, and I am instructed to tell you as much. If you agree, he will bring three men, and you may bring three men, as well. He will keep his army below the barbican, and you can meet just outside its walls.”
Margaret stared, incredulous. Then she glanced at Malcolm and Sir Neil. “Is this a trap?”
“Parleys are not uncommon,” Malcolm said. “But the Wolf is canny—he doesn’t keep his word.”
“It is a trap,” Sir Neil said firmly. “You cannot go!”
Margaret could not even swallow now. She faced the messenger. “Why does he wish to parley? What does he want?” As she spoke, Peg came to stand beside her, as if protectively.
“I was told to offer you a parley, lady, that is all. I dinna ken what he will speak of.”
Parleys might not be uncommon amongst warriors, but she was not a warrior, she was a woman—and her every instinct was to refuse.
“You cannot go,” Sir Neil said again, blue eyes flashing. “He will take you hostage, lady, faster than you can blink an eye!”
It was so hard to think! She stared at Sir Neil. Then she looked at the messenger, Padraig. “Please stand aside.”
Malcolm took him by the arm and moved him out of earshot. Margaret stepped closer to Sir Neil, with Peg. Breathing hard, she said, “Is there any way I could meet him and we could take him prisoner?”
From the look in Sir Neil’s eyes, Margaret knew he thought she had gone mad.
Peg said, “Margaret! He is the Wolf! Ye will never ambush him! He will take ye prisoner, and then what?”
“Dinna even think of turning the tables on him, lady,” Malcolm said, having returned.
Margaret glanced briefly at the messenger, who was staring—and almost smirking—at them. What did he know that they did not? “Is there any way we could parley without my being in danger of being taken captive?”
“It is too dangerous,” Sir Neil said swiftly. “I swore to Sir Ranald that I would keep you safe. I cannot let you meet the Wolf!”
“Margaret, please! I am but a woman, and even I know this is a trap!” Peg cried.
“Even if it is not a trap, too much can go wrong,” Malcolm said, sounding calm in comparison to the rest of them.
He was right. And Margaret was afraid to step outside the castle walls. Besides, she would never convince the damned Wolf to retreat. She squared her shoulders and left the group, walking over to the waiting Highlander. As she approached, his eyes narrowed.
Margaret smiled coldly at him. “Tell the great Wolf of Lochaber that Lady Comyn has refused. She will not parley.”
“He will be displeased.”
She refrained from shivering. “But I wish to know what he wants. Therefore, you may return to convey his message to me.”
“I dinna think he will wish for me to speak with ye again.”
What did that mean? Would the Wolf now attack? Her gaze had locked with Padraig’s. His was chilling.
A moment later, Sir Neil and Malcolm were escorting him out. The moment he was gone, Margaret collapsed upon the bench. Peg rushed to sit beside her, taking her hands. “Oh, what are we going to do?”
Margaret couldn’t speak. Was the Wolf now preparing to attack her? He certainly hadn’t come this far to turn around and go away! And what of William and Sir Ranald? If only they were all right! “Maybe I should have met him,” she heard herself say hoarsely.
“I would never let ye meet with him!” Peg cried, now close to tears. “He is an awful man, and all of Scotland knows it!”
“If you cry now, I will slap you silly,” Margaret almost shouted, meaning her every word.
Peg sat up abruptly. The tears that had seemed imminent did not fall.
“I need you, Peg,” Margaret added.
Peg stared and attempted to compose herself. “Can I bring ye wine?”
Margaret wasn’t thirsty, but she smiled. “Thank you.” The moment Peg had left, she stood up and inhaled.
Oh, God, what would happen next? Could she possibly defend the castle—at least until help arrived? And what if help did not arrive?
Surely, eventually, her maternal uncle, Alexander MacDougall of Argyll, would come. He despised every MacDonald on this earth. He would wish to defend the keep; he would want to battle with them.
Red John Comyn would also come to her aid if he knew what was happening. He was her uncle’s closest ally and his cousin. But time was of the essence. They had to receive word of her plight now. They had to assemble and move their armies now!
Her head ached terribly. There were so many decisions to make. The weight of such responsibility was crushing. And to think that in the past, she had never made a decision greater than what she wished to wear or what to serve for the supper meal!
Booted steps sounded, and with dread—she now recognized the urgency in Sir Neil’s stride—she turned as he stormed into the hall. “He is at the bridge, below your walls—and he wishes to speak with you.”
She froze. “Who?” But oh, she knew!
“MacDonald,” he said, eyes blazing.
Her stomach churned and her heart turned over hard. Only a quarter of an hour had passed since Padraig had left. If the Wolf of Lochaber was outside her gates, clearly he had been there all along.
And suddenly, like a small, frightened child, she felt like refusing the request. She wanted to go to her chamber and hide.
“I can take you up to the ramparts,” Sir Neil said bluntly.
It crossed her dazed mind that Sir Neil would only suggest such a course of action if it was safe, and of course, if the Wolf wished to parley now, she must go. She fought to breathe. It was safe for her to be high up on the ramparts, surrounded by her knights and archers, as they spoke. She felt herself nod at Sir Neil.
But as they started for the stairwell, comprehension seized her. She halted abruptly. How could it be safe for him to come to her castle walls?
He would be exposed to her archers and knights.
She looked at Sir Neil with sudden hope. “Can our archers strike him while we speak?”
Sir Neil started. “They are waving a flag of truce.”
What she had suggested was dishonorable, and she knew Sir Neil thought so. “But is it possible?”
“He will undoubtedly be carrying a shield, and he will be surrounded by his men. The shot would not be an easy one. Will you violate the truce?”
She wondered if she was dreaming. She was actually considering breaking a truce and murdering a man. But she knew she must not stoop to such a level.
She had been raised to be a noble woman—a woman of her word, a woman of honor, a woman gentle and kind, a woman who would always do her duty. She could not murder the Wolf during a truce.
Finding it difficult to breathe evenly, Margaret went up the narrow stairwell, Sir Neil behind her. As she stepped outside onto the ramparts, it was at once frigidly cold and uncannily silent. There was light, but no sun. Her archers remained, as did her dozen soldiers and the women and children who had been present earlier. But it almost seemed as if no one moved or breathed.
Sir Neil touched her elbow and she crossed the stone battlements, still feeling as if she were in the midst of a terrible dream, trying to find her composure and her wits before she spoke with her worst enemy. Standing just a hand-span from the edge of the crenellated wall, she looked down.
Several hundred men were assembled between the barbican and the forest. In the very front they stood on foot, holding shields, but behind them the soldiers were mounted on horseback. Above the first columns a white flag waved, and beside it, so did a huge black-and-navy-blue banner, a fiery red dragon in its center.
And then Margaret saw him.
The rest of the army vanished from her sight. Frozen, she saw only one man—the Highlander called the Wolf of Lochaber.
Alexander MacDonald was the tallest, biggest, darkest one of all, standing in the front row of his army, in its very center. And he was staring up at her.
Black hair touched his huge shoulders, blood stained his leine and swords, a shield was strapped to one brawny forearm, and he was smiling at her.
“Lady Comyn,” he called to her. “Yer as fair as is claimed.”
She trembled. He was exactly as one would have expected—taller than most, broader of shoulder, a mass of muscle from years spent wielding swords and axes, his hair as black as the devil’s. His smile was chilling, a mere curling of his mouth. She stared down at him, almost transfixed.
And when he did not speak again, when he only stared—and when she realized she was speechlessly staring back—she flushed and found her tongue. “I have no use for your flattery.”
The cool smile reappeared. “Are ye prepared to surrender to me?”
Her mind raced wildly—how could she navigate this subject? “You will never take this keep. My uncle is on his way, even as we speak. So is the great Lord Badenoch.”
“If ye mean yer uncle of Argyll, I canna wait. I look forward to taking off his head!” he exclaimed, with such relish, she knew he meant his every word. “And I dinna think the mighty Lord of Badenoch will come.”
What did that mean? She shuddered. “Where is my brother?”
“He is safely in my keeping, Lady Comyn, although he has suffered some wounds.”
She was so relieved she had to grip the wall to remain standing upright. “He is your prisoner?”
“Aye, he is my prisoner.”
“How badly is he hurt?”
“He will live.” He added, more softly, “I would never let such a valuable prisoner die.”
“I wish to see him,” she cried.
He shook his head. “Yer in no position to wish fer anything, Lady Comyn. I am here to negotiate yer surrender.”
She trembled. She wanted to know how badly William was hurt. She wanted to see him. And hadn’t Malcolm said that the Wolf was a liar? “I will not discuss surrender, not until you have proven to me that my brother is alive.”
“Ye dinna take my word?”
She clutched the edge of the wall. “No, I do not accept your word.”
“So ye think me a liar,” he said, softly, and it was a challenge.
Margaret felt Sir Neil step up behind her. “Show me my brother, prove to me he is alive,” she said.
“Ye tread dangerously,” he finally said. “I will show ye Will, after ye surrender.”
She breathed hard.
He slowly smiled. “I have six hundred men—ye have dozens. I am the greatest warrior in the land—yer a woman, a very young one. Yet I am offering ye terms.”
“I haven’t heard terms,” she managed to say.
That terrible smile returned. “Surrender now, and ye will be free to leave with an escort. Surrender now, and yer people will be as free to leave. Refuse, and ye will be attacked. In defeat, no one will be spared.”
Margaret managed not to cry out. How could she respond—when she did not plan to surrender?
If only she knew for certain that Argyll and Red John were on their way with their own huge armies! But even if they were, for how long could she withstand the Wolf’s attack? Could they manage until help arrived?
For if they did not, if he breached her walls, he meant to spare no one—and he had just said so.
“Delay,” Sir Neil whispered.
Instantly Margaret understood. “You are right,” she called down. “You are known as the greatest warrior in the land, and I am a woman of seventeen.” How wary and watchful he had become. “I cannot decide what to do. If I were your prisoner and my brother were here in my stead, he would not surrender, of that I am certain.”
“Are ye truly thinking to outwit me?” he demanded.
“I am only a woman. I would not be so foolish as to think I could outwit the mighty Wolf of Lochaber.”
“So now ye mock me?”
She trembled, wishing she hadn’t inflected upon the word mighty.
“Yer answer, Lady Margaret,” he warned.
She choked. “I need time! I will give you an answer in the morning!” By morning, maybe help would have arrived.
“Ye call me a liar and think me a fool? Lady Margaret, the land is at war. Robert Bruce has seized Dumfries Castle—and Red John Comyn is dead.”
She cried out, her world suddenly spinning. “Now you lie!” What he claimed was impossible!
“Yer great Lord of Badenoch died in the Greyfriars Church at Dumfries, four days ago.”
She turned in disbelief. Sir Neil looked as stunned as she was. Could the patriarch of their family be dead? If so, Red John was not coming to her aid! “What do you mean—Red John died? He was in good health!”
Slowly, the Wolf smiled. “So ye want the facts? Ye’ll hear soon enough. He was murdered, Lady Comyn, by Bruce, although he did not deliver the final, fatal blows.”
Margaret’s shock knew no bounds. Had Robert Bruce murdered Red John Comyn?
If so, the land would most definitely be at war!
“Bruce is on the march, Lady Comyn, and yer uncle, the MacDougall, is on the march, as well—in Galloway.” He stared coldly up at her. “And do ye not wish to know where yer beloved Sir Guy is?”
Sir Neil had taken her arm, as if to hold her upright.
“He was also at Dumfries, sent there to defend the king.”
She had not given her betrothed a thought since that morning. Had Sir Guy fought Bruce at Dumfries? If so, he was but two days away. She did not know what the Highlander was implying, but Sir Guy would surely come to her rescue. “This castle is a part of my dowry. Sir Guy will not let it fall.”
“Sir Guy fights Bruce, still. Argyll is in battle in Galloway. The Lord of Badenoch is dead. Ye have no hope.”
Now she truly needed time to think—and attempt to discover if his claims were true. For if they were, she was alone, and Castle Fyne would fall.
“He could be lying,” Sir Neil said, but there was doubt in his tone.
She met his gaze and realized he was frightened after all. But then, so was she. She turned back to the Highlander standing below her walls. “I need a few hours in which to decide,” she said hoarsely.
“Yer time is done. I demand an answer, lady.”
She began shaking her head. “I don’t want to defy you.”
“Then accept my generous terms and surrender.”
She bit her lip and tasted her own blood. And she felt hundreds of pairs of eyes upon her—every man in his army stared at her—as did every man, woman and child upon the ramparts. She thought she heard Peg whisper her name. And she knew that Sir Neil wanted to speak to her. But she stared unwaveringly at the Wolf of Lochaber. As she did, she thought of her mother—the most courageous woman she had ever known. “I cannot surrender Castle Fyne.”
He stared up at her, a terrible silence falling.
No one moved now—not on the ramparts, not in his army.
Only Margaret moved, her chest rising and falling unnaturally, tension making it impossible to breathe normally.
And then a hawk wheeled over their heads, soaring up high into the winter sky, breaking the moment. And disgust covered the Wolf’s face. Behind him, there were murmurs, men shifting. More whispers sounded behind her. The sounds were hushed, even awed, from behind and below.
Finally, he spoke, coldly. “Yer a fool.”
She did not think she had the strength to respond. Sir Neil flinched, his hand moving to his sword. She had to touch him, warning him not to attempt to defend her. She then faced the dark Highlander below her again. “This castle is mine. I will not—I cannot—surrender it.”
She thought that his eyes now blazed. “Even if ye fight alone?”
“Someone will come.”
“No one will come. If Argyll comes, it will be after the castle has fallen.”
She swallowed, terrified that he was right.
It was a moment before he spoke again, and anger roughened his tone. “Lady Margaret, I admire yer courage—but I dinna admire defiance, not even in a beautiful woman.”
Margaret simply stared. She had given him her answer, there was nothing more to say.
And he knew it. The light in his eyes was frightening, even from this distance. “I take no pleasure in what I must do.” He then lifted his hand, but he never removed his eyes from her. “Prepare the rams. Prepare the siege engines. Prepare the catapults. We will besiege the castle at dawn.” And he turned and disappeared amongst his men, into his army.
Margaret collapsed in Sir Neil’s arms.
* * *
PEG SHOVED A cup of wine at her. Margaret took it, desperately needing sustenance. They were seated at one of the trestle tables, in the great hall. Night was falling quickly.
And at dawn, the siege would begin.
Sir Neil sat down beside her, not even asking permission. Malcolm took the opposite bench. Peg cried, “Ye should have surrendered, and it isn’t too late to do so!”
Margaret tensed, aware that Peg was terrified. When she had left the ramparts, she had gazed at some of the soldiers and women there—everyone was frightened. And how could they not be?
Alexander MacDonald had been forthright. If they did not surrender, he would defeat the castle and spare no one.
She hugged herself, chilled to the bone. Should she have surrendered? And dear God, why was such a decision hers to make?
She inhaled and set the cup down. “Is it possible he is telling the truth? Is it possible that Red John is dead—and that Robert Bruce has seized the royal castle at Dumfries?”
Sir Neil was pale and stricken. “Bruce has always claimed the throne, but I know nothing of this plot!”
“Even the Wolf would not make up such a wild tale,” Malcolm said. “I believe him.”
She could barely comprehend what might be happening. “Is Bruce seeking the throne of Scotland? Is that why he attacked Dumfries?” And did that mean that Sir Guy was there with his men? Sir Guy was in service to King Edward. He was often dispatched to do battle for the king. Was that why MacDonald had claimed no one would come—because Sir Guy would be occupied with his own battles for King Edward?
Sir Neil shook his head. “Bruce is a man of ambition, but to murder Red John? On holy ground?”
“If the damned Wolf is telling us the truth,” she said, “if Red John has been murdered, Buchan will be furious.” The Comyns and Bruces had been rivals for years. They had fought over the crown before—and the Comyns had won the last battle, when their kin, John Balliol, had become Scotland’s king. “A great war will ensue.” She was sickened in every fiber of her being—these events were too much to bear.
“Lady Margaret—what matters is that if this is true, Red John will not be coming to our aid. Nor will Sir Guy.”
Margaret stared at Malcolm as Peg cried, “We can still surrender!”
She ignored her maid. “But Argyll will come to our aid if he can.”
“If the land is at war, he might not be able to come,” Sir Neil said grimly. “And MacDonald claims he has the means to stop him.”
She looked at Sir Neil and then Malcolm. “I am frightened. I am unsure. So tell me, truly, what you think I should do?”
Malcolm said, “Your mother would die defending Castle Fyne.”
Sir Neil stood. “And I would die to defend you, my lady.”
God, these were not reassuring answers!
“But, my lady, if you decide you wish to surrender, I will support you,” Malcolm said.
Sir Neil nodded in agreement. “As would I. And no matter what MacDonald has said, you can decide to surrender at any time—and sue him for the terms he has already said he would give you.”
But that did not mean the Wolf would give her such terms. He had been very angry when they had last parted company.
Margaret closed her eyes, trying to shut out the fear gnawing at her. She tried to imagine summoning MacDonald and handing him the great key to the keep. And the moment she did so, she knew she could not do such a thing, and she opened her eyes. They all stared at her.
“We must fight, and pray that Argyll comes to our aid,” Margaret said, standing. If they were going to fight, she must appear strong, no matter how terrified.
The men nodded grimly while Peg started to cry.
* * *
MARGARET DID NOT sleep all night, knowing what would begin at dawn. And because Peg kept telling her that she must surrender, and that she was a madwoman to think to fight the Wolf of Lochaber, she had finally banned the maid from her chamber. Now, she stood at her chamber’s single window, the shutters wide. The black sky was turning blue-gray. Smoke filled the coming dawn. The sounds of the soldiers and women above her on the ramparts, speaking in hushed tones as they stoked the fires and burned pots of oil, drifted down to her.
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.”
* * *
THE 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.
