Chapter Four.html #4
“Not well.” She met his gaze, unsmiling. “He lost far too much blood. I cleaned both wounds, and I am very concerned. He is weak, my lord, and while there is no infection yet, we both know that one could set in shortly. The next few days are crucial.”
“I am sorry he was wounded.”
She tensed, because she was fairly certain he did not care about her brother, except as another useful hostage. “I am excellent with herbs and potions. I learned how to attend a great many maladies and war wounds from my mother. Now I must hope that the salves I have used were not used too late.”
He studied her. “Is that an accusation? My own man tended him yesterday, Lady Margaret, and as ye have said, he has no infection.”
She had been accusatory, but that would not get her anywhere. “I am grateful you had someone clean his wounds and bandage them. I am grateful you did not leave him to die.”
“Ye remain the worst liar. Yer not grateful, and yer sick with fear.”
She felt that fear then, as if a huge sob were about to choke her. “I have lost three brothers, brothers I dearly admired, brothers I loved. I cannot lose William, too!”
“And I hope ye do not. Will ye sit down, Lady Margaret?”
She had no appetite, but that wasn’t why she did not want to sit down at his table. A remembrance flashed in her mind, of being in his arms last night. It was a terrible recollection. “I was hoping to see my men today—before you hang them.”
He smiled grimly at her. “I will allow ye to see them, but if ye think to mount an insurrection at the last moment, be forewarned. They’ll die by my sword and it willna matter to me.”
“A rebellion at the last moment is not on my mind,” she cried. “Although I wish I was capable of mounting one.”
He studied her, his scrutiny so intense it was unnerving. “I thought we had come to some terms—last night.”
She trembled again. Last night she had glimpsed him as a powerful, sexual and handsome man. Last night, she had felt a moment of admiration and respect for him, but that moment was gone.
“We did not come to any terms. You are my captor, I am your prisoner, my brother might die in your care—and you are about to execute my good soldiers.”
He stood up abruptly. “I will take you to the dungeons.” He gestured at four men, who instantly arose, their swords clattering against the table’s edge as they did. He then pointed at Alan, too.
He led the way down to the dungeons, Margaret directly behind him, his five men behind her. Her heart raced madly now. She estimated it was half past eight in the morning. In four hours or less, Sir Neil, Malcolm and the others would die.
Little daylight came into the dungeons. One wall had two small, barred windows, set high above the prisoners’ heads.
Otherwise, there was no possibility of natural light entering the cell, so burning torches had been set into the ground, which was dirt.
Two of Alexander’s men had remained below, outside the single large cell where the prisoners huddled.
Margaret remained directly behind Alexander now, aware of the temperature dropping dramatically. It was terribly cold belowground.
He came to an abrupt halt, and she stumbled not to crash into him from behind. Peeking past him, she saw the two guards leap to attention now.
“Open the door,” Alexander said to them.
Margaret had never been inside a dungeon before—although she had been inside the cellars at Castle Bain and Balvenie.
Those cellars had had stone floors, and they had been dank and dark, too—but this was so much worse.
The dungeons stank of urine and feces. She thought she could smell blood, too, and she felt so much despair.
This was all her fault.
Margaret peered past Alexander; Sir Neil, Malcolm and the others were all standing now, and staring at them. Or were they staring at her? With accusation in their eyes? Accusation she so rightly deserved?
She heard the key turning in the lock, a rusty groan. Alexander shifted to face her. “Ye may go inside.”
She met his gaze, realizing she was filled with trepidation now. How could she face her men, now? Did they even know they would soon die?
Alexander suddenly said, “Margaret, ye need not do this.”
She stiffened, condemning herself for her cowardice—when she was hardly going to hang that day. And she did not like the way he had addressed her—so intimately. But she would not dispute him now. She stepped past him.
Instantly, her gaze turned to Sir Neil and Malcolm as she entered the cell. “Are you all right?”
“Lady Margaret, you should not be here,” Sir Neil gasped.
She rushed to him and seized his hands—he had been wounded, she saw, in his shoulder, but it had been bandaged and there was not that much blood. “What happened? You were hurt!”
“Lady—I failed you!” He gripped her hands tightly. “And I beg yer forgiveness, I was to keep you safe, I failed. I was to ride for rescue, and I was captured!” Tears filled his dark blue eyes.
“Sir Neil, you could never fail me,” she cried, meaning it. “You are the bravest knight I know. You fought tirelessly for me. I want to see your wound!”
“It is a scratch,” he said. “Lady Margaret, are ye all right? Have ye been hurt?” Eyes blazing, he looked past her at Alexander with fury.
She hadn’t realized that Alexander stood behind them, openly observing them and listening to their every word. Now Sir Neil was murderous, and if looks could kill, Alexander would be dead. “I have been treated well, Sir Neil, and you must not worry about me.”
He studied her, clearly assessing if she spoke the truth. When he was reassured, he said, “I will always worry about you. I am your vassal. And you are my lady!”
She wanted to hug him, but that would be entirely inappropriate. Instead, she clung to his hands and he kissed each one. “I beg your forgiveness, Lady Margaret. I must know that I am forgiven my failures, before I die.”
“There is nothing to forgive.” She released him now, glancing at Malcolm. “Are you unhurt?”
He nodded. “Ye should not be here, Lady Margaret. The dungeons are no place for a lady.”
She looked past him at the soldiers and archers in the cell. No one was hurt, and for that, she was thankful. “Of course I came to see you. I must speak with you all.”
She took a deep breath. “I have failed you all. I refused to surrender to the mighty Wolf of Lochaber, when I am but a young, untried woman. My pride as a MacDougall knew no bounds. Pride led me to believe we could achieve the impossible—that we could defeat a superior force, that we could defeat the great Wolf.” She fought rising tears.
“Lady, we all wished to fight,” Malcolm said grimly.
“We would do so again, if we had such a choice,” Sir Neil cried.
“Aye,” the others agreed in a chorus.
She shook her head and said hoarsely, “Had I surrendered, you would all be free now. Instead, you are the Wolf’s prisoners.”
No one tried to speak now. Everyone was intent, awaiting her next words, her direction. And it amazed her that they would follow her still.
“I am not worthy of you, and certainly, I was not worthy to lead you. The Wolf said he would spare no one if I did not surrender. I should have considered that far more carefully when I chose to fight him. But I did not.” She paused, but not for effect. She hated what she must now divulge.
“I have begged him to change his mind. He will not do so.”
No one moved, and no one seemed surprised. Sir Neil said, “You were the most worthy leader a knight could have, lady, and I would follow you into battle another time.”
“Aye, I would follow ye again,” Malcolm said. “Yer the great lady of Fyne!”
“I would follow ye, lady,” one of her archers said. “We would all follow ye, a great lady like yer mother, into battle—or anywhere ye might lead!”
Everyone murmured in agreement.
Margaret could not believe the extent of their loyalty. She had never been as moved, as shaken. She whirled to face Alexander.
He stood as still as a stone statue, an arm’s length from her, his expression impossible to read.
“I cannot bear this burden, this fault of mine! If you hang them, you must hang me, too, MacDonald!” she cried. And she had never meant anything more.
Behind her, several men gasped. Alexander said, unsmiling, “Ye will not hang, Lady Margaret. I said so last night and I am saying so, now.” He was final.
Before she could argue with him, Sir Neil said, “Lady Margaret, do not prostrate yourself before him. Do not submit, do not bend. This is war. Men die in war. I am prepared to die. We are all prepared to die for you.”
Margaret hugged herself, tears now falling. She could not let them die...they would follow her into battle again...they would follow her anywhere....
She stiffened, seized with a terrible comprehension—she thought she knew how to commute their death sentences.
“You would follow me anywhere?” she asked.
“Aye,” everyone said.
Trembling, she turned to face her captor again. His gaze instantly narrowed. “You lost a great many men, yesterday,” she said.
With suspicion, he said, “Aye, I did.”
“My men have proven their loyalty—and their courage in battle.”
He waited.
“They will get down on bent knee before you, my lord, and swear their oath of loyalty to you now—if you will spare their lives.”
He stared and she felt his mind racing. After a long pause, she said, “They will be loyal in battle, my lord, and this is war. You need every soldier you can get.”
His stare had sharpened. “And ye, Lady Margaret? Will ye get down on your knee before me, will ye make an oath of fealty, too?”
She inhaled, their gazes locked. She did not dare look away now—not that she had the power to do so. It was as if time had stopped.
This was, beyond any doubt, a defining moment. She must save the lives of her men. But she was a Comyn and a MacDougall. Could she swear her allegiance to the Wolf of Lochaber—to Clan Donald?
Her mind felt frozen now. And there did not seem to be time to think. She only knew that if she refused, he would probably execute her men; if she accepted, he would spare them.
“Yes,” she said.
Sir Neil cried out. “Lady! You cannot do such a thing!”
She blinked back hot tears, thinking of her mother now.
Even as she spoke, she did not look at Sir Neil—she only had eyes for Alexander.
“I can, and I will. This is war, Sir Neil, and in war, men change sides all the time. Why can’t I change my loyalties, too?
” But she felt a tear sliding down her cheek.
Her mother would approve. She simply knew it.
But she felt ill, because once she performed an act of homage to Alexander MacDonald, her family would be her enemy.
But she must not contemplate that now.
“Bring them up into the courtyard at noon,” Alexander ordered his guards, eyes ablaze. “The prisoners will make their vows before me—as will Lady Margaret Comyn.” With that, he looked at her.
Margaret was taken aback. Why was he angry?
But Alexander then whirled and strode out of the cell, across the dungeons, and vanished into the stairwell.
Margaret hugged herself, staring after him. And all eyes remained upon her.