Brenda Joyce (20 page)

Despair immobilized her. She almost felt like crying. Instead, she lifted her face to the cool night air.

“I hope you are thinking about me.”

She had been so immersed in her anguished thoughts, that she had not heard Sir Guy approaching. Slowly, with dread, she turned. “I did not hear you come up the stairs.”

He smiled at her, pausing beside her. “I am a soldier, Lady Margaret. If I cannot steal silently upon you, how could I ever surprise the enemy?” His gray gaze slid over her slowly.

Margaret hugged her wool mantle more closely to her body.

“Are you cold?” He reached for her shoulders.

Margaret tensed. His hands covered her shoulders, slid down her arms, and adjusted the mantle for her.

Her body was now entirely in a coil. She did not like this man’s touch.

He dropped his hands. “You fear me,” he said softly.

She said slowly, “We are strangers.”

“It is not the same.” He slid the tip of his finger along her jaw. “You are so beautiful. I am pleased.”

She stood very still, otherwise, she would flinch and pull away. “It is late,” she said.

“Is it?” He trailed his finger lightly down the side of her neck. “You are only seventeen. In a way, you are so young. But most women are married well before such an age...by now, most women are well versed in their relations with men.”

“But not I.” She finally stepped backward, but into the wall.

“You have made me wonder,” he said.

She almost choked. Did she dare lie monstrously now? “My lord?”

“Sometimes I look at you and I see a woman with experience far beyond her years. Other times, I think you are so innocent, and so ripe for the plucking.”

She knew she must end this encounter. “I do not know why you see me in two such different ways. Sir Guy? It is late. I am tired, you must be tired, too. We should bid one another adieu.”

He smiled. “But I am leaving in the morning, Lady Margaret. We might not see one another for some time—or even until our wedding in June. And I am enjoying being with you.”

He would leave tomorrow. Her relief made her knees buckle.

He caught her by seizing both of her arms, pulling her close. “I have been waiting for a kiss all day.”

She wanted to deny him, but she knew she could not.

Sir Guy pulled her against his lean body and claimed her mouth instantly.

Margaret felt tears arise. She did not move. She let him ply her lips with his, let him increase the pressure until his kiss became hard and hungry. Only then did she push at him. “Stop.”

“Why?” He broke the kiss, breathing hard. “Let’s go into your chamber, Lady Margaret. Lie with me. We will handfast tonight.”

She cried out. “My uncle has arranged an English wedding—in a church!”

“But I do not wish to wait.” He caught her face in his hands. “If you consent and take me to bed, the deed is done.”

She opened her mouth to tell him no, but could not speak, for he kissed her again.

Fury began. Margaret hit his shoulders, once and then twice. He straightened, eyes wide. “You are fighting me?”

“We are not married yet!” She wrenched away, ducked under his arm and moved a great distance away.

He was incredulous. “What difference does it make, if we handfast tonight or marry in June?”

“If my uncle wanted us married today, he would have arranged it!”

“So you are loyal? Or are you afraid? Are you afraid of lovemaking?”

Margaret’s mind raced. “I will not betray my uncle. I am his ward. I will do as he wishes.”

Sir Guy began to smile. “If you will be as dutiful to me, I will be a very pleased husband.”

Margaret trembled. “It is time to say good-night, Sir Guy.”

He approached her in two strides, clasping her shoulders and pulling her close to kiss her soundly again. “I will forgive you your disloyalty now, as you should be loyal to Buchan. But now I expect the same fervor after we are wed.” He caressed her cheek. “Good night, Margaret.” Turning, his strides now hurried, he vanished down the stairs.

Margaret ran into her room, slammed the door and bolted it. She sank onto her bed, tears beginning. What was she going to do?

She knew the truth now. She feared Sir Guy—and she despised him.

CHAPTER TWELVE

M
ARGARET
HAD
BEEN
summoned to her uncle in the great hall. She was worried as she traversed the castle. She could not imagine what he wished with her.

Suddenly Isabella appeared, falling into step with her. “Where do you go?” Isabella asked. “My husband has said he wishes to speak with me, immediately.”

Margaret faltered. “He has also summoned me.”

Isabella seemed alarmed. “He knows. There are spies everywhere. The first day we spoke, someone spied upon us!”

Margaret took her arm and tried to calm her. “Isabella, if he had heard about our conversation, he would have confronted you the day he returned. He would have confronted me.” And Buchan had been in residence for five days—it was the eighteenth of March. Sir Guy had left for Berwick four days ago.

At Berwick he would rejoin his army, and then join his brother, Aymer, as they sought to engage Bruce and defeat him. By now, the world knew that Bruce raced across Scotland, seizing what castles he could, subduing what enemies he could, in defiance of King Edward, his ambition to become Scotland’s king.

There were so many rumors now, so many tales, and in them all, Bruce was becoming a hero. The small keeps he threatened refused to rise up against him—instead, they opened their doors to him. Soldiers and knights were joining his army everywhere. He was, it was said, being happily greeted in every village he passed through. Farmers and fishermen were provisioning his growing army. Women with their children now followed him, as if he were a great piper.

King Edward was furious. His chamberlain had ordered Bruce to cease and desist. He had ordered Bruce to surrender. But Bruce had refused.

“I hope you are right,” Isabella now said tersely. “But what would he want with us both?”

“We will soon find out,” Margaret said. There were other rumors, too. Angus Og MacDonald was now actively aiding Bruce. But there was not one word whispered about Alexander.

Margaret knew she must, finally, ask about him. Was he with Bruce, still? Or did he go to war for Bruce on some tangential path? Had he even returned to Castle Fyne?

By now, he would know of her escape. It had been almost two weeks. She could not imagine his reaction to the news that she had left Castle Fyne—the morning after they had shared such passion.

Buchan was waiting for them in the great hall, standing before one hearth with two of his most trusted knights, whom he instantly dismissed. Margaret smiled hesitantly at him. “We are very curious, my lord, as to why you wish to speak to us.”

“You must pack your trunks,” he said, smiling. “We go to the shire of Aberdeen.”

Margaret started. “May I ask what passes?”

“Of course you may. I am meeting with Sir John Mowbray, Sir Ingram de Umfraville, and the earls of Menteith and Atholl.”

Margaret stared, her mind racing. Hadn’t Bruce mentioned that her uncle had met with Mowbray and Umfraville already, in Liddesdale? Her uncle was going to Aberdeenshire to continue to plot against Bruce; of that, she had no doubt. And she would be going with him.

She was thrilled. She did not know why he wished for her to join him, but did it matter? There, she would hear so much more news of the war. There, she might learn of Alexander.

“You wish for me to go, as well?” Isabella asked, eyes wide.

“I always prefer you at my side, sweetheart,” Buchan said. “But in truth, my dear friends know that Margaret was MacDonald’s prisoner, and that she met Bruce when he stayed overnight at Castle Fyne. They wish to speak directly with her.” He glanced at Margaret, still smiling.

Instantly Margaret felt some alarm. Mowbray was warden of the Scot marches, Umfraville a great baron renowned for the decades he had spent warring against England. Menteith had just refused to surrender Dumbarton—and Bruce had decided to move on. The Earl of Atholl had fought the English for most of his life. She knew him well.

All of these men were powerful forces, not to be lightly reckoned with.

She was to impart whatever knowledge she had of Bruce and his plans to these men. Of that, she had no doubt.

She had yet to reveal that the coronation might be in seven more days. She knew her omission was treachery, and she was afraid that if she made one false move, one of these men would suspect her.

“I wish for you to accompany Margaret, actually,” Buchan said to Isabella. “But we will not be gone long. It is a day to the Peel of Strathbogie.”

Peels were specially erected dirt fortifications, layered over the castle’s walls, and Strathbogie was Atholl’s seat. It had been fortified as a peel.

Isabella smiled, but so falsely that Margaret knew she did not wish to accompany them. “Whatever you wish, my lord,” she said sweetly. She turned to Margaret. “Shall we pack?”

Margaret hesitated. “I’ll join you shortly. I’d like to ask Uncle John about Castle Fyne.”

Isabella nodded and left. Buchan said, “Nothing has changed, Margaret. I have yet to receive word about your brother. MacDonald has not returned, nor will he, I think. He remains with Bruce—they have just crossed the River Forth. Of course, you probably wish to know that Sir Guy has now left Berwick with a force of two thousand men. He means to meet Bruce head-on, with Aymer planning to outflank him. He will be trapped, sooner or later—you may be sure of it.”

Alexander remained with Bruce, she thought. Surely they knew about the great English army attempting to engage them—hoping to destroy them.

“What is it? I can see you wish to ask me something.”

“Have you heard how MacDonald reacted when he learned of my escape? I am worried he was enraged—that he will eventually take his wrath out on the people of Castle Fyne, or upon my brother.”

“I heard he said not a word. I heard he was stone-faced. However, he had to have been surprised that a small woman like yourself could outwit him.”

What did such an impassive reaction mean? Was it possible that he had not cared?

She was taken aback. She thought about Alexander a bit too much after spending the night with him, and she had assumed he was thinking about her, too. But now, she worried that he had forgotten the time they had shared together. Was it possible? She had so often gotten the impression that he cared about her, at least somewhat. But if he had not cared about her escape, did that mean that she had been entirely wrong?

“Is something amiss?” her uncle asked.

She quickly smiled. “No, of course not. But I do yearn to hear that Will is fine.”

“As do I,” her uncle said. “Is there anything else you wish to discuss?”

She should raise the subject of her marriage to Sir Guy. No opportunity could be better. Instead, she inhaled and smiled. “No, of course not.”

* * *

A
LTHOUGH
THE
ROADS
were muddy from the spring thaw, the ride to Strathbogie was an easy one, accomplished in just eight hours. They were greeted by the Atholl himself, and ushered directly into his hall.

John Strathbogie, the Earl of Atholl, was a tall, handsome man of forty, with tawny hair that was forever tousled. Margaret had known him since she was a child—he had fought beside her father and her oldest brother at Dunbar ten years ago, where he had had the misfortune of being captured and then being imprisoned in the London Tower. Like a great many of his peers, he had only been set free when he agreed to serve King Edward in his army in Flanders.

Bruce and Alexander believed he would support them. Margaret did not know what to believe. She knew that Atholl hated the English, even though he had recently paid homage to King Edward. And his daughter had married one of Bruce’s brothers.

But she could not imagine him betraying her uncle. Atholl and Buchan were friends. But clearly, both sides believed him their ally; therefore, he would have to betray someone.

He now embraced Buchan warmly. Then he kissed Isabella’s hand. “You become more beautiful every day, lady,” he said, obviously flirting.

She flushed and smiled, clearly pleased.

“Hello, Margaret,” Atholl then said, turning to her. She began to greet him but was swept into his embrace instead. “So the little child has become the fierce woman, to fight the Wolf of Lochaber, survive capture and confinement, and then dare to escape.” He laughed, releasing her. “If ever we are besieged here, I hope my wife will be as brave. You have set the example!”

“I wasn’t brave, I was afraid,” Margaret said.

“And you are so modest,” he teased.

Atholl led them to the table inside his hall, where the others waited. Greetings were exchanged as everyone sat down, the women together at the far end of the table.

“These proceedings will be kept secret,” Buchan declared. “Bruce must never learn of our plans.”

Murmurs of agreement sounded, all from the men. The women pretended not to listen.

“How was your journey?” Marjorie asked. Atholl’s wife was a pretty blonde and the daughter of the Earl of Mar.

Margaret told her it had been swift, but she was listening to the men, stealing glances at them, as Marjorie turned her attention to Isabella. She did not know Mowbray, the young warden of the marches, and she had only briefly met Menteith, at Dumbarton, after her escape from Castle Fyne. But Ingram de Umfraville’s mother had been a Comyn, and he was a legend in his own right. Middle-aged, he had devoted his life to the war against England. It was shocking to know that he hated Bruce even more than he hated King Edward, and that he now fought on the side of England.

Umfraville pounded his fist on the table. “Bruce murdered our blood. I have vowed to God to make him pay for his treachery and his sacrilege. No matter how I despise King Edward, Bruce must pay for what he did.”

“Hear, hear,” Atholl said fiercely.

“If Bruce becomes king, he will destroy us all—he has vowed it,” Menteith said. “At Dumbarton, his terms were clear—surrender and become his friend, or fight and suffer all consequences.”

“His threats are not empty,” Umfraville said. “I have known him since he was a boy. And any man who can commit murder in a church knows not God or honor.”

A discussion ensued about Bruce’s character, and it was agreed that he would be merciless if he ever became king.

“And we are his greatest enemy. We have always been his worst enemy,” Buchan said. “If Bruce gains the throne, he will seek to destroy every Comyn in the land.”

Buchan believed his every word, Margaret realized. But was it true?

She thought of how ruthless Alexander had been upon taking Castle Fyne. He had been prepared to hang all of her men. And it had taken him but a moment to hang Malcolm.

In war, men like Bruce and Alexander knew no mercy. She had not a doubt.

But she was a Comyn, too.

“Bruce must be stopped before his army grows too large to be defeated easily,” Mowbray was saying. “The people love him. They are cheering him now as he marches through their villages. There is talk growing of how he should be Scotland’s king! That it is his right! If he is not stopped by summer, I fear this war will be endless.”

A brief silence fell. Margaret now realized that all of the women were listening intently to them, each female face pale.

“He will be stopped well before summer,” Buchan finally said. “Bruce cannot defeat the might of England.”

“I wish to speak with Lady Margaret,” Umfraville said, looking boldly at her. “I have thanked God, Lady Margaret, that He kept you safe during the Wolf’s siege, and that He aided you in your escape.”

Margaret flushed. “Thank you.”

“How many men did MacDonald have when he left Castle Fyne, lady?” Umfraville demanded. “I wish to know his numbers in fact!”

Margaret could not breathe properly now. Of course she had to tell the truth! “He went to war against Sir Guy at Loch Riddon with six hundred men, I think. But he had asked his brother for five hundred more. I do not know if they were raised.”

The men now nodded, absorbing this.

“If MacDonald only has a thousand men, his army is the lesser one—we should isolate and destroy his men first,” Atholl said.

Margaret stared at him, hoping no one would notice her anxiety. She wished to warn Alexander.

“Tell us about Bruce’s stay at Castle Fyne,” Umfraville said.

Her heart leapt. “I have told my uncle everything I know,” she said, aware that she was most certainly lying. She had not divulged the possible date for the coronation—and she had not divulged their plan to use Isabella in the ceremony.

“Tell us what you remember, Margaret,” Atholl said, smiling pleasantly at her.

Her heart pounded now, not knowing Atholl’s allegiances. “I had my maids spy upon them as they supped. They worried about the coronation—about the missing Stone—and about the fact that the Earl of Fife is the king’s ward.”

“They will have to crown him without the boy,” Buchan said.

“And they did not discuss a date for the coronation?” Umfraville asked harshly.

She met his dark, heated gaze, knowing she must lie to save Alexander from capture and maybe death. “No.”

“Who will they ask to attend?”

She did not look at Atholl now. “I do not recall.”

“You said Lennox,” Buchan said. “You said Atholl.”

Atholl’s eyes widened as every face turned to him. Then he laughed.

“Did I?” She squirmed. “I cannot recall—it was so long ago! But I do recall my impression of Bruce.”

All eyes were upon her now.

“He was so powerful, so royal! Everyone knows no single man can fight England and win. Yet when with him, I wondered if he might become Scotland’s king.” She deliberately hoped to divert the men by inflaming them.

There was a brief silence, and then someone—her uncle—slammed his fist furiously down. The table jumped. Wine spilled. “He will never be our king!”

A fierce argument began—every man speaking at once. Margaret felt her cheeks flaming, and finally, she glanced at Atholl.

He was studying her. Instantly, he looked away.

Did he suspect her of duplicity? Of treachery? What had that odd look meant?

And did he ride with Buchan—or Bruce?