Chapter Sixteen.html #3
Her mind raced. If he believed her in opposition to their marriage, she would be held a prisoner, certainly.
She might be held prisoner anyway. No matter what, no good would come of her having disclosed the truth of how she felt and what she wanted.
She must somehow convince Sir Guy that she would meekly obey him, even if she did not mean it.
Sir Guy was staring at her. Not looking at his men, he said, “These matters can wait. Leave us.”
The three knights turned and hurried out, leaving them very much alone in the great hall. Somehow she asked, “When are you leaving?”
“As soon as we can, within hours, or less,” he said, starting toward her. He paused before her. “How that must please you.”
She did not reply and she did not allow her facial muscles to move.
He smiled unpleasantly at her. “I am leaving a very strong garrison here. But MacDonald will not attack—if that is your hope. He is with Bruce now. Castle Fyne remains ours.”
She fought to keep her expression unchanged as she prayed to God to keep Alexander safe. And it did not escape her attention that Sir Guy had referred to the stronghold as theirs. “I hardly wish for Castle Fyne to be attacked another time.”
“Then, finally, I am pleased with you,” he said.
She had her opening. “I am also sorry to have displeased you.”
“Really?” His single word was a challenge. “I am a knight, and when called to battle, I go,” he said harshly. “But I will return here as soon as I can, to finish this consummation. And Margaret? I will write Buchan immediately.”
Of course he would. Perhaps she could get her own missive to him, defending herself, and begging him to support her decision to abandon his plans for her marriage to Sir Guy. If Buchan could be dissuaded from their union, it would change everything! But she knew that was not likely.
“You are a mere woman. You do not get to choose whom you will wed, or whom not to wed.” His gaze narrowed. “While I am gone, you should think about our upcoming nuptials, and what serves you best when I return. Fighting me is not in your better interest.”
“I know I do not get to choose my husband, nor do I get to refuse a husband. And I regret losing my temper, Sir Guy, but you frightened me terribly.”
“So the fault is mine?”
“Of course not.” Carefully, she said, “Sir Guy, I became frightened last night. I have been expecting a June wedding. And I am also afraid that we do not suit—that I continually displease you. I lost all reason. I wish to apologize.”
He made a harsh, disparaging sound. “I have always thought you clever—too clever. Do you think to convince me that you are not opposed to our marriage? You will have to do better. You will have to change your nature, and your ways. And Margaret? If you are being insincere, know this—what you wish doesn’t matter.
We will marry, either here, in a handfast, or in June. ”
She somehow nodded.
“At least you are obedient today.” His stare hardened. “I hope you are sincere. It is claimed that you are an honorable woman. If so, you will do your duty, cease your disputes, and gladly.”
“I am a woman of honor.”
He seemed skeptical, still. “Time will tell. In the meantime, you will remain here, behind these stout walls, where you will be safe. You remain a valuable prize to MacDonald, to Bruce—and to me.” With that, he turned and strode across the hall and left.
Margaret heard him calling to several men. Slowly, she walked over to the table, and there she sank down.
In a few more hours he would be gone. She could not wait.
* * *
THE ENTIRE CASTLE was asleep. Alone, Margaret sat at the table in the great hall, one taper burning. She dipped her quill in the ink and wrote upon the vellum spread out before her.
April 15, 1306
My dearest friend Isabella,
I am safely arrived at Castle Fyne, attending to my brother.
William was wounded when Sir Guy attacked the stronghold, but he is out of danger now.
Sir Guy has ordered me to remain here, while he marches to Berwick to join his brother, Aymer.
He has left a strong garrison behind, leaving us secure and defensible.
Soon William will be well enough to return to Balvenie. I am to await Sir Guy’s return.
Margaret thought she heard a footfall and she froze, listening.
Sir Guy would never allow her to write to Isabella.
But Marsaili would smuggle the letter from the keep to the village below the castle, on Loch Fyne’s shores.
There, one of the villagers would be well paid to forward the letter to another courier, in another village, and eventually, the letter would arrive in Aberdeen.
Without a single messenger, it was a painstaking way to get her message to Isabella, and there was always the possibility that Isabella and the queen and her court would be gone by the time the missive arrived.
Still, there was no simple way to send the letter, not when she was writing to her friend who was behind enemy lines.
And there was always the chance that her missive would be intercepted.
Margaret knew she must be careful about what she said and how she said it.
She wished to warn the queen that Aymer had been instructed to send his men to capture them, and she also wished to inquire after Alexander. She continued.
I am praying you are well and safe, in a time of war and intrigue, when spies are everywhere, when even women can be pursued as outlaws. Have you become friendly with any of the women you are with? Could you give my regards to Elisabeth?
She did not dare refer to her as the queen, and she doubted Isabella would understand the message she was trying to convey. She could only hope that her friend allowed the queen to read the letter.
I am isolated now and I should like any news that you could possibly send. We have no war news now, no news of friends or family, making these times even more difficult. I can only pray for us all.
Your dear friend,
Margaret Comyn
“To whom are you writing?”
Margaret leapt up, knocking over the ink, but fortunately, she did not damage the letter. She stared in shock at William.
Ten days had passed since Sir Guy had left Castle Fyne. William had been improving on a daily basis, but this was the first time he had walked any distance, much less on his own. “How did you get downstairs?” she cried.
He smiled. “As one usually does.” He was leaning on a cane. “I am much better, Meg.” His eyes were bright. “In a few more days, I will be well enough to go home. Well?”
She had no intention of lying to her brother. “I am writing to Isabella.”
His smile vanished. “She is a damned harlot—the damned enemy!”
By now, William knew that she and Isabella had left Balvenie in the middle of the night and that they had been at Bruce’s coronation—and that Isabella had participated in the ceremony. He had heard the gossip about her affair with Bruce, too.
He was a Comyn first, and in an instant, his affection for her had turned to animosity. “How can you write to her?” he asked, rather coldly.
“She remains my friend,” Margaret said.
His stare hardened and he limped over to the table.
“Will you now read my privy correspondences?” she asked.
He jerked to look at her. “I suppose not. I am your older brother, Meg, and I could forbid you from writing to her. We both know that neither Buchan nor Sir Guy would allow it.”
“I am not a lackey to be bullied about,” she said tartly. Then she softened. “Will. Poor Isabella. She has ruined her life. I am her friend. She needs me!”
He sighed. “She is a fool as well as a strumpet.”
“Will!”
“It’s the truth.” Then his stare became searching. “Is that the only letter you are writing?”
“I already wrote Buchan.” She had written their uncle the day Sir Guy had left—and not just to defend Isabella.
She had asked him if she could return to Balvenie with William.
Remaining at Castle Fyne, awaiting—and dreading—Sir Guy’s return, was impossible.
And once there, she would reveal that she could no longer marry Sir Guy—and perhaps, she might even reveal why.
And once at Balvenie, she would be somewhat free of Sir Guy—she would not be his prisoner—and she would be so much closer to the war...and to Alexander.
Buchan had not yet replied. But she had heard rumors of the war. Bruce was in the north, causing havoc. He had attacked Dundee, and then gone on to besiege a series of castles near Banff. He was taking hostages, holding up merchants and demanding excessive ransoms—mostly to finance his war.
And one of her uncles was a victim. The Earl of Strathearn had refused to levy men for him. Bruce and Atholl had thus captured him.
* * *
HER brOTHER WAS now studying her. “There is one subject that has not arisen since I have become well,” he finally said.
She froze in alarm. He had not asked her about Alexander, not a single time, and she had thought he had not remembered their conversation, as he had been so ill when they had spoken.
Now, she had the uncanny feeling he was about to raise the very subject. “Do you really wish to converse now, at midnight?”
He came forward, sitting down awkwardly on the bench by the table. “Yes, I do, as I have been in bed far too much these past weeks. You know, Meg, I have not been able to decide if I dreamed this very strange conversation I keep recalling.”
He did remember, she thought grimly. Margaret sat back down, picked up the vellum and blew carefully on it.
He caught her wrist. “Why do you hate and fear Sir Guy? What happened?”
Though she was relieved he was not asking about Alexander, that ill feeling instantly returned. Since Sir Guy had left, she had refused to think about that violent encounter. She refused to do so now. “You don’t like him, either, and you never have. He is English. It is that simple.”
His smile was self-deprecating. “But we need him now. We need the damned English now. We must defeat Bruce.”
Why? She wanted to ask. Would Robert Bruce be such a terrible king? But she refrained. For she knew his answer. Bruce hated the Comyn family. His gain would be their reversal.
“Did you tell me that you were in love?” William asked seriously. “Did I really have such a conversation with you?”
So he recalled it, after all. She wished she could lie to him and deny it. But she could not; Margaret nodded.
He began shaking his head. “MacDonald? Our blood enemy?”
“Our aunt Juliana married Alexander’s brother,” Margaret said.
He was dismayed. “You are not Juliana! He rides with Bruce!”
“I know. Do you think I wanted to fall in love with him?” She reached out and took his hand, gripping it tightly. “He attacked my castle. He took it from me. He held me prisoner. Of course I did not want to fall in love with him!” Margaret cried.
Her brother simply stared.
“He is a great warrior, William, and a courageous and honorable man.”
His eyes were wide. “You truly are in love.”
She nodded, then felt herself flushing. “I came here because I was afraid you would die. But I am in danger, Will. I am in danger from Sir Guy, if he ever learns the truth.”
William blanched. “You have slept with him.”
She nodded. “I love him and we were lovers.”
A terrible expression filled his face. “You betrayed Sir Guy, Meg—and you have betrayed Buchan!”
“I never meant to be disloyal. I am a Comyn woman. I am proud of it! I fought my feelings, I truly did.”
“Maybe Sir Guy will never know,” William began. “You could deceive him.”
Margaret stood up slowly. “Others know.”
Will also stood, forgetting to use his cane. “What?”
She wet her lips. “Isabella knows. Some of his men know. Atholl knows.”
Will’s expression was ghastly. “Then the whole land will know!”
“I am afraid,” she finally said, and it was a long overdue confession.
William grimaced, composing himself. “What do you intend?” He caught the edge of the table to balance himself. “You cannot remain here. When Sir Guy finds out you have been unfaithful, he will hurt you—or kill you.”
Margaret stared. “I asked Buchan if I could go to Balvenie with you—but I want to return to Alexander.”
William was disbelieving. “You would leave us.”
“No. Not entirely. I am a Comyn—I will always be your sister.”
His eyes had become moist. “And when you marry him? You will marry him?”
“If he will have me...but I will still be your sister!”
“No. You will be his wife, and we will be at war,” her brother said. “But I will help you—God help me.”