Chapter Two.html #2
“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.”