Chapter Eight.html #2
And she realized that he was limping. Then she saw that his leine was splotched with blood, and his skirts were stiff and blackened. Margaret felt all the color in her face drain away, the sensation a sinking one.
He was removing his plaid as he approached, huge biceps bulging. “Lady Margaret.”
“You’ve been wounded.”
“I have a scratch or two.”
She was angered by his indifferent tone. “Men die from war wounds every day.”
He smiled a little. “So ye have a care, after all?”
She trembled. “I have already said that I do not wish you ill.”
“So that is aye?”
Did she flush? “You have cared for me and in return, I will not let you die.” She whirled, not about to analyze the depth of her concern. “Peg! Bring warm water, soap, my chest of potions, linens and more wine.”
“Margaret,” he said.
She turned back to him. Was he amused? “Would it please you if I did not care?”
“No. I am very pleased with my welcome here.”
They were treading dangerously, she thought. “Then you are reading too much into a simple act of compassion, my lord.”
“Mayhap.” He shrugged. “Mayhap not.”
Her cheeks burned. “Will you please sit? If you fall down, I am too small to catch you.”
He laughed, the sound warm and pleasant. “I am not going to fall down, Lady Margaret.”
“Oh, of course not. You’re too mighty to fall, even if you’ve lost so much blood.”
His smile faded as he studied her with that searching look she had become so familiar with. “The blood ye see is not mine.”
She started, and then she looked him over with great care. She saw cuts upon his thighs that might have been caused by shrubs and branches, and an abrasion upon his arm. “You are not hurt?”
“I am not hurt.”
She realized just how relieved she was. And he reached out to steady her, for she was trembling. She glanced up and their gazes collided yet again. “I am pleased,” he said slowly, “that ye worry overly.”
What could she say? She tried, “You must be tired. Please, sit down. Peg! Bring wine!”
He settled upon the bench, and seriously said, “A great many men have been wounded, Lady Margaret, and dozens have died. We fought for almost two entire days.”
She sat beside him, carefully folding her hands in her lap. “I take it you were victorious?”
“Aye, but the cost was great.”
Her thoughts now raced. He had won, she remained his captive.
“Ye have yet to ask about Sir Guy.”
She smiled grimly. “I have prayed he is well,” she lied, speaking rather tersely. “How is he?”
“Sir Guy suffered a mild wound to his shoulder—but he will live to fight another day.” He finally sipped the cup of wine Peg had given to him.
Surely, Margaret was relieved. Surely, she had some small care for the man who would be her husband! “And I thank God he is not seriously harmed.”
He was staring, his expression slightly bemused. “He is fortunate he did not lose his arm.”
“You saw him receive the wound?”
“I delivered the blow, Lady Margaret.”
Her tension instantly increased as she recalled how Alexander had stated that he might have to kill Sir Guy. She could imagine the two men wielding swords against one another, each intending to kill, and she shuddered.
Appearing very satisfied, Alexander drained his cup of wine.
Margaret refilled it for him and handed it back. She asked carefully, “Did you seek him out purposely? Did you wish to kill him?”
“Did he not vow to destroy me?”
Alexander had deliberately sought to attack Sir Guy, she was certain. And he had meant to kill him if he could.
“He will be back to fight another day—with more of the king’s men.”
She looked at him. “Are you certain?” she asked.
A long pause ensued. Alexander finally said, “He wants Castle Fyne.”
Margaret flinched and looked away. Alexander was astute, and he had witnessed her entire exchange with Sir Guy.
He knew, as she did, that Sir Guy had no care for her, except for the dowry she brought to their union.
She thought about how angry he had been at the war parley.
“Yes, I imagine he will be back—he must be enraged.”
“Angry or not, Castle Fyne is a great prize. King Edward will want to control the route to Argyll—he will wish for Sir Guy to command Castle Fyne.”
She stiffened as their gazes locked. “Just as Bruce now wishes for you to command Castle Fyne?”
“Aye.”
Margaret looked at her hands. The implications of the war and how she was affected by it now hit her with great force. Castle Fyne was in the midst of the storm of war—just as she was. How those winds blew would decide her fate.
“Do ye pray fer Sir Guy’s return?”
Slowly, she looked up. “It is my duty to be loyal to him.”
He made a sound, as they both knew she had not answered his question. “Aye, and yer as dutiful as a woman could be.”
She met his blue gaze instantly. If he knew how disloyal she was, and that she had been questioning her very future, he would not be speaking as he was. “I intend to be dutiful, yes.”
He drained the cup of wine. “And what did ye think, Lady Margaret? Ye finally met the man yer uncle would have ye wed.”
She stood up. “We met for but a moment, under very trying circumstances.”
He held out his cup and Peg filled it. “Some women find him very noble—very gallant—with the blood of two royal houses in his veins.”
Sir Guy was related to both the kings of France and England. “He appears honorable and brave.”
“And if ye thought him injured, would ye cluck over him, as ye have me?”
She started. “Of course I would.”
“Aye, ye would—because it would be yer duty.” He stood up, and he towered over her. “Can ye tend my wounded knights? We must join Bruce soon.”
Margaret had been absorbing how mocking he had been and now she froze. “You are joining Bruce?”
“Bruce needs his best men to seize lands, to defeat his enemies and all who think to stop him. I am one of his best men. I can hardly linger here.”
She felt stunned, aghast. But why had she ever assumed that Alexander would placidly remain at Castle Fyne?
A great war raged. Bruce was on the march.
He was taking what castles and strongholds that he could, just as Alexander had taken Castle Fyne.
He could not seize Scotland’s throne if he did not have the great Scot barons and warlords behind him.
He would need a great army to fight King Edward, he would need all of his best commanders—he would need the mighty Wolf.
“When will you leave?” she finally asked.
“When my army is whole. I will leave a hundred of my best archers and knights—enough to fight off anyone, including Sir Guy, or even Buchan.”
“Have you news of either Buchan or Argyll?” Surely, by now, they had learned of the fall of Castle Fyne. Surely, they knew she and William were hostages.
“Buchan is enraged with Bruce, and he plots his vengeance now. As for Argyll, he is aiding one of his cousins against one of my brothers. Both men have probably learned of Castle Fyne’s fall—neither will come to yer rescue anytime soon.”
Margaret felt real despair. “So I am to remain a prisoner here, indefinitely.”
“But ye will be safe.”
Their gazes had met yet again. “I should put a salve on your abrasions.”
He laughed at her. “There is no need, Lady Margaret. If ye please, tend to my knights.”
She hesitated, but as she turned to go, he took her arm, restraining her. “The news I have given ye now distresses ye.”
She trembled, pulling away. “I have been expecting aid from either of my uncles.”
“Come, Margaret, we both ken that is not the news that frightens ye.”
He had the ability to disturb her to no end, she thought. “I hate war. It only brings death.”
He stared at her, and she felt certain he realized that she was frightened—and not just for herself.
“Go,” he said.
* * *
MARGARET KNEW THAT the best course of action was to avoid Alexander.
She did not want to keep comparing him and Sir Guy, but every time she heard his voice or glimpsed him, that was exactly what she did.
She did not want to have any concern for him, nor did she want to admire him, not in any way.
Therefore she refused to even think about the war he was about to join.
But doing so wasn’t easy, not when his injured men were recovering, and the rest of his knights and soldiers were being drilled for battle on a daily basis.
She had only to look out of any tower window to know that this terrible war loomed.
At Castle Fyne, she might be safely out of its path—for now—but Alexander was about to ride directly into the maelstrom.
One aspect of her captivity had changed. Each day she was allowed an hour’s visit with William. Alexander had not told her why he had changed his mind, but she knew it was due to the affections evolving between them.
William had healed completely, and he was eager to plan an escape.
He was impatient to join their uncle Buchan and go to war against Bruce.
With an ever-present guard, they could not discuss such matters openly.
William was an avid artist, and allowed to sketch, and he managed to slip her an occasional note, hidden within his drawings.
At least a week had passed since the battle of Cruach Nan Cuilean when she was sewing in her chamber by candlelight one evening.
She had seen William earlier and she was concerned—he had used his eyes to communicate to her that he wished to speak with her.
Margaret felt certain he had come up with a plan of some kind.
She was going to have to use her sleeping potion on the guard so they could converse freely.
She stabbed her forefinger with the needle, crying out.
“How did ye prick yerself?”
She tensed, her gaze slamming to her door, which was now open. Alexander stood there.
He smiled slightly. “Yer too skilled to make such a mistake. I wonder at yer deep thoughts.”
She set the embroidery down, aware of a new tension. Alexander was such a big man that he dominated her small doorway.