Chapter Eighteen.html #3
She wondered if he considered being hanged—or drawn and quartered—for the crime of treason a warrior’s death.
And Bruce’s army had been reduced to a few hundred men.
The English army numbered thousands. “Will Bruce ever give up? Does he truly believe he can somehow defeat King Edward? If he loses this war, he will be hanged—and his allies will hang, too!”
“Bruce will never surrender—he is Scotland’s king.
” He gave her a hard look. “I am not afraid to die, Margaret, but I also intend to live. And Bruce intends to raise a new army with my brother’s support.
He will hide from the English until we are strong again, until we can fight back.
I doubt we will see more fighting until next spring.
Sometimes a battle is lost, Margaret, before the war is won. ”
She shivered. This war would last for years, she thought in dismay, and when it ended, so many would be dead. Alexander somehow believed the cause was not lost. If only she could believe that, too.
He suddenly pulled her close. “We may have a few days or a few weeks here. I dinna wish to argue. I wish to hold ye—while I can.”
* * *
SUMMER HAD SETTLED over northern Scotland in all her glory.
Each day brought blue skies filled with puffy white clouds and bright sunshine. Birds sang merrily from treetops, hawks soared above the encampment, Bruce’s men repaired their weaponry, played mock war games, fished and hunted, and wenched amongst the village women.
It was as if the war for Scotland did not exist.
Margaret resolved to cherish every moment of the strange respite they were being given, well aware that at any time, Bruce’s emissaries would return from Norway, and she and the queen’s court would be sent to the Orkney Islands.
They had so much leisure time now. Alexander took her swimming, taught her to use a bow with better accuracy, gifted her with a small dagger, and took her for long rides in the forest, where they made love to the sound of scurrying squirrels and merry blue jays.
At night they retired to their respective tents, he with the men, she with the women.
And as pleasant as the summer was, everyone knew it was only a matter of time before they must flee King Edward’s armies again.
Margaret dreaded the impending separation, but did not speak of it.
For the first time since arriving at Aberdeen, the skies were gray, threatening a summer storm.
Alexander had indicated they would take their usual afternoon ride, and she hurried through the camp to meet him.
As she turned past one tent at the end of the camp, the forest a short distance ahead, she came face-to-face with Marjorie and Atholl.
The earl had his arm around his wife’s waist, and clearly, they had come from a tryst of their own in the forest. Margaret smiled at the couple. “Have you seen Alexander?”
“No, we have not,” Atholl answered. “It is going to rain, Margaret, and I wouldn’t go into the forest if I were you.”
She happened to agree, so she joined them as they started back into the encampment. At that moment, a deer leapt out of the forest, directly in front of them, and then it streaked away across the road.
Atholl seized his wife’s arm just as thundering hoofbeats could be heard. He then grabbed Margaret, pulling both women back off of the deer path, as a rider galloped out of the woods.
He raced past them, a man in Highland garb, his horse covered in foam and sweat.
For one moment, they just stood there, watching as the rider galloped his mount into the camp at a breakneck speed.
“News,” Atholl said, and he began to run.
Margaret and Marjorie ran after him, Margaret’s mind racing. A messenger had come. The summer was over. The war had come.
They ran hard through the outskirts of the camp, which was oddly vacant—everyone had rushed toward Bruce’s tent to find out what tidings the rider was bringing. Margaret thought her lungs would burst. She prayed the news held some tiny seed of hope.
Finally they could see Robert Bruce standing with the rider, who remained astride his blowing mount. Most of the court had gathered in a circle around the king and the messenger, including the queen, Bruce’s brothers and sisters, his closest nobles, Isabella and Alexander.
Margaret and Marjorie slowed to a staggering walk, clutching one another for support, breathing too hard to speak. But neither took her gaze from Bruce and his entourage.
The rider finally ceased his diatribe and slid from his horse. Bruce simply stood there, stiff with tension, unmoving.
“Oh, God,” Margaret finally whispered, still out of breath. The news was as bad as she had expected.
Alexander suddenly saw her. They rushed to one another. “What is it? What has happened?” she cried.
He caught her by her shoulders. “Aymer de Valence is in the north—he knows where we are and is two days’ march from us.”
“How is that possible?” Was Sir Guy with him? Of course he was!
“Some of our scouts were captured, tortured and hanged.”
Margaret stared into his eyes and saw how worried Alexander was. “What will happen now? What will we do?”
“I dinna ken. But we must plan and we must do so swiftly.”
He had hardly finished speaking when a woman’s scream rent the afternoon. It was a scream of protest and anguish, a wail unlike any other. Margaret’s gaze flew past Alexander.
Christina Seton was on her knees before Robert Bruce, screaming in protest and sorrow. Bruce dropped down to his knees and pulled her into his arms. She screamed again, pummeling him repeatedly.
Margaret felt tears flood her eyes as she gazed up at Alexander. He put his arm around her. “Sir Christopher was captured and hanged.”
* * *
SHE HAD LEARNED to hate the forest.
Margaret sat her mare in single file now, as Bruce’s court and his army traversed a narrow ravine in Dalry.
The king and his soldiers led the cavalcade at a walk, the queen and her women following.
Behind them were more knights, and behind them, the foot soldiers.
There were no wagons, no supply carts. They had fled Aberdeen with what could be carried by hand, or upon one’s back.
The morning was shockingly silent. No birds chirped from the pines on the slopes of the gully, no squirrels raced through the trees.
No one spoke—it was not allowed. The only sounds being made were the steady clip-clop of their horses’ hooves, the jangle of their bridles, the creak of their saddles.
She had come to hate the silence, too—she feared it.
Had the enemy finally caught up to them, and was it lying in wait, around the next bend? Or was it Bruce’s own men and women who had chased the wildlife away?
She had lost count of the days that they had been traveling through the forest. She had lost count of the nights.
She slept in Alexander’s arms, but sleep had become impossible.
Beneath the open stars, they listened for the same sounds of pursuit among each and every sound of the night, when the forest came alive.
Brush whispered, leaves sighed, owls hooted, wolves howled.
... At night, it would be almost impossible to discern an enemy that was stalking them.
For how long could they go on this way?
Bruce believed he could elude the English and find sanctuary in Argyll—upon MacDonald lands. They were in Argyll now. But they were not on lands belonging to the king of the isles—they were on MacDougall lands.
Margaret did not want to think about Alexander MacDougall of Argyll, her mother’s brother, now.
But she did. He had never responded to her single plea for aid last February, after Alexander had besieged Castle Fyne.
He was at war with Bruce and he was at war with Alexander.
She could not wait till they had crossed his lands.
Her glance wandered to Christina, who remained deeply in grief. She rode with her head bowed, which she never lifted, her entire body hunched over. From time to time, she wept. Christina was so anguished that she had not spoken more than a syllable since they had left Aberdeen.
Margaret knew she would be as inconsolable, should anything happen to Alexander. But maybe there was hope. Maybe they would somehow arrive safely at a MacDonald stronghold....
Suddenly, Highland war cries rent the day.
Margaret halted her horse as arrows whizzed from the treetops above the ravine, as soldiers leapt down from the trees and rocks above them, as knights began charging down the precarious sides of the gulch.
In front of her, a horse screamed, struck by an arrow, and collapsed.
She realized in horror that Marjorie was astride it!
But before she could cry out, battles began between Bruce’s men and the attackers, up and down the column, throughout the ravine.
Screams sounded, both the screams of horses and men.
In horror, she saw several of their knights falling from their mounts, slain by Aymer’s archers.
In panic, she prepared to flee, except the ravine was narrow—and there was nowhere to flee to!
A man seized her, pulling her from her mount. Terror gave way to relief when she slid into Alexander’s arms.
He dragged her across the ravine, through the fighting men, the wheeling horses, the bodies already strewn about, and shoved her into a crevice between several boulders. “Marjorie!” she cried.
“Stay here,” he ordered, and then he whirled and ran into the melee.
Margaret watched him swiftly engage an English knight, exchange blows and expertly knock the man’s sword from him.
He pulled the knight from his horse and thrust his sword into his enemy’s chest. He then leapt astride the English charger and turned to face his next opponent, sword raised.
He moved with such practiced grace and speed it seemed a blur.