Brenda Joyce - A Rose in the Storm

“’Tis Buchan’s nephew and niece....”

“’Tis Lady Margaret and Master William Comyn....”

Their cavalcade had halted, most of it wedged into the barbican. Sir Ranald cupped his hands and shouted up at the tower, to whomever was on watch there. “I am Sir Ranald of Kilfinnan, and I have in my keeping Lady Margaret Comyn and her brother, Master William. Lower the bridge for your mistress.”

Whispers sounded from the ramparts. The great drawbridge groaned as it was lowered. Margaret saw some children appear on the battlements above, as she gazed around, suddenly making eye contact with an older woman close to the entry tower. The woman’s eyes widened; instinctively, Margaret smiled.

“’Tis Lady Mary’s daughter!” the old woman cried.

“’Tis Mary MacDougall’s daughter!” another man cried, with more excitement.

“Mary MacDougall’s daughter!” others cried.

Margaret felt her heart skid wildly when she realized what was happening—these good folk remembered her mother, their mistress, whom they had revered and loved, and she was being welcomed by them all now. Her vision blurred.

These were her kin. These were her people, just as Castle Fyne was hers. They were welcoming her, and in return, she must see to their welfare and safety, for she was their lady now.

She smiled again, blinking back the tears. From the ramparts, someone cheered. More cheers followed.

Sir Ranald grinned at her. “Welcome to Castle Fyne, Lady,” he teased.

She quickly wiped her eyes and recovered her composure. “I had forgotten how much they adored my mother. Now I remember that they greeted her this way, with a great fanfare, when I was a child, when she returned here.”

“She was a great lady, so I am not surprised,” Sir Ranald said. “Everyone loved Lady Mary.”

William touched her elbow. “Wave,” he said softly.

She was startled, but she lifted her hand tentatively and the crowd on the ramparts and battlements and in the entry tower roared with approval. Margaret was taken aback. She felt herself flush. “I am hardly a queen.”

“No, but this is your dowry and you are their mistress.” William smiled at her. “And they have not had a lady of the manor in years.”

He gestured, indicating that she should precede him, and lead the way over the drawbridge into the courtyard. Margaret was surprised, and she looked at Sir Ranald, expecting him to lead the way. He grinned again, with a dimple, and then deferentially bowed his head. “After you, Lady Margaret,” he said.

Margaret nudged her mare forward, the crowd cheering again as she crossed the drawbridge and entered the courtyard. She felt her heart turn over hard. She halted her mare and dismounted before the wooden steps leading up to the great hall’s front entrance. As she did, the door opened and several men hurried out, a tall, gray-haired Scot leading the way.

“Lady Margaret, we have been expecting ye,” he said, beaming. “I am Malcolm MacDougall, yer mother’s cousin many times removed, and steward of this keep.”

He was clad only in the traditional linen leine most Highlanders wore, with knee-high boots and a sword hanging from his belt. Although bare-legged, and without a plaid, he clearly did not mind the cold as he came down the steps and dropped to one knee before her. “My lady,” he said with deference. “I hereby vow my allegiance and my loyalty to you above all others.”

She took a deep breath, trembling. “Thank you for your oath of fealty.”

He stood, his gaze now on her face. “Ye look so much like yer mother!” He then turned to introduce her to his two sons, both young, handsome men just a bit older than she was. Both young men swore their loyalty, as well.

William and Sir Ranald had come forward, and more greetings were exchanged. Sir Ranald then excused himself to help Sir Neil garrison their men. William stepped aside with him, and Margaret was distracted, instantly wanting to know what they were discussing, as they were deliberately out of her earshot.

“Ye must be tired,” Malcolm said to her. “Can I show ye to yer chamber?”

Margaret glanced at William—still in a serious and hushed conversation. She felt certain they were discussing the possibility of an enemy scout having been on the hillside above them, watching their movements. “I am tired, but I do not want to go to my chamber just yet. Malcolm, has there been any sign of discord around Loch Fyne lately?”

His eyes widened. “If ye mean have we skirmished with our neighbors, of course we have. One of the MacRuari lads raided our cattle last week—we lost three cows. They are as bold as pirates, using the high seas to come and go as they please! And the day after, my sons found a MacDonald scout just to the east, spying on us. It has been some time, months, truly, since we have seen any MacDonald here.”

She felt herself stiffen. “How do you know that it was a scout from clan Donald?”

Malcolm smiled grimly. “We questioned him rather thoroughly before we let him go.”

She did not like the sound of that, and she shivered.

He touched her arm. “Let me take ye inside, lady, it’s far too cold fer ye to be standing here on such a day, when we have so little sun.”

Margaret nodded, as William returned to her side. She gave him a questioning look but he ignored her, gesturing that she follow Malcolm up the stairs. Disappointed, she complied.

The great hall at the top of the stairs was a large stone chamber with high, raftered ceiling, a huge fireplace on one wall. A few arrow slits let in some scant light. Two large trestle tables were centered in the room, benches on their sides, and three carved chairs with cushioned seats sat before the hearth. Pallets for sleeping were stacked up against the far walls. A large tapestry of a battle scene completed the room, hanging on the center wall.

Margaret sniffed appreciatively. The rushes were fresh and scented with lavender oil. And suddenly she smiled—remembering that the hall had smelled of lavender when she had last been present as a child.

Malcolm smiled. “Lady Mary insisted upon fresh rushes every third day, and she especially liked the lavender. We hoped you would like it, too.”

“Thank you,” Margaret said, moved. “I do.”

The servants they had brought with them were now busy bringing their personal belongings, which filled several large chests, into the hall. Margaret espied her lady’s maid, Peg, who was three years older than she was and married to one of Buchan’s archers. She had known Peg for most of her life, and they were good friends. Margaret excused herself and hurried over to her. “Are you freezing?” she asked, taking her cold hands in hers. “How are your blisters?” She was concerned.

“Ye know how I hate the cold!” Peg exclaimed, shivering. She was as tall and voluptuous as Margaret was slender and petite, with dark auburn hair. She wore a heavy wool plaid over her ankle-length leine, but she was shivering anyway. “Of course I am freezing, and it has been a very long journey, too long, if ye ask me!”

“But we have arrived, and safely—no easy feat,” Margaret pointed out.

“Of course we arrived safely—there is no one at war now,” Peg scoffed. Then, “Margaret, yer hands are ice cold! I knew we should have made camp earlier! Yer frozen to the bone, just as I am!”

“I was cold earlier, but I am not frozen to the bone, and I am so pleased to be here.” Margaret looked around the hall again. She almost expected her mother to appear from an empty doorway, smiling at her as she entered the room.

She then shook herself free of such a fanciful thought. But she had never missed her more.

“I am going to light a fire in yer room,” Peg said firmly. “We cannot have ye catching an ague before ye marry yer English knight.”