Brenda Joyce - A Rose in the Storm

But he had said she could see her brother. As Peg began to braid her long hair, Margaret leapt from the bed, slid on her shoes, seized her mantle and hurried to her door. As she opened it Alexander came out of the adjacent chamber and their gazes collided.

“Good morn,” he said, unsmiling. His eyes moved over her as he gestured to the guard, “Alan will take ye to William when ye wish.”

“I am ready now, thank you,” she cried. “Can Peg come to help me?”

He looked away. “Aye.” He said to Alan, “She may tend her brother’s wounds, but do not leave them alone together.” With that, he nodded at her and went downstairs.

A moment later, both women were following Alan through the keep and into the courtyard. The guard carried a small chest for Margaret, one in which she kept her herbs and potions. It was freezing cold out, and they could not cross the bailey fast enough. The horses garrisoned in the stables there were just being given fodder, the men tending them the only others present. They entered the tower’s door and hurried up its narrow winding staircase to the second floor.

A Highlander sat on a barrel outside William’s closed chamber door. Alan spoke briefly with him, and he opened the door for Peg and Margaret.

William lay upon the narrow pallet inside, and Margaret choked back a gasp of horror.

He seemed asleep—he might have been unconscious. He had clearly bled heavily, as both his head bandage and the one on his chest were entirely red. Having lost so much blood, he was as white as a corpse. Her worry knew no bounds.

“Will!” Margaret rushed inside to kneel beside him, taking his hands.

Peg said, “I will get warm water and lye soap.”

“Bring clean linens,” Margaret said, not looking away from her brother.

His lashes fluttered and she called out to him again, now holding his hand and stroking his face. “Dear brother, it is I, Margaret. Wake up!”

William moaned and looked blearily at her. “Meg?”

“You are awake! I am here to take care of you now.” She was so afraid that when she removed the bandages, she would find an infection. She could not bear it if Will died.

“Where am I? What happened?” he asked hoarsely.

“The Wolf has taken Castle Fyne. We are his prisoners.”

His eyes flew wide now. “Are you all right?”

“He hasn’t hurt me, nor will he—I am his hostage. But I lost, Will, I lost this place, and it is now in MacDonald hands.” She did not want to tell him about the impending executions. He was ill, and she wanted him to use his strength to heal, not worry.

“We will retake it. Buchan will come, or maybe, Sir Guy.” His lashes fluttered, as if he did not have the strength to keep his eyes open. “He did not hurt you?”

“Don’t worry about me—I am under guard, but otherwise, I have been treated with the utmost respect.” That was actually the truth, she thought.

“I know you—stubborn, and now defiant.” He opened his eyes again and stared. “Don’t defy him, Meg. Wait for Buchan to come.”

She managed a smile and it felt ghastly. She would not tell him about the death of their cousin Red John Comyn, either, or the rebellion of Robert Bruce. He needed not worry about those things. “I am not defying him,” she said. And that was the truth, too—now.

He seemed doubtful. “You are probably plotting an escape...don’t. Wait for rescue, Meg.” His voice had become so weak that she had to lean close to hear him. Eyes closed, he said, “Did we get a messenger out before the castle fell?”

She was aware now of Alan, hovering some small distance behind her and listening to their every word. “Malcolm sent two young Scots, just before the siege.”

“Good!” His eyes opened and his words were hard with satisfaction as he spoke. “Argyll and Buchan will come, sooner, not later.”

Margaret managed to smile, still holding his hand. “You shouldn’t speak, you should rest.” Peg finally returned, rushing into the room with soap, a bowl of water and linens. “I am going to clean your wounds and change the bandages.”

William did not respond, and Margaret set to work.

* * *

TWO HOURS LATER, Margaret hurried into the great hall, where she found Alexander. Both tables were entirely occupied by his men; they were finishing breakfast. The tables were littered with plates piled with unfinished crusts, fish carcasses and meat bones. Conversation was rampant. As she rushed in, every man present turned her way and the room silenced.

She slowed her urgent stride, aware of thirty or more pairs of eyes upon her—the gazes of his men, her foes. From the head of one table, Alexander regarded her also, his expression impassive and impossible to read.

She approached him and curtsied.

“How fares your brother?”

“Not well.” She met his gaze, unsmiling. “He lost far too much blood. I cleaned both wounds, and I am very concerned. He is weak, my lord, and while there is no infection yet, we both know that one could set in shortly. The next few days are crucial.”

“I am sorry he was wounded.”

She tensed, because she was fairly certain he did not care about her brother, except as another useful hostage. “I am excellent with herbs and potions. I learned how to attend a great many maladies and war wounds from my mother. Now I must hope that the salves I have used were not used too late.”

He studied her. “Is that an accusation? My own man tended him yesterday, Lady Margaret, and as ye have said, he has no infection.”

She had been accusatory, but that would not get her anywhere. “I am grateful you had someone clean his wounds and bandage them. I am grateful you did not leave him to die.”

“Ye remain the worst liar. Yer not grateful, and yer sick with fear.”

She felt that fear then, as if a huge sob were about to choke her. “I have lost three brothers, brothers I dearly admired, brothers I loved. I cannot lose William, too!”

“And I hope ye do not. Will ye sit down, Lady Margaret?”

She had no appetite, but that wasn’t why she did not want to sit down at his table. A remembrance flashed in her mind, of being in his arms last night. It was a terrible recollection. “I was hoping to see my men today—before you hang them.”

He smiled grimly at her. “I will allow ye to see them, but if ye think to mount an insurrection at the last moment, be forewarned. They’ll die by my sword and it willna matter to me.”

“A rebellion at the last moment is not on my mind,” she cried. “Although I wish I was capable of mounting one.”

He studied her, his scrutiny so intense it was unnerving. “I thought we had come to some terms—last night.”

She trembled again. Last night she had glimpsed him as a powerful, sexual and handsome man. Last night, she had felt a moment of admiration and respect for him, but that moment was gone.

“We did not come to any terms. You are my captor, I am your prisoner, my brother might die in your care—and you are about to execute my good soldiers.”

He stood up abruptly. “I will take you to the dungeons.” He gestured at four men, who instantly arose, their swords clattering against the table’s edge as they did. He then pointed at Alan, too.

He led the way down to the dungeons, Margaret directly behind him, his five men behind her. Her heart raced madly now. She estimated it was half past eight in the morning. In four hours or less, Sir Neil, Malcolm and the others would die.

Little daylight came into the dungeons. One wall had two small, barred windows, set high above the prisoners’ heads. Otherwise, there was no possibility of natural light entering the cell, so burning torches had been set into the ground, which was dirt. Two of Alexander’s men had remained below, outside the single large cell where the prisoners huddled. Margaret remained directly behind Alexander now, aware of the temperature dropping dramatically. It was terribly cold belowground.