Chapter Eleven.html
CHAPTER ELEVEN
BALVENIE SPRAWLED ABOVE them atop the hill, a massive red stone fortress.
Margaret halted her small mount. Peg and Eilidh had their own horses as well, and they also stopped, as did the three knights escorting them. She stared up at the welcome sight of Balvenie’s curtain walls crossing the hillside, its towers jutting into the bright blue sky.
“Balvenie,” she whispered, disbelieving. Three days ago she had awoken in Alexander’s bed, and now, she was home.
The River Spey was below them, churning rapidly through the forested hillside.
Its frigid waters still rushed over frozen rocks.
But snow was melting everywhere. Patches of new grass and thistle with small, tight, unopened blooms were emerging across the hillside and just beneath the thick castle walls.
“I will tell the watch that we have arrived,” one of their knights said. He spurred his mount forward and up the hill at a canter.
“We are home,” Peg cried, smiling. “I never thought to see the day!”
Margaret did not quite smile back at her.
She was pleased to have reached Balvenie safely—she was relieved to have reached her uncle’s largest, most defensible home.
But her happiness was somehow spoiled—and partly it was because Castle Fyne remained lost to the enemy, and William remained a prisoner there.
But she knew that secretly, there was even more.
Secretly, she thought her homecoming spoiled by the night she had spent in Alexander’s arms.
For, at random moments in the day, and then, in her dreams at night, she recalled not just the passion they had shared, but other moments, too, moments in which he seemed like a powerful champion.
Yet she did not want to think of him at all!
And she especially did not want to recall how she had betrayed her uncle and her betrothed.
“It’s so grand,” Eilidh whispered, wide-eyed with awe.
“It is very grand,” Margaret agreed, and she started her mare up the hill, on the muddy road they traveled upon. Her two maids fell into line behind her, while the remaining two Highland soldiers rode abreast of her, having cast their furs aside.
They had stayed hidden in Alexander’s army for two entire days, but when it had made camp not far from Dumbarton, they had stolen away.
Peg had managed to get them inside the royal fortress there, where Margaret had been warmly received by its governor, John of Menteith.
Already aware of the attack about to take place the next day, he had wasted no time in sending her on, with three of his men as an armed escort.
They had arrived at Dumbarton in the fading light of the late afternoon, and they left just a few hours later, as twilight stole upon the land.
Margaret saw the gates of the barbican being opened, and now, she could hear surprised cries coming from the ramparts, as the news of her arrival spread.
She looked up as men, women and children appeared on the walls above her, waving eagerly, clearly jubilant over her return.
She smiled and waved back, but inwardly, she was grim.
She had said that one night could not change anything, but apparently, it had changed a great deal.
She could not shake an odd, lingering feeling of dismay.
She was beginning to wonder if she regretted the night she had spent with Alexander, after all.
Certainly, she no longer felt innocent. She had betrayed a great many loyalties, and she felt very grown up, a woman aged beyond her years.
They rode through the barbican and across the drawbridge. As Margaret entered the great cobbled courtyard, the huge door of the great hall opened. Isabella stepped outside, clutching a fur mantle, her red gown flowing about her. “Margaret!”
Margaret halted as Isabella ran down the steps and toward her. She was a tall, slim woman of nineteen, with surprisingly fair skin and thick brown hair, her eyes a stunning blue. “You are home!” she cried, beaming.
One of the soldiers helped her dismount, and before her feet even touched the ground, Isabella embraced her, hard. “Was there a ransom?” Isabella cried. “John said he did not think you would be ransomed!”
Margaret took her hand. “There was no ransom. We escaped. It is still cold out. Can we go inside?”
Isabella nodded, her eyes wide, and they hurried inside, followed by the other women and men.
The hall was filled with tables, tapestries and chairs. Rugs, not rushes, were on the floor. Fires blazed in two grand hearths.
“You must tell me everything,” Isabella exclaimed. “But first, how could you escape the Wolf of Lochaber?” She seized her hand and clasped it again.
“The plan was Will’s. We stole out the side door in disguise, and then joined Alexander’s army as it left. But he was captured before he could even cross the courtyard, and he remains a prisoner, even now. We traveled with the army until Dumbarton. No one ever looked twice at us.”
“Alexander?” Isabella’s brows rose. She pulled Margaret toward a pair of chairs in front of one fireplace.
Margaret tensed. “Alexander MacDonald—the Wolf of Lochaber.”
“It seems odd for you to call him by name. But then, you were his hostage for many weeks—for almost a month. Will you sit with me, Margaret? Will you share a glass of wine? You must be exhausted after traveling across half of Scotland! And I have missed you so!”
Margaret had missed Isabella, too. “Of course I will sit with you—we have so much to speak of.”
Isabella grinned as they both sat. “Peg, please bring us wine. And prepare a feast! We must celebrate Margaret’s safe return!”
Peg rushed off as Margaret handed her mantle to Eilidh, sighing, and stretched out her legs.
“Did you become friendly, then?” Isabella asked.
Margaret started. “I beg your pardon?”
“You call him Alexander now—you must have become somewhat friendly.”
She hoped her cheeks were not pink—they felt warm. Yet she knew Isabella’s question was innocently asked. She could hardly suspect that they had had an affair. “I do not know when I began to call him by name, but he remains the enemy. He is a MacDonald.”
Isabella studied her. “You must hate him,” she finally said. “He kept you prisoner, he holds Will even now and he has conquered Castle Fyne.”
“Sir Guy already tried to take the keep back. He will undoubtedly try again. And now that I am home, I will send a letter to Argyll, seeking his aid.”
“So you will not accept the loss of the castle?” Isabella cried.
“No, I will not. Would you?”
“I would not write letters to my kin, asking them to go to war for me! But then, I would have never thought to try to defend the castle in the first place. You are so brave!”
“It was a very foolish decision, Isabella. And I was terrified, and because I chose to fight, not surrender, many good men died.”
“He must have been so angry with you,” Isabella said after a pause. “If I had ever defied John in such a way, and attempted to battle against him, oh, he would hurt me terribly. Did he seek to punish you?”
Margaret rubbed her arms. Most men would have angrily punished such defiance, even though it came from a woman. “No, he did not seek to punish me. He was very angry but he was also reasonable. I did not suffer very much in his care.”
Isabella blinked. “A warrior who is reasonable? Are we speaking of the same man? Is he then not like the legends?”
Margaret smiled a bit. “He is exactly like the legends, Isabella. He is strong, mighty and brave, a great warrior. I have wondered if he will ever be defeated in battle.”
“You sound admiring!”
Margaret hesitated. “In some ways, I have come to admire him, and I certainly respect him.”
Her gaze sharpened. “Is he as dark and handsome as is claimed?”
Margaret decided to dissemble. “He is dark, but if he is handsome, I never noticed.”
Peg now returned, carrying a trencher with two mugs of wine. She gave each woman one, and Margaret thanked her. She sipped, aware of the extent of her lie. She thought Alexander one of the most attractive men she had ever seen.
“If he is as mighty as you say, you may never win Castle Fyne back,” Isabella said.
Margaret felt her momentary pleasure fade. “I am afraid of that. He has left a large garrison there.”
Isabella made a harsh sound. “John is furious over Red John’s murder, and he is spending all of his time planning war against Bruce.
But my husband is very pleased with you.
He has done little but boast about you since we first heard of the siege and your part in defending the keep.
You may trust me when I tell you that you are high in his good graces. ”
“Buchan isn’t here, is he?”
“No. He left weeks ago—to speak with our every friend, to raise men, to prepare for war—he fights with King Edward!” Her eyes darkened. “How he hates Robert Bruce.”
Isabella was one of the least political women Margaret knew, but like the entire family, she despised the English.
“I have news of the war, Isabella. I must speak with my uncle. It is important.”
“Can you write him?”
“No. I must speak with him in person,” Margaret said. She was not going to describe Bruce’s meeting with Alexander in a letter that could be intercepted by almost anyone.
“The information you have must be dear, indeed.” Isabella did not seem curious as she sipped her wine.
“It is.” This was as good a time as any to speak frankly with her sister in marriage. “Bruce spent a night at Castle Fyne.”
Isabella sat up in surprise, spilling some of her wine. Her entire demeanor had changed. Clearly, she was interested now. “You saw him?”
“I met him, yes.”
“How is he?”
She started. The question seemed odd—as odd as her wide-eyed expression. “He is a powerful liege lord, Isabella. One arrogant enough to think he can be king.”
She smiled. “I met him at Fife, before my marriage.”
“I did not know.”
“He was proud and arrogant then. I saw him after my marriage, too, at Lochmaben, and then at Dalswinton. He is a strutting cock of a man.”