Chapter Five.html #2
Margaret gasped as Alexander said, “Hang him.”
She rushed forward. “Malcolm, you will die this day if you do not make your vows!”
He faced her, eyes blazing. “I am a MacDougall, Lady Margaret, and I gladly die—a MacDougall!”
She cringed. He would never change his mind. “Oh, Malcolm! This is my fault! I should have surrendered the castle to him!”
“No, lady, ye were brave, and I am proud to have served ye, even in defeat. And I will not judge ye for what you have decided to do this day. I ken, ye wish to save the lives of yer men. But I canna go against my brothers, my uncles, my cousins...not even for ye.”
She started to cry.
Two of Alexander’s men now seized Malcolm, one of them shackling his wrists behind his back. They marched him across the courtyard, past the great hall. A scaffold was at the far end of the bailey.
Margaret watched the three men, Malcolm walking proudly between the MacDonald soldiers, until she simply couldn’t see. Her tears entirely blurred her vision.
“Ye have only lost one man today—and the choice was his, not yours, to make.”
She faced Alexander furiously. “You could still spare him!”
He studied her. “I cannot spare him.”
She actually understood why Malcolm could not be spared, but she hated Alexander anyway.
And she hated herself for crying. For failing to surrender when given the chance, and for what she must now do.
Margaret dropped to both knees. She wiped her wet face on her sleeves, and joined her hands as if in prayer, then held them out.
She could not breathe properly now. More sobs threatened, from deep within her chest.
He seized her hands. “Get up,” he said. As he spoke, he dragged her dead weight upward, until she was standing.
“What are you doing?” She tore her palms from his. “I haven’t made my pledge yet!”
“I will not accept yer vows.”
She was so distraught, so desperate, so angry, at first, she did not understand him and she stared through her tears. And as he stared back, his face hard, she realized what was happening. “You deceived me? Is this treachery? You said you would spare them, if I swore my oath of fealty, too.”
“I am not accepting yer oath, Lady Margaret,” he said, in that tone she hated, that tone that was as final as the word of God.
She screamed at him. “This is trickery! You have tricked my men! They were following me!”
He looked past her. “Get her maid. Take her away,” he said.
Her men were loyal to her. They had only pledged their faith to Alexander, because they were following her—because they expected her to do so, too! She could not allow her men to pledge to him, and then fail to do so, herself.
Margaret sank back down to her knees. She held out her hands, but gazed up at Alexander.
“I, Lady Margaret Comyn, of Castle Fyne, daughter of Mary MacDougall, niece of the Earl of Buchan, do swear to you, Alexander MacDonald, lord of Castle Fyne, son of the lord of the isles, my faith, here and now, for as long as I live—God help me and strike me down if I lie!”
“Get up,” he snapped at her. “I dinna accept!”
She shoved her hands upward, at him. “Bastard!”
Flushing, he said fiercely, “Get her on her feet, and get her gone.”
Margaret was seized from behind. “Let me be,” she screamed at the men, struggling to become free of them as they held her arms from behind.
But as she struggled viciously against them, she stared at Alexander, hoping he knew just how much she hated him.
He had tricked her, and she had never hated anyone more.
He stared coldly back at her.
A loud thump sounded.
Margaret went still. Slowly, she turned her head, and saw Malcolm hanging from the scaffold, his hands on the noose at his throat as he frantically attempted to loosen it.
She choked on the horror, turning her head away. As she did, someone seized her and pulled her forward, and she was enclosed in a powerful embrace.
Margaret realized Alexander was shielding her from watching Malcolm die. But all the same, she cried.
* * *
MARGARET KNELT BY William, who was unconscious, holding his hands. She could not stop weeping. Her heart was entirely broken. All was lost.
Castle Fyne was lost, her men were lost, and Malcolm had been hanged. And the damned Wolf of Lochaber had tricked her and her men.
But of course he had. Someone had said, from the beginning, that he was clever and shrewd and not to be trusted. She would never trust him again.
Why had he refused her oath of fealty? She was so distraught she could not think of a single reason for him to have done so.
Holding her brother’s hands, she laid her cheek on the pallet, tempted to crawl into bed with him. But he was hurt and the pallet was narrow and she did not want to disturb him. God, she was so alone! She needed comfort from someone, anyone, but there was no one to offer it to her.
When her tears finally ceased, she curled up on the floor beside William’s bed, exhausted. There were no rugs in his chamber, and the stones were freezing, but she almost welcomed the chilling cold. She did not care if she lived or died.
And when strong hands grasped her, and she was lifted into powerful arms, she was too exhausted to fight him another time.
Alexander carried her to her chamber, and left her there in her bed.
* * *
MARGARET AWOKE AND was surprised, because a bright, strong light was shining through her chamber’s single window, indicating it was midafternoon. For one moment, she was confused, as she attempted to sit up. She was so oddly weak—as if she had been ill. And then there was total recollection.
She sank back down onto her bed, recalling the siege, her captor, her men performing homage to him, and the hanging of Malcolm. And for one moment, she lay very still.
Why had Alexander carried her from the entry tower to her own chamber? And why had he refused her oath of fealty?
She was so weak—and so hungry—that she could not think clearly. She could not recall when she had last been as ravenous. Margaret attempted to sit up again, and this time, she felt dizzy.
She took her time, now concerned—she must not become ill.
Castle Fyne had fallen, and she had lost her men, but the country was at war—Robert Bruce was fighting the English, and seeking Scotland’s throne.
Castle Fyne could be retaken—it had to be retaken.
Now, she thought about the first messengers, sent by Malcolm before the siege.
Had the one headed for her mother’s brother ever reached him?
And where was Sir Ranald? Would he return with help? He would never abandon her!
Margaret managed to shove her feet to the floor, trembling from the exertion. Someone had removed her shoes, and they were on the floor, but she ignored them. She stood, her balance so precarious that she staggered to the door and fell upon it, sinking to her knees on the floor.
The door was opened immediately. “Yer awake!” Alan cried, sounding relieved. He stooped over her, extending his hand. “Let me help ye.”
“Don’t touch me,” she warned. She seized the door handle and stood up. How could she be so weak, when she needed to be so strong?
Alan met her gaze, his wide, and he turned and rushed off.
Margaret paused, gathering up her strength, hoping Peg might appear, to help her sort through the facts—and plot the future. As she did so, she heard his determined strides, on the stone stairwell, and she tensed.
Alexander appeared on the stairs, Peg behind him. His gaze locked instantly with hers.
She found it difficult to breathe. “Why am I so weak? What has happened?”
“Ye slept for three entire days, and Peg says ye haven’t eaten since the siege.”
She felt her stomach contract with pain. “How is William?”
“He is weak, but he is healing. There is no infection,” Alexander said. “Do ye have a death wish, now? To stand barefoot on the stone in the midst of winter?”
“I have no plan to die.” As if he cared—but then, of course he did—she had a great value to him as his hostage.
“How pleased I am to hear that.” He faced Peg. “Get her shoes.”
Peg fled past him into the chamber, seizing Margaret’s shoes. She stepped into them, never removing her gaze from his. “Why did you deceive me? Why did you refuse my act of homage? I could be your vassal now.”
“Do ye wish to come down and dine?” he asked flatly, indicating he had no wish to answer her.
She said, very coldly, “I would rather starve than dine with you.”
“I am not foolish enough to invite ye to dine with me. Ye hate me. I ken. But ye must eat.”
“I am your hostage so you want me alive. I am tempted to starve myself just to deny you.” How she meant it. Thwarting him in any way would give her a great satisfaction.
Behind him, Peg gasped. His eyes were chilling now. “Yer defiance will not serve ye well, and yer clever enough to comprehend that.” He turned. “Feed her.” He strode back down the stairs.
Margaret held out her hand and Peg rushed to her, seizing it. “How can ye defy him? He is our master now!”
“I can and I will—and he will never be my master,” Margaret said. Then, “Is William truly getting better?”
“He is awake, and there is no infection. But he remains weak, having lost so much blood. Still, he is asking about ye. Oh, I have been so worried about ye, Margaret!”
Margaret smiled grimly at her. At least her brother was on the mend, and she thanked God for that. She ignored Alan, who remained at attention, not far from his stool. “And Sir Neil? How is he?”
Peg started. “He has been terribly worried about ye, Lady Margaret. We all have.”
She absorbed that. “And what of the fact that MacDonald would not let me swear fealty to him? Are they furious?”
Peg hesitated. “I dinna think so. I think they’re relieved.”
Margaret grimaced, imagining that Peg was right.
“And they are occupied with the tasks being given them,” Peg added. “Every man has been set to repairing the fortifications. Our soldiers are getting on with the Wolf’s men. They do not seem to mind being his men, either.”