Читать книгу A Rose in the Storm - Бренда Джойс, Brenda Joyce - Страница 9

CHAPTER THREE

MARGARET 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.

* * *

THE 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!

Her heart lurched as she thought of Sir Guy—her only ally.

They had never met. They had exchanged two letters. In them, he had been a courteous suitor, but that meant nothing now. What did this war mean for their marriage? Sir Guy was in King Edward’s service, that could not change, not when his brother Aymer de Valence was commander of Berwick. So Sir Guy would be summoned to fight Bruce.

Would Sir Guy still wish to marry her? If so, he would attempt to take Castle Fyne back!

Suddenly Alexander MacDonald settled on the bench opposite her.

She tensed, acutely aware of his proximity. “What happens now?”

He sipped from his wine and said, “Bruce will march on his enemies. He will seek to gather up allies.”

“Will you join him?”

He met her gaze. “I will join him, lady, when I am certain Castle Fyne is secure.”

She refrained from telling him that the castle would never be secure in his possession—not as long as she lived. “Where is Bruce now?” Sir Guy would probably be with the king’s men, battling against him.

“When I left Dumfries, he was riding for Castle Ayr, while others riding with him were attacking Tibbers, Rothesay and Inverskip.”

She felt more despair. With Bruce on the march, she could not count on rescue from Sir Guy, either.

“Ye have not asked about yer future husband, lady. Surely ye wonder if he will come to rescue ye?”

She knew this was a trap. And she did not like his guessing her thoughts. “How can he come? He fights for the king. He must be at Castle Ayr now.”

“Have you no care for his welfare? Do ye wish to ask if he is hurt or unharmed?”

She tensed. “How would you know if he has been wounded?”

“I fought him at Dumfries. Ye will be pleased—he rode away with nary a scratch.” His gaze was steady upon her face.

She was acutely aware of the fact that she had not given a single thought to her betrothed’s welfare. “I am pleased,” she finally said. She suddenly blinked back hot tears, as much from frustration as despair. There was another reason Sir Guy might not come to her rescue—without Castle Fyne, she had no dowry, and she had no value as a bride.

She felt a moment of panic; she forced it aside. Buchan would pay her ransom, sooner or later. “When will you seek to ransom me and William?”

He leaned against the wall. “I haven’t decided what I wish to do with ye.”

She gasped. She had assumed he would ransom her—it was the most common course of action, in such an instance. “I am a valuable hostage.”

He could have refuted her claim. Instead, he said, “Yer a very valuable prize, lady. I have yet to decide what will be best for me.”

She was reeling. If he did not ransom her, she could be his prisoner for months—for years! “Am I now to be your pawn, in the years of war that will come?”

“Perhaps,” he said.

She was so distraught that more tears were arising. She fought them, aware of how exhausted she was. She had already fought this man once that day, in real battle, and it had been the longest day of her life. Yet now, she fought him again. “And what of the other prisoners? What of my brother?”

“What of them?” He shifted in his seat, signaling Peg for more wine.

Peg hurried over. As she poured the wine, Margaret said, “When can I see William? I would like to tend his wounds.”

“Tend his wounds? Or plot and plan against me?”

She tensed. “I do not even know how badly he was hurt. Where is he?”

“I am having him moved to a chamber in the entry tower,” Alexander said. “He will remain there, under guard.”

She hadn’t expected him to be removed to the dungeons with the other prisoners, as he was a nobleman. “When will he be moved?”

He slowly smiled the smile she had come to hate. It was so cold. “Ye cannot see him, Lady Margaret. I will not allow it.”

She was in disbelief. “You would deny me the chance to attend my brother—when he has been wounded?”

He stared at her. “Aye, I would.”

She gasped. “I have lost three brothers, as well as both my parents. He is my only brother, and I beg you to reconsider. I do not even know how badly he was hurt!”

“Then ye need ask and I will tell ye. He suffered a gash from a sword on his leg, lady, as well as a blow to his head. And he has been properly attended.”

“But I am accustomed to taking care of the wounded! Please—let me attend him!”

“So will ye give me yer word that ye will not plot against me? That ye will not plan on how best to overthrow me?”

She tensed. Of course they would discuss how to best overthrow him, damn him!

“I dinna think so.”

Margaret could not move, still stunned by his refusal. “And if I beg?”

“Yer pleas will not be heard.” He was final. “Sit down, Lady Margaret, before ye fall down.”

Margaret was so angry she shook, but she knew she must hold her tongue now—when she wished to accuse him of cruelty, when she wished to curse him for all he had done. “And what of the rest of your prisoners? What of my archers and soldiers and Malcolm? What of Buchan’s knights whom you captured in the ravine?”

He now stood up. “They hang tomorrow at noon.”

She did not cry out. She had expected such an answer. In war, the enemy was often executed. And he had told her, point-blank, that if she did not surrender, he would spare no one. “And if I beg you for mercy for them? If I beg you to spare their lives?”

“Mercy,” he said softly, “makes a warrior weak.”

She inhaled, staring; he stared back. “I cannot allow you to execute my people.”

“You cannot allow or forbid me anything. I am lord and master here.”

She needed to control her temper. She needed to overcome her fear. She needed to persuade this man to have mercy on her kin. Margaret looked down at the table, which she clasped so tightly her knuckles were white. How could she get him to change his mind?

She somehow softened and glanced up. “My lord, forgive me. I am but a woman, and a weary woman, at that. I have never had to defend a castle before. I have never had to engage in battle, and I have never been in the midst of a siege. And I have never had to make so many decisions, decisions that should have been made by men.” Tears filled her eyes. She welcomed them. “I have never been so frightened! The last thing I would ever wish is to command a keep against a siege, much less against the Wolf of Lochaber!”

“Ye refused to surrender,” he said softly, a potent reminder of her sins.

“I was foolish, but then, I am a woman.”

He slowly shook his head. “Dinna think to outwit me, lady, when we both ken yer no fool.”

“My choice was a foolish one!”

“And ye will pay the price for the choice ye made. Only a fool would allow his enemy to live to fight another day—they hang tomorrow at noon.”

She had lost. His mind was made up. She began to shake, her fury erupting. “Damn you!”

“Have a care,” he warned.

“No,” she said, tears falling. “I will not have a care, you have stolen my castle from me, mine, and now, you will execute my people, mine!”

“I have defeated ye, Lady Margaret, fairly, in battle. The spoils are mine.”

“There is nothing fair about my having been attacked so rudely, by the mighty Wolf of Lochaber!” She knew she should not be shouting at him, but she could not stop now. “You may have won the day, Wolf. But this is my castle. This is MacDougall land. No matter what happened today, this will always be MacDougall land!”

“War changes everything.”

“I will never let you keep this place!”

His eyes widened. “What do ye say?”

She knew she should become quiet. She knew she must control her rage. She must not cry in front of him. But could not stop herself from doing any of those things. “If no one comes to fight you, MacDonald, then I will fight you!”

“But ye have already fought—and lost.”

“Yes, I have fought—and I have lost. But I have learned a great deal. The next time, I will be prepared. And there will be a next time.”

“Ye dare to threaten me?”

“I make a vow—to defeat you!” And she was so exhausted and so overcome, that shouting at him now caused her knees to buckle. And then the floor tilted wildly, the hall spun...

And then there was only darkness.