Chapter Sixteen.html #2
And then he looked at her, once. The look was hard and ugly—he would return. He leapt from the bed and strode across the chamber. And then he was gone.
For one more moment, Margaret still could not move.
And then her thoughts began. She had been given a respite—and it was the miracle she had prayed for.
Margaret leapt forward, seizing and shrugging on the leine as rapidly as possible. And then, about to run for the door, she collapsed by the wall, tears blinding her. She began to shake, wildly, uncontrollably. And she began to retch.
He had meant to rape her.
She gasped and gagged, hugging herself, in a ball, on the floor.
* * *
WHEN WILLIAM’S FEVER broke, it was dawn.
Margaret was disbelieving as she clasped his damp, cool brow. For until that moment, he had been burning up with a raging fever. But he was suddenly cool now—the fever was gone.
Was it another miracle?
Silently, she closed her eyes and thanked God.
When she opened them, she saw her brother, resting peacefully.
Pale morning light was streaming into the chamber.
She had been sitting with him ever since she had left Sir Guy’s chamber—when Aymer’s messenger had arrived.
She had spent the past few hours keeping compresses with icy lake water on his body, forcing him to drink, and alternately begging him to get better.
Doing so had made it easier for her not to think about what Sir Guy had tried to do—or what he might try to do another time.
Now, she grasped her brother’s damp, cool hand, hard. “Will! You have beaten the fever!” She raised it to her mouth and kissed it.
His lashes lifted and fell.
She leaned close and kissed his temple. “It is I, Margaret. You have been ill with fever—fighting an infection. We are at Castle Fyne.”
Will’s lashes rose again, and this time, blearily and without focus, he looked at her. “Meg?”
Before she could respond, she heard the door open. She stiffened, not turning as her stomach roiled, as dread consumed her, as fear laid its icy claws upon her.
Sir Guy said, “He will live?”
She inhaled, summoning up all of the strength and courage she had. Determined to pretend their previous encounter had not happened, she turned to him. “Yes, I believe so.”
His gaze moved over her before he glanced at William briefly. He was unshaven and bleary of eye; clearly, he had been up all night, also. “King Edward has appointed my brother Lord Lieutenant of Scotland.”
Margaret stared, keeping her expression blank.
There had been talk of Aymer de Valence being given command of Scotland for months.
She did not know how it affected her, Alexander or the war against Bruce, but it certainly gave Sir Guy great power.
Had he been called away? How she hoped so. How she prayed it was so!
“Why are you not pleased? My brother now the might of England here! I will become one of the most powerful lords in Scotland, Margaret. You will become one of its reigning ladies.”
They would never be man and wife, not if she could help it. “Then this is a fortunate turn.”
“It is very fortunate—but not unexpected. Aymer is one of King Edward’s favorites—as he should be. Bruce cannot go up against my brother and win.”
Margaret stared expressionlessly—she wanted nothing more than to have Robert Bruce defeat Aymer—and Sir Guy.
Her loyalties had changed. There was no further doubt now.
The English were the enemy; Sir Guy was the enemy.
Her tension escalated impossibly at the realization.
Sir Guy glanced briefly at William again, who was watching them both as he listened to their conversation. “I must take my army back to Berwick to join my brother and his forces there. But when you are well enough, I imagine you will wish to return to Balvenie, or join us in this war.”
She trembled, praying for another miracle—his immediate departure.
Will nodded. “I long to fight Bruce, with the rest of my family.”
Margaret managed to remain impassive, but inwardly, she cringed. So swiftly, they were on opposite sides of the war, as he had feared—as she had feared.
Sir Guy now stared at her. “Bruce sent his wife and her women to Aberdeen. King Edward wants them captured. Aymer has offered me the task.”
Alarm flooded her, and she feared it was evident. “Is it possible to capture them? They must be well guarded.”
“I have heard they are not well guarded—that they are in the care of Bruce’s brother, Sir Nigel, and a handful of his best men. Are you now fond of Elisabeth de Burgh?”
She wondered if she could send word to Queen Elisabeth, and warn her that Aymer de Valence wished to capture her and her ladies-in-waiting. “I have barely said a word to her—and she has barely said a word to me.”
“Ah, yes,” he mocked. “You fear for Isabella.”
She hadn’t given Isabella a thought until then, but she imagined her fate would be dire if the queen and her women were captured. She decided not to speak.
“We have matters to discuss before I leave,” Sir Guy said. “I will speak with you downstairs.” He nodded curtly, spun on booted heel and left.
Margaret’s shaking increased. He wished to speak with her downstairs?
He hadn’t summoned her to the adjacent chamber. Dear God, was she being given another respite? Relief began to flood her. Moisture gathered in her eyes. Images flashed of that brutal encounter. But now was not the time to think about it.
“You are afraid of him!” Will cried weakly.
She looked at Will and nodded. And she did not think she should confide in William about what had happened—not because he was weak, but because he would be enraged.
“I knew you should not marry an Englishman! But what has happened—does he dislike you, too?”
She leaned over him. “Do not bother yourself now! You are too weak to become impassioned.”
Will panted and said, “At least he got Castle Fyne back for us.”
Did she dare tell him about her relationship with Alexander? Did she dare share her feelings? Was Alexander right? Would he approve of their union?
“Are you going to marry him, Meg? Is the marriage still planned?” Will asked feebly.
She stroked his hair. “I am supposed to marry him, but I cannot. Even if it means losing Castle Fyne, I cannot marry him—I despise him.” She felt ill again—enough so to use the chamber pot.
Will stared widely in surprise. “Is he that horrid?”
“I do not like him, and I never have.” She paused, tears filling her eyes. How she needed Will’s support, his blessing. “I love someone else.” And it was true. But hadn’t she known on some level, for some time, that she loved Alexander?
She did not know when she had come to love him.
Perhaps it had been at Balvenie, when he had come for her and Isabella in the middle of the night.
Or maybe it had been the morning after the first night they had made love, when they had met in his hall, and each had admitted to not having a single regret.
But he had been so disappointed and so angry when she had left him to attend William. Was he angry, still? Surely he would forgive her eventually, and understand why she had gone to Castle Fyne.
But now what? She looked at William, who was stunned. “You have fallen in love? In such a short time?”
“Yes. I wish to marry someone else.”
And dear God, it was true. Her heart leapt with excitement now.
She wished to marry Alexander. Even though it meant changing sides in this war—she had already changed sides!
—and it meant giving up every loyalty she had lived with for her entire life.
The time had come to choose. Sir Guy had made that very clear.
“Who has claimed your heart?” Will asked harshly.
It was a moment before she spoke, fearful of his response, yet praying he would approve. “Alexander MacDonald.”
Will choked in disbelief. “Meg? Is this a jest?” When she did not speak, when she sat stiffly, staring, he flushed with anger. “Are you mad? He is not just our blood enemy—he does not just have MacDougall blood on his hands—he rides with Bruce, in a war against us. Against me—against you!”
She trembled. “Bruce is king, Will. He was crowned a few days ago at Scone.”
Will sat up, as white as snow. “And he will be hanged as the traitor he is! You have lost your wits! We are fighting Bruce, Meg—we are, you and I!”
“Did you not once say that any Scot, even Bruce, would be a better king for Scotland than King Edward?”
“You dare to argue?” He now collapsed against the pillows, panting.
“You are tiring yourself!” she cried. She quickly placed a linen compress in the icy lake water, and laid it on his forehead. “You will become ill again. Please, we should not discuss this, now.”
“Does Buchan know? Of course he does not!” Now, his eyes closed.
She decided not to answer, but it was very clear—Will was not about to approve of her feelings for Alexander, and he was not going to bless a marriage between them.
“I am sorry,” Margaret whispered, choking.
But Will was now asleep.
* * *
WHEN MARGARET ENTERED the hall, she saw that Sir Guy was immersed in a deep conversation with three of his men, and she overheard them discussing the transportation of three siege engines.
She folded her arms, standing by the threshold, trembling.
She could not have a natural reaction to him; she remained utterly afraid of Sir Guy.
“Where is Bruce now?” one of his knights asked him.
“He is on his way to Dundee, and that will be a lengthy battle.” Sir Guy turned, having become aware of her.
Margaret stared back at him, aware of how ill she felt. But she dismissed the terrible, haunting sensation. In the heat of their struggle, she had lost all discipline, shouting her true feelings about their marriage to him. Now, they were serious rivals.