Chapter Ten.html #2
MARGARET RETURNED TO the hall, but slowly.
She felt cold, and she hugged her mantle tightly to her.
She did not know why she wasn’t excited over William’s plan.
Tomorrow they might successfully escape; tomorrow they might be free!
For it was a very good plan, and the odds might even be in their favor, now that Alexander trusted her enough to allow her some freedom of movement.
Was that the problem? That he trusted her somewhat?
That she knew it? They were enemies, but in a way, an odd friendship had also formed.
She had come to respect him; she had come to admire him.
She was his prisoner, but she also knew he would keep her safe from all other enemies.
He had even tried to protect her from Bruce.
What was wrong with her? As long as they were on opposite sides of this war, they could not be friends—and she must not forget that. He remained the enemy—and it was her duty to attempt an escape.
Tomorrow she might be on the road, hidden amidst his great army, as he rode to war.
He would attack Dumbarton, and then continue to attack every enemy in Bruce’s path as they marched to Scone, while she went home to Balvenie.
There, she would embrace Isabella, warn her uncle, and plead with both her uncle and Sir Guy to retake Castle Fyne.
She would probably stay in the north until her marriage in June.
Alexander would remain at Bruce’s side, as they fought to gain and keep Scotland’s throne.
She faltered in the corridor, too dismayed to go on.
Oh, how she hated this war! How she hated all war!
She had lost three of her brothers in war, and recently, so many of her archers and soldiers, and Malcolm.
She began to shiver. Briefly, she had started to believe Bruce could be victorious, but that had been when in his powerful presence.
She wasn’t overcome by him now. Bruce was one man, and a Scot at that, and he would never defeat King Edward!
Bruce would either die gloriously on the battlefield, or ingloriously, with his head upon the chopping block.
And Alexander’s fate was tied to Bruce’s. She did not believe he would be spared. If Alexander did not die in battle he would be executed alongside his leader. If he managed to escape King Edward, he would be in exile, an outlaw living in the forests....
She should not care. She did not want to care.
“Somehow, I dinna think yer looking for me.”
She jerked out of her terrible reverie at the sound of Alexander’s voice. He leaned against the doorway of the hall, his posture casual—his expression too bland. His eyes, however, were hard.
It was a moment before she could speak, and even so, her tone was strained. “Good morning, my lord. Bruce has left?”
“I feel certain ye ken that Bruce is gone.”
“I saw him leave, yes.”
“Ye disobeyed me directly, Lady Margaret. I am vastly displeased.”
“I could not stand the rumors,” she whispered.
“What rumors? And what excuse is that?” he demanded, anger now crossing his expression.
“The rumors of war. The rumors of a coronation. Does he march to Scone? Will he be crowned there?” she cried, trembling. She realized her fists were clenched. “And do you go to war tomorrow?”
“If he will be king, he will be crowned at Scone,” Alexander said, more calmly. But his gaze was still searing. “I am leaving tomorrow.”
“To attack Dumbarton? To attack every ally of King Edward as you march to Scone?” she cried.
“So yer maids were spying on us last night.”
Tears seemed to arise. “Please leave Isabella alone.”
“Ye discovered too much, Margaret.”
“You already mean to punish me, do you not? Yes, my maids overheard you last night. But Bruce told me that you go to battle at Dumbarton. I can imagine the rest. God, Alexander—you go to war against King Edward’s army!”
He studied her and began to smile. “Lady Margaret—are ye frightened for me? Even more now than before?”
She could not breathe properly. “I should not care. I know that. I really do not care! But I cannot wish you ill!”
His smile widened.
“You’re amused? You think it amusing—to fight a legitimate king, to make an illegitimate one?” She felt like striking him, the way her mother had once struck Bruce! “This is not some silly blood feud over stolen cattle! This is a great war waged by a would-be king against a great king!”
“Scotland has been fought over before,” he said, still smiling.
“Why? Why ride with Bruce? Six months ago you were King Edward’s vassal.”
“Yer worried about me.”
She wanted to deny it. But she could not, not even to herself. “I did not wish you ill when you fought Sir Guy, and I do not wish you ill now. I may be your hostage, but you have been just.”
He emitted a short laugh. “The lengths ye go to, to excuse yer affections for me!”
“I do not have affection for you!” she cried.
He studied her, his mouth soft. “I would be very dismayed,” he finally said, “should you ever wish me ill.”
Margaret had no response to make. She could not fathom the depth of her distress now. She wished he had never taken up Bruce’s cause. She wished he were not going to war tomorrow—and she even wished she were not planning to escape with William.
He moved away from the wall, saying, “We have digressed. There is no excuse ye can make fer disobeying my command.”
She took a breath. “I am aware that you are angry.”
“I meant to protect ye, Lady Margaret. I meant to keep ye out of jeopardy.”
She had been right. He had wanted to keep her away from Bruce, but not so they could discuss their war secrets. “What will you do?”
Their gazes locked. “It gives me no pleasure, but ye’ll be confined to yer chamber till I decide otherwise.”
She tensed. How would she be able to escape, if she was confined to her chamber now? “If I tell you I am sorry—if I mean it—would you reconsider such a punishment?”
“No.”
* * *
MARGARET LAY IN her bed, staring up at the ceiling. It was late and the castle was mostly asleep and incredibly silent. The only noise was from the wind outside, moving the trees, and a lone wolf, baying from a ridge somewhere.
She could not sleep. She had spent the day in confinement in her chamber, as promised, with Dughall standing outside her door as her guard.
Eilidh had not been allowed to attend her.
Dughall had brought her meals. Her window faced north so she could not see into the courtyard or barbican, but all day she had heard the footsteps and voices of Alexander’s men as they provisioned the stronghold for his absence.
Later, she had heard their voices from the great hall as they supped.
With nothing to do and no one to talk to, she had tried to take up her needlework, but that had been impossible. She was too worried.
She would never be able to escape now. William would have to escape alone. And tomorrow, Alexander would ride off to war.
* * *
WHY DID HE have to ride with Bruce? Why did he have to go to war against the might of England?
What if he did not return from this battle, or the next one?
She could tell herself a thousand times that he was a mighty warrior, that he would be fine, but three of her brothers had died in war.
She knew better than anyone how feckless war was.
How feckless fate was. Men like Alexander lived and died by the sword, and few lived to old age.
She just hoped Fate would not take him at the battle of Dumbarton. ...
But they were marching to Scone. They meant to seize Scotland’s throne. There would be too many battles to count, both before and after Bruce was crowned....
Suddenly she heard a footfall on the stone stairs. She sat bolt upright, aware that it was Alexander. She stared across her chamber, which was illuminated by the fire in the hearth. Would she even be able to wish him Godspeed tomorrow?
Men were such fools, to take war so lightly!
And she was a fool, to have any care for him, when they were enemies!
She heard his door open and she flung herself back down on her bed, staring up at the dark ceiling. If only she could care this way for Sir Guy. And who knew? Maybe one day she would, but just then, she did not.
In a way, Alexander had become a significant part of her existence. In a way, he had become the center of her existence. Of course, he was her captor. One day, he would not be so significant.
But he almost felt like a mountain in the center of her world, one that was unmovable, and even insurmountable. Yet it was a mountain that was always there, a presence that was certain.
She tried to laugh at herself. He was like a mountain, but he wasn’t an unmovable part of the land—he was a man. If he died, she would be saddened, but she would recover, just as she had recovered from the deaths of her three brothers and her parents.
“But I don’t want him to die.”
Margaret stiffened, realizing that she had spoken aloud.
She slid from the bed, barefoot and clad only in her chemise. He was leaving tomorrow at dawn, and earlier, she had refused to tell him that she cared.
She threw a fur around her shoulders and went to her door, helpless to resist her own impulses now. It hadn’t been locked all day and it was not locked now. She opened it and Dughall instantly leapt to his feet. “Lady Margaret?”
He was incredulous, but then, she was barely dressed. “I wish to speak with Alexander,” she said, very unsteadily. And she did not wait for his response. Margaret went to his door and opened it.
He leapt up from the bed, dagger in hand, held poised to attack.
She froze against the door, in surprise, dropping the fur.
His eyes were startled; instantly, they slammed over her and narrowed. He put the dagger down on the bed, then faced her, his eyes warm. “Margaret.”
She was not surprised that he was alone—she was fairly certain he had been sleeping alone since the battle of Cruach Nan Cuilean.