Brenda Joyce - A Rose in the Storm

Castle Fyne was lost. The Wolf had won.

Pain stabbed through her chest. It was over.

She glanced around carefully. A great many women had survived the battle for the keep, but only four archers, three soldiers, Malcolm and Sir Neil remained from amongst her men. Dismay sickened her.

She did not want to count the dead, which littered the ramparts. But there were dozens of wounded who needed care.

But no one moved. The women simply held their pots; her four archers their bows. Malcolm had come to stand beside her with Sir Neil. The enemy hung on to their ladders, while the other MacDonald soldiers, already atop the ramparts, remained unmoving.

It had become silent and still below, too. The sounds of the battle in the barbican were gone. She glanced across the army below her, which was still, and she heard a bird chirp. She scanned his hundreds of men, looking for him. Then she heard another bird, and another one.

“Where is he?” she spoke in a terse whisper.

“There,” Sir Neil said.

Margaret looked back down at the assembled army, but still, she did not see him. “Sir Neil, it is time for you to go. You must tell Buchan what has happened.”

Sir Neil hesitated; she knew he did not wish to leave her.

“You must go, I am commanding you to do so!” She did not know if the MacDougalls would attempt to take the castle back from MacDonald, but Buchan would be furious, and he would assemble an army. Or would he?

“Very well,” Sir Neil said. He ran into the north tower.

And then she heard Alexander MacDonald. “Lady of Fyne!” It was a harsh, unfriendly shout.

Her gaze veered to the sound as he now rode his gray stallion forward, appearing alone in front of his hordes of men. Margaret gripped the edge of the wall and leaned over it. Revulsion began.

It was laced with anger, replacing the fear, and for that she was grateful.

He halted the steed. A wind whipped his long dark hair as he stared up at her. A lengthy, terrible moment passed.

Margaret could not see his expression, but she knew he was angry—she felt it.

“So ye surrender now,” he said to her.

Their gazes had locked, even from this small distance. “Yes.” She trembled, realizing that she clutched her dagger still. Aware of how close he was, and that her archer stood just above him, she stared.

“Ye should have surrendered last night.”

She looked at his hard face. He had high cheekbones, a strong jaw. Most women probably thought him attractive.

She looked at his broad shoulders. His leine was bloodstained. Had he been wounded? How she hoped so! He wore two swords, both sheathed. Another dagger was in his belt. A shield remained strapped to his left forearm. His thighs were bare, his boots muddy and wet.

She lifted her gaze back to his. “I am a woman, not a warrior. I made a choice, and it was the wrong one.” She realized she clutched her dagger. She lifted it, showing it to him, and then, symbolically, she dropped it over the wall.

It twirled as it fell down to the ground, not far from him.

“No, Lady Comyn, yer a warrior, and ye have proven it this day.” His eyes blazed. “Have yer men open the front gates.”

She thought about Sir Neil, who was probably just slipping out of the side entrance in the north tower, which could accommodate a single man and a single horse. She hoped to give him as much time as possible to escape. “I will come down and open it for you, myself,” she said.

His gaze narrowed.

“My lord.” She looked quickly away.

* * *

THE CASTLE WAS shockingly silent as Margaret descended to the courtyard. Only an infant could be heard mewling, and some horses snorted outside, amidst Alexander’s army. Malcolm walked with her, past the elderly men, women and children who had gathered, to the raised drawbridge beneath the entry tower. Great bolts locked it into place, and everyone had come to watch her open it and admit their conqueror.

Margaret was using all of her strength to appear calm and dignified—and unafraid.

“Ye may not be able to draw the bolts back by yerself,” Malcolm said.

Good, she thought. For she wished for Sir Neil to be long gone by the time she let the damned Wolf in.

Margaret strained to pull one bolt back. In the end, she could not manage, and Malcolm had to help her. Then they went to the winch, which she would never be able to move. They exchanged glances. Margaret pulled on the lever with all of her weight. When it did not move, she tried for a few more minutes, until she had no choice but to signal her few remaining men. They leapt forward, and slowly, the great bridge began to come down.

Margaret stepped back from the tower with Malcolm, her hands at her sides, fists clenched. The courtyard remained eerily silent, except for the groaning of the bridge as it was lowered.

She heard his horse’s hooves first. Then the gray steed appeared, the Wolf astride, his face hard, a dozen Highland knights behind him. The sound of their chargers echoed, and it was deafening.

He crossed the bridge and emerged from the entry tower. He halted the charger before her, leaping from it and striding over to her.

Margaret did not move as he approached, their stares locking. How she hoped to appear brave and defiant—yet how frightened she actually was.

He looked exactly as she had imagined the Wolf of Lochaber to be—he appeared a mighty, indomitable warrior—a legend among men.

There was hostility burning in his blue eyes, and it was chilling. His gaze skimmed over her, from head to toe, and then he held out his hand.

She reached down to her girdle. Her hand trembled. She could not still it so she ignored the obvious sign of her agitation. She detached and then handed him the castle’s great key ring. As she did, their gazes met again, and this time, they held.

“All of Scotland will speak of this day.”

She squared her shoulders, instantly furious. For the first time in its history, Castle Fyne had fallen. For the first time in a hundred years, it was no longer a MacDougall stronghold.

“All of Scotland will speak of the Lady of Fyne and the Wolf of Lochaber and the battle waged betwixt them,” he said.

She trembled. What was he trying to say?

His gaze never moved from her face. “Few men would dare to fight me. The bards will sing of your courage, Lady Margaret.” And grimly, he inclined his head.

Was he showing her respect? She was incredulous. “I have no care for what you think,” she said, hoping she did not spit the words out. “But I have a great care for the men, women and children here—and the wounded, who need immediate attention.”

His gaze narrowed as he studied her. “Yer hatred shows.” Then, “Come with me.” His black-and-blue plaid swinging about his shoulders, he started across the courtyard. The crowd remained silent.

Margaret hesitated, even though the command had been sharply uttered. Then she saw several women bow to him as he passed. He nodded curtly at them.

Margaret realized she must wage a careful game now, to gain his mercy. She hated him, but she must hide it. She walked after him, slowly.

He was already within the great hall, flinging off his plaid. Peg and two other women were hovering nervously there. Fires were burning. “I am hungry,” he said, pacing. “As are my men. Bring food and wine.”

Margaret stood very still, having just entered the hall, as a dozen huge Highlanders came inside. Alexander turned to several of them. “Remove all prisoners to the dungeons, including the wounded,” he said.

“Aye,” Padraig, the messenger, said.

“And inspect every room. Make certain no one is in hiding, and that no weapons are hidden, to be used against us.”

Margaret wished she had thought to hide some weapons to use against him. Padraig and four other Highlanders left.