Chapter Fifteen.html
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THEY MADE CAMP along the pebbled shores of Loch Riddon, the high, rocky peaks of Cruach Nan Cuilean looming over them.
They had ridden without pause for two days and two nights.
The firs and pine crept almost to the shores of the loch itself, leaving a long but narrow clearing for Alexander’s men.
Margaret hugged herself, so exhausted she could barely stand, as Dughall and another lad erected Alexander’s tent at the forest’s edge.
Around her, his men were swiftly preparing for the night ahead.
She ignored the sight of so many tents and cook fires being prepared, so many horses being watered and fed, so many arrowheads and knives being sharpened. Instead, she stared at the mountain.
Sir Guy had attacked Castle Fyne.
Even now, her home was under siege.
She rubbed her forearms, the afternoon chilling.
Inwardly, she felt sick, as she had for the past two days.
The prospect of her home falling under Sir Guy’s control was terrifying.
She had finally realized she could not marry him, no matter how Buchan wished for the alliance, no matter how greatly it served the Comyn family.
But if it did fall, what would happen to her?
She knew she must worry over far greater matters than her own tiny future. But if Castle Fyne fell, Buchan would never release her from the impending union with Sir Guy.
She glanced across the encampment, where Alexander spoke with some of his best Highland soldiers. His expression had not changed since they had left Scone Abbey—it was set with determination. He would not lose Castle Fyne.
She did not want to think about what he had told her about his deceased wife now, but she did. He had become involved with her for revenge—he had said so. And he had gone to battle, not for his mistress, who would later become his wife, but for Glen Carron, the stronghold he wished to possess.
She was certain that Alexander cared for her. But if Castle Fyne fell, would he be as eager to take her to wife? Would he wish to take her to wife at all? After all, she was already his mistress, and she would bring nothing to their union!
But she might not even have that choice. She wished her last thoughts were not screaming at her, but they were. If Sir Guy conquered the castle, there would be so much pressure brought upon her to go forward with the marriage....
The shadows of the late afternoon were lengthening.
Alexander had dismissed his men, and he was starting toward her.
Margaret glanced up at Cruach Nan Cuilean, remembering the last time she had been within its reach.
She would never forget how Alexander had fought over her—and Castle Fyne—with Sir Guy then.
She would never forget how it had ended—in hatred, with threats.
Sir Guy had sworn to kill Alexander. Since then, his desire for vengeance had escalated.
Since then, his hatred had grown. And since that battle, Alexander had vowed to kill Sir Guy.
It had become a blood feud.
She was afraid of what might happen when they next met—perhaps tomorrow—on the battlefield.
Alexander’s tent now stood entirely aloft, his banner flying above it. As he approached, she felt her knees buckle.
He caught her, some alarm in his eyes. “I would never wish ye here!” he exclaimed. “Only Robert would think to send ye with me.”
“I am tired. Some rest and I will be fine,” she said, but it felt like a lie. She was so frightened about the morrow. She was so frightened about the entire future!
“I canna worry about ye now, Margaret, yet that is what I must do.” He released her grimly, his gaze veering past her, as if he wished to espy the enemy upon the horizon.
She studied him. His focus was on Sir Guy and Castle Fyne, not her. She said softly, “He plots to marry us, even with Castle Fyne under attack.”
He started, his gaze veering back to her. “’Tis in everyone’s better interest, Margaret, even yers.”
She would not argue that last point now. She did not know if he was right or wrong. But it was even more tempting now than before to accept his offer of marriage. If she did, no matter what happened next, she would be out of Sir Guy’s reach. Buchan could not force her into wedlock.
She thought about her mother, wishing she were alive to advise her.
“Ye should rest. Go lie down, Margaret, as I have a great deal to do.”
“How can I rest—when I am so worried?”
“I will turn the English back,” he said fiercely. “Sir Guy is a coward, and tomorrow, ye will see as much.”
Once again, she thought of how much the two men hated one another, and of the vows they had made.
“If only there were a way to negotiate!” she cried.
“If only there were a way to avoid all the bloodshed and death!” And if only there was a way to ensure that Alexander and Sir Guy did not come face-to-face. Yet that was unlikely, and she knew it.
“This is war. I must take Castle Fyne back.” His blue eyes had never been as hard, as dark.
She stared unhappily at him.
“Come, Margaret. We both ken ye dinna wish to marry him now. We both ken ye’d rather I win the keep.”
In that moment, she knew what her heart wished—it finally, truly wished for Alexander to defeat Sir Guy, for him to retake her castle! “Yes,” she whispered.
“Of all of us, ye ken how much Sir Guy lusts fer Castle Fyne. No matter the size of my army, he willna surrender now. There is nothing to negotiate,” Alexander added, his expression hard and set, his tone final. Then, “Yer dismayed. Why?”
“You always speak the truth.” She could not smile. “What if the battle does not go well?”
“It will go well.” He was even more adamant now. “I won Castle Fyne and it is mine. And I want ye, Margaret, as my wife. I will have both.”
She met his intent gaze. Just then, it was impossible to think he would not succeed in attaining his ambitions.
Alexander suddenly stiffened. Margaret realized that he was listening to the sounds of the impending night, and then she heard approaching hoofbeats. A rider was coming into their camp at a reckless gallop—but why?
Alexander’s expression changed and he turned toward the sound, as did Margaret. A horseman approached from the west. The direction of Castle Fyne.
“I sent my spies ahead this morning,” Alexander said tersely. He started toward the horseman, who was now trotting through the makeshift tents and standing men.
Margaret quickly followed Alexander, although she could not keep up with him. Padraig appeared from some other corner of the camp, as did several more of his most trusted Highlanders. She tried to increase her pace, now outdistanced, as Alexander reached up and seized the spy’s bridle.
She lifted her skirts and ran, staggering somewhat. By the time she reached the group of men, Alexander’s face was dark with anger. “What is it? What has happened?”
He slowly turned, his blue eyes aflame. “We’re too late.”
“What do you mean?” she cried.
“He breached the gates hours ago—Castle Fyne has fallen.”
Margaret felt as if she had been struck in the chest. Her mind began to race.
Sir Guy had Castle Fyne—finally. She trembled, suddenly ill.
Oh, God, now what should she do? She could not marry him, not for her family, and not even to get her legacy back!
But he had just positioned himself in such a manner that she might have no choice.
She flinched, tears arising, and met Alexander’s burning gaze.
“I will not let ye go to him.” His tone was hard, but controlled. It was a warning. “Ye will not return to Balvenie.”
She breathed hard. She didn’t want to go to Sir Guy! But did he deny her freedom now?
She rubbed her temples, trying to sort through this new, terrible crisis. “Will we now attempt a siege? You besieged the keep once—and you triumphed.”
It was a moment before he spoke. “We besieged the keep when there were but forty or fifty men within. Sir Guy has a huge army.”
His meaning dawned. “You will not attempt a siege?” She was disbelieving.
“There is no time,” he said, fists clenched.
“What do you mean?” she cried.
Alexander strode to her. “I was to defend the castle—and return to join Bruce. He needs me and my army in the north.”
“So you will turn your back on Castle Fyne? You will allow Sir Guy this triumph?”
“I allow nothing,” he said harshly. Then, “I had planned to attack his flank, Margaret, while he besieged the keep. But the garrison there fell too quickly. A siege now could take weeks—but more likely, it would take months—and Bruce does not have weeks or months. As soon as word of his coronation spreads, King Edward will send forth every single man he can muster. The war for Scotland’s crown begins. ”
She hugged herself, still in disbelief. God, Buchan would put her under terrible pressure to marry Sir Guy. And all while Alexander fought with Bruce to keep Scotland’s crown! And where would she now go? To Queen Elisabeth’s court?
“There is more.”
Alexander had spoken so tersely that she cringed. Margaret dared to look up at him, knowing whatever he meant to reveal it would not be in their better interest.
“Yer brother was wounded in the siege.”
She gasped. “William was hurt?”
“Aye.”
Margaret began to shake. William had been wounded. Her only living brother, whom she had not seen in over a month.... Fear clawed at her. “Oh, God—how badly is he hurt?”
“Badly.”
She could not move, and for a moment, she could not speak. Then, “Is he dying?”
Alexander grimaced.
She hit him, hard, across his huge forearm, and pain shot through her hand. “Tell me!” she screamed. “Is he dying?”
“I dinna ken,” he shouted back, a roar. “But he is badly wounded, so aye, he could die, there is that chance!”
She hit him again, but weakly, and this time, she was crying.
But she knew what she must do—what her duty was now. Then the words came forth, unbidden. “I am going to him.”