Chapter Eight.html
CHAPTER EIGHT
“WHAT IS WRONG, LADY? Ye’ve barely spoken since ye came back.”
Margaret was seated at the table in the great hall. Young Dughall and another Scot had escorted her back to Castle Fyne two days ago. Eilidh had just set a trencher down before her, and her gaze was concerned. Peg, who was serving the guards at another table, turned.
How she wished for a confidante. The past two days had been interminable. She could not stop recalling her brief stay in Alexander’s camp—and the war parley with Sir Guy. She could not cease thinking of her future as Sir Guy’s wife, nor of the battle that might still rage near Loch Riddon.
“It has been two days, with no word,” she said. “I am anxious to learn what has happened...and to discover if Sir Guy has triumphed.”
When she had left, both armies had been preparing to do battle. She was desperate to learn of the outcome.
Sir Guy had vowed to destroy Alexander.
Her heart slammed with worry and fear. She knew she worried about Alexander’s welfare—she hoped he would not be hurt in the battle.
But she must hope that Sir Guy won. It was her duty to be loyal to him.
Her uncle would be supporting Sir Guy in his quest to defeat Alexander and take Castle Fyne back.
So would William, so would all her Comyn and MacDougall kinsmen.
This wait to learn who had triumphed and who had lost was impossible.
An image flashed, of Sir Guy looking at her, his gray gaze wide with disbelief and disapproval.
He did not appreciate what she had done to defend Castle Fyne.
She had summoned up every ounce of courage she had to defy the Wolf’s demand that she surrender.
She knew nothing of sieges, but she had had to quickly learn, and improvise.
She had even gone to the ramparts to fight alongside her archers, her soldiers and her women.
He disapproved.
She had been aghast. No woman wished to offend her future husband! Every woman hoped to please the man she would eventually wed.
Worse, Sir Guy already considered Castle Fyne his. Yet their union hadn’t even been consummated—until they married, Castle Fyne was hers. It was her dowry, it had been her mother’s—how could Sir Guy speak as if he already possessed it?
But if he triumphed now, if he defeated Alexander, if he took Castle Fyne back, they would marry as planned. He would possess Castle Fyne; he would possess her.
She was trying to remain brave, but she was scared. She kept recalling his hot temper, his lack of respect, his disapproval of her. And she was scared of the man she would marry in June.
She knew she must not compare her future marriage to the union her parents had had. But she could not help herself. Her father had rarely disapproved of her mother. And then she had the treacherous thought: Alexander had not disapproved of her actions, either. To the contrary.
It was so tempting to hope that Alexander was the victor now.
She knew she must not allow her mind to go in such a direction. Instead, she must concentrate on all the advantages a union with Sir Guy would bring to her and the entire Comyn family.
“The Wolf has never been defeated in battle,” Eilidh said, but carefully.
Margaret looked at her, jerked out of her wayward thoughts. “He is outnumbered, Eilidh. He may be defeated this time.”
“We will have word as soon as the battle is over,” Eilidh said, smiling in a comforting manner. “News flies faster than any bird. We will soon learn who has triumphed, lady.”
Eilidh was right on that one point—someone would soon appear at her castle walls, and he would be the victor. But which man would it be?
“And Sir Guy has a great army. He will probably be at our walls at any moment.” But now, Eilidh’s smile was gone. “And ye’ll be a free lady once more.”
Margaret knew Eilidh hoped to reassure her. But that was impossible, when her heart was weighing her down, and she was faced with so much uncertainty. “Yes, if Sir Guy triumphs, I will be free.”
Eilidh’s smile vanished. Peg turned to stare sharply at her.
“I am worried,” Margaret said to Eilidh.
“That is all.” She picked up her knife and used it to push her food around her trencher.
She kept recalling how Alexander so often looked at her—with scrutiny and consideration—as he tried to fathom her thoughts.
It was as if he cared to know what she was thinking.
In his camp, she had wondered if he cared about her welfare.
She did not think Sir Guy would ever care about her thoughts. But she must not compare the two men. No good could come of it.
Eilidh hesitated by her side. “Ye should eat, lady. Yer already like a feather! Ye dinna wish to become ill.”
“You’re right. I should eat. I should have some wine. Worrying will not solve anything.”
Pleased, Eilidh rushed to pour her wine. As she did, Peg stalked out of the hall.
Margaret watched her old friend with a grimace. The pain of her betrayal had already subsided, so perhaps Alexander had been right, and they hadn’t really ever been as close as she had thought. But Peg was angry, and that did not bode well.
“Eilidh, I want you to continue to wait on me. In a short time, I have come to depend on you.”
“Really?” Eilidh gasped, her surprise obvious.
“Really.” Margaret smiled, clasping her hand. She liked the young girl very much. “I will even take you home with me, to the north, if I ever return there.”
“Oh, lady, thank ye! Castle Fyne is my home, but I think I wish to serve ye, always! I am so proud to serve the lady of Fyne!”
Before Margaret could respond, she heard pounding footsteps outside the hall. She stiffened, gripping the edge of the table. Dughall burst into the hall.
She took one look at his ecstatic expression, and her heart slammed.
The Wolf had won.
“The Wolf returns, Lady Margaret!” Dughall shouted, confirming her thoughts. “His army is on the road, and his knights are at the barbican, his banner waves proudly, and he is at their head!”
She stood up, stunned. And there was no mistaking the flood of relief within her.
Alexander had defeated Sir Guy.
She was so relieved that she could hardly deny it. However, she had no intention of analyzing her reaction to Alexander’s victory now. He was returning; his army was returning.
She rushed from the table. “Is he hurt?”
“I dinna think so!” Dughall exclaimed, and then he turned and raced back out of the great room.
Her heart thundered now. “We will be feeding a great many men,” she said briskly to Eilidh.
She took a deep breath. “Have more meat brought up from the cellars, and bring up another barrel of cheese and several barrels of wine. And there will be wounded to attend. Send several maids for linens, as many as they can find. Begin warming water. And my chest—bring it to the hall!” She lifted her skirts and ran out of the great room without waiting for the maid to respond.
She hurried up the stairwell and onto the ramparts.
Twilight was upon the land, cool and gray, with a few snowflakes falling.
A few of the knights and archers who had been left behind to guard the castle were already present, as were a great many of the castle’s women, and they were all leaning over the crenellations, waving and calling out with cheers to the returning army.
Her heart was racing madly as she ran along the ramparts, passing her people.
She tried to gaze past the crowds, over their heads and shoulders, and over the crenellations.
She could just barely see the huge army slowly rippling up the forest road.
She could not see the forefront, which had reached her castle walls. She ran faster.
Margaret reached the entry tower and rushed to the closest wall adjacent to it. She seized the rough stone wall and looked down at the barbican.
A pair of fur-clad Highland knights on black steeds led the way, followed by a half a dozen other warriors, one of whom held the Donald banner. The dark-blue-and-black MacDonald flag whipped in the wind, high above their heads, with its red dragon clawing the blue field in its midst.
Then she saw his gray stallion in the middle of the cavalcade. Her grasp on the wall tightened.
They were inside the barbican now, and approaching the drawbridge, which had been lowered.
Alexander was so tall that even in the middle of his men, his head and shoulders were visible, his dark hair flying in the wind.
She realized tears had arisen. I am overtired, she thought. Surely she was not evincing undue concern for the mighty Wolf of Lochaber.
Aware of how disloyal she was being in thinking she might not have to wed Sir Guy now, she stood very still, until Alexander was on the drawbridge and passing beneath the entry tower, almost directly beneath her. She took a long moment to compose herself.
Margaret turned and went back across the ramparts to the north tower, but more slowly. As she went downstairs, she could hear the men in the hall, their conversation loud and raucous—the sounds satisfied and pleased.
She reached the great hall and looked across it.
Some three dozen knights were within, a great many bearing bloodstains upon their clothes, some wearing bloody bandages, one being helped onto a pallet.
No one seemed unscathed, yet everyone was smiling, mugs were raised, and the women of the castle were in attendance.
Laughter was sprinkled throughout the conversations.
The women were flirting wildly, the men basking in the attention.
Alexander stood by one of the great hearths with Padraig and Sir Neil, both knights seeming unharmed. So many men stood between them that she could not make him out clearly, but he seemed entirely unharmed, as well.
He suddenly turned and, across the great room, their gazes met.
Margaret felt her heart turn over hard.
He said something to both knights and started toward her.