Chapter Thirteen.html #2
Margaret started for her clothes chest. “Where are we going?”
“Scone.”
Margaret froze.
“Surely ye wish to come. Surely ye wish to be there fer Isabella—she will need a friend.”
Margaret began to shake. He had come to Balvenie for Isabella! Her thoughts tumbled. “Alexander! If you must pursue me, so be it! But leave poor Isabella alone! Do not make her betray her husband! Please!”
He hardened. “Get dressed, Margaret. Now.”
She began to shake wildly, but did as he demanded.
She rushed to her chest and took out her clothing, thinking about the fact that he hadn’t just come for her—although she had no doubt he meant to marry her, if she would ever relent.
He had come to abduct Isabella and force her to commit treachery against her husband—and treason against King Edward.
She turned to him. “Treason is a hanging offense.”
“Isabella will be kept safe.”
“Buchan will hang her himself!” she cried. “And if he does not, King Edward will hang her!”
He strode to her and took her arm and shook her, once. “Get dressed, now.” His eyes were hard. “We killed a few of the guards, but the others will soon awaken.”
Immediately she thought of Sir Ranald, who had been left behind to take care of her. “Sir Ranald? Please, tell me you did not kill him!”
“Get dressed.”
Again he was the man she so often feared and hated, a man who would not compromise, not when driven to achieve his own ends.
Margaret turned away and now saw that her door was wide open.
Torches lit up the hall beyond it. She suddenly glimpsed one of her uncle’s soldiers, lying crumpled upon the floor.
She did not know if he was dead or unconscious.
She gave him her back and stripped off the ankle-length robe she slept in. She quickly donned her cote and surcote. She was frantic as she tried to do the cords of her girdle.
How could she help Isabella? Her friend was not strong. She was gentle, playful and young for her age. Margaret could manage these intrigues. But Isabella did not deserve to be a political pawn.
Buchan would hunt her down, she was certain. If Isabella consensually helped crown Bruce, he would hurt her terribly for such disloyalty.
Alexander seized the girdle and took it from her. “Yer shaking as if yer afraid of me.”
“I do fear you,” she said, looking up. “But right now, I am afraid for Isabella, not myself.”
He handed her the soft boots she wore when riding. “When will ye ever trust me? If I tell ye we’ll keep her safe, that is what we will do. Bruce is not like Buchan. He rewards those who are faithful to him.” Grasping her arm, he guided her into the hallway.
Margaret was relieved that the men who lay in the hall were clearly unconscious, and not dead. But Sir Ranald was not amongst them.
Isabella’s chamber—which she shared with her husband—was at the far end of the corridor.
Her door was wide open, and she was rushing out as Margaret approached, her dark hair in one long braid, her eyes bright with excitement, her cheeks flushed.
“Margaret! You are coming with us?” She sounded surprised and pleased. And she was smiling.
“Isabella, do not voluntarily go with these men!” Margaret cried. “If ever there is a time to come to your senses, it is now!”
“I haven’t lost my common sense,” Isabella returned, her smile fading. “Oh, Margaret, be happy! Bruce will be crowned at Scone!”
How could she dissuade her now? “You must stop now and think about the consequences of what you intend to do! What of your marriage? You have a good marriage, Isabella, and Buchan loves you. He will be furious and he will never forgive you.”
A very stubborn look crossed Isabella’s face. “I don’t care.”
“You don’t mean that,” Margaret cried. “You can’t mean that!”
“I do mean it. I do not care about John! Will you come with me? Please? I need you, Margaret!”
“I doubt I have a choice, but I would not betray my uncle, or this family, Isabella. If I go with you, I am being forced to do so.” But as she spoke, she glanced at Alexander, feeling as if her words were hollow.
“Of course you wouldn’t! For some reason I could never fathom, you are so loyal to my husband.”
“He is my uncle. He and Will are all I have left!” Margaret made one last attempt to dissuade her from her suicidal course. “Have you considered that you will be committing treason if you place that crown on Bruce’s head?” They had yet to broach that subject.
Isabella lifted her chin. “Then so be it. I am the Countess of Fife!”
“You are the Countess of Buchan and the Earl of Buchan’s wife!”
A movement sounded behind them. Margaret turned, and saw one of Alexander’s men at the top of the stairs, signaling him. Alexander took her arm. “She made up her mind long ago, Margaret, and even if ye could change it, I’d take her with us—just as I am taking ye.”
Margaret met his hard gaze for a moment, knowing that his mind was made up. They started down the hallway, two of Alexander’s men in the lead, Alexander behind Margaret and Isabella. When they reached the great hall, Margaret saw that six knights lay unmoving upon the floor, and one was Sir Ranald.
She cried out, for most of those strewn on the stone were clearly dead. Blood had pooled beneath one soldier’s head. She rushed to Sir Ranald, who was terribly pale, and laid her fingers upon his throat.
It took her an instant to realize that his pulse beat there, sure and strong. Relief filled her. A shadow fell over her and she looked up. “This is Sir Ranald—and he is important to me.”
“I will remember it.” Alexander reached down and dragged her up. “Be silent now,” he said to her and Isabella.
They hurried from the hall, outside and into the night. The courtyard was eerily quiet, as if deserted. But a dozen of his men appeared, stepping out of the night shadows, as silent as wolves on the hunt. And there were no cries from above.
She glanced up. The watchtowers were deserted. She feared the watch lay dead.
And a moment later they were stealing out of a small south door, where dozens of horses and riders awaited them in the dark.
* * *
IT WAS HIGH noon when Alexander held up his hand, halting their cavalcade.
They had been riding at a rapid pace, away from Balvenie, ever since leaving the castle in the middle of the night.
Margaret rode beside Isabella, between two of Alexander’s men.
There were about fifty Highland knights in their group.
Nine or even ten hours had to have passed.
They were deep within a forest now, but they had been using deer paths that had clearly become roads for warhorses for most of the journey.
Initially their pace had been as rapid as possible in the dark of the night, but at dawn, when it seemed that any pursuit would be far behind, Alexander had slowed the pace to a walk.
Now, he turned his mount to face them. “We will rest here until dark,” he said.
Margaret was relieved. She was stiff, sore and exhausted—in fact, she was even more fatigued mentally than she was physically. Conversation had not been allowed. She had had hours in which to think.
She could not bring herself to feel genuinely dismayed over her abduction. But she remained terrified for Isabella. If she could, she still hoped to convince her not to participate in Bruce’s coronation.
She glanced at Isabella, who also appeared pale and exhausted, and they smiled grimly at one another. Margaret could not wait to dismount. She imagined Isabella felt the very same way.
Alexander had already leapt from his horse. Dughall was leading it away. He smiled at Isabella, striding to her. “How do ye fare, Countess?”
“I do not know if I can stand up,” she admitted. “My entire body hurts.”
He caught her around the waist and helped her down. When Isabella’s feet touched the ground she fell against him. Alexander righted her, but for a moment, Isabella was in his arms.
Margaret watched, feeling oddly annoyed, and her annoyance increased when Isabella smiled at him and murmured her thanks.
Margaret pretended to ignore them as Alexander led her toward a pallet recently put down; a tent was being erected for her. She slid from her horse with some difficulty, wincing. But Alexander caught her arm from behind. “If ye would wait, I would help ye down in turn.”
Margaret faced him, and then she pulled away. But his touch seemed to linger. His touch affected her as no other man’s could. She was so acutely aware of him now.
But hadn’t she been as aware of him all night? She had found herself staring at him as he led the way, time after time. And as frightening as the night was, there had been something reassuring about the broad set of his shoulders, the proud tilt of his head.
But she should not be reassured. Their disappearance had been remarked by now. Sir Ranald must be in hot pursuit. Word would have been sent to Buchan.
“You seemed occupied tending to Isabella,” she said, unsmiling.
“Are ye jealous? Because ye need not be, Margaret.”
“I do not wish to be jealous, Alexander, just as I do not want to have any care for you.” She then shrugged. Some feelings were simply impossible to control.
“But ye do care.” When she didn’t respond, he said, “Ye should eat and sleep. We’ll ride again at dark—through the entire night.”
His stare was unwavering, but she could not look away, for she had not seen him for so long. But she must rein in her affections. “There will be pursuit.”
“Do ye warn me?”
Was she warning him? “Sir Ranald is devoted to me.”
“Of course he is. I am prepared, Margaret. Six of my men ride far behind—if they discover pursuit, they will relay the news to me.”
“Is there any way that they can catch us?”