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“How can ye watch?” Peg asked.
Margaret did not face her. “I do not have a choice.”
“There is always a choice,” Peg said bitterly.
Margaret turned. “You have been very clear, Peg, and while I have valued your opinions in the past, they are not helpful now.”
“We will all die here,” Peg said, bursting into tears.
Margaret grimaced, finally leaving the window. “We will not die,” she said, taking her into her arms. “Not if my uncle Argyll comes to our rescue.”
Peg sniffed. “You are as brave as your mother, and now, the whole world will know it.”
Margaret knew she wasn’t brave—she was sick with fear, but she would never tell her maid that.
She began to worry that the tides of battle were changing. The cadence of the striking battering ram quickened—more men had been added to its service. Fewer men were being struck by her archers—she did not see wounded soldiers dropping to the ground as she had at the start of the battle, and more were climbing up. Fewer arrows flew from her walls at the Wolf’s army while the hail of arrows and missiles from below had become a constant barrage.
She saw one of her archers fall from her walls, very close by the window where she stood, an arrow protruding from his chest. She could not stand it. She ran from the tower, and as she did she heard a great crash from outside, from the barbican, and the huge sound of splintering wood.
Margaret rushed onto the ramparts and paused, trying to adjust to the chaos around her. MacDonald soldiers were literally atop the crenellations now. Dozens of women stood throwing oil at them. Arrows and stones were a constant hail, raining down upon them. Explosives intermittently landed, detonating.
“They have breached the barbican!” someone shouted.
A woman her own age was heaving a pot of burning oil at a soldier who was now standing on her ramparts. As she threw the cauldron at him, he thrust out his arm, knocking the pot aside. Hot oil spilled, but he only grunted. Then he seized the woman by the hair.
A dagger flashed in his hand.
Margaret did not think twice. From behind, she stabbed him in the back.
He roared, turning, enraged. Before she could strike again—now to defend herself—Sir Neil struck him through with his sword from behind. His eyes widened in shock, and then he fell, clutching his bleeding midsection.
“You cannot be here,” Sir Neil said to her.
She ignored him, seizing the pot the woman had thrown and rushing to the fire pit with it. For an instant she paused, uncertain of how to put the hot oil into her pot.
The young blonde woman, whose life she had saved, now held a ladle and she scooped the boiling oil into her cauldron. Their eyes met.
Margaret smiled grimly, turned and found herself flinging oil onto another soldier climbing across her walls. From the corner of her eye, she saw Sir Neil wielding his sword against an enemy soldier, the two men exchanging frightening blows.
Her oil struck the man on his face, neck and shoulders. He screamed, falling off her walls.
But another man was behind her. Margaret whirled, throwing the contents at the next man. As he fell, she thought, This is impossible. We will never keep this up.
But for the next few minutes, or perhaps the next few hours, that is exactly what she and the blonde woman did. Even as the invaders fell from the ladders and the walls, others succeeded in landing upon the ramparts, where Sir Neil, Malcolm and his men engaged them with their swords, maces and daggers.
“Lady,” she heard Sir Neil call.
Margaret had just thrown oil over the side of the ramparts, at a very young boy, whom she had missed. He now hung to his ladder, grinning at her, a dagger clenched in his teeth. Arrows rained past him, over her.
She had become accustomed to the barrage and she did not flinch or even duck. She glanced at Sir Neil, who was bleeding from his shoulder. “They are about to scale the walls below the first tower, and once they are within, they will lower the drawbridge,” he panted.
For an instant, she simply stared at him.
“It is over, we have lost—you must flee.”
Their gazes were locked. Then Sir Neil took his sword, raising it threateningly. The boy she had been fighting ducked, and then raced back down his ladder.
Margaret tried to comprehend him. Dying men littered the floor of the ramparts, alongside the already dead. Some were MacDonald soldiers, others were her own archers and men. Two women, one elderly, also lay as corpses.
Margaret had never known such despair—or such desperation. “Is there any chance we could hold them off below?”
“We have lost most of our archers. No.”
She inhaled, hard.
“It is a matter of hours, or even less, Lady Margaret, and they will have breached our walls entirely. We do not have enough men to fight them now. Your horse is ready. I will take you to safety.”
Sir Neil was in earnest now—he meant to rush her away. They had lost.
She knew she must not fall into the Wolf’s hands. But she stared across her ramparts. The women continued to boil oil and throw it at the enemy, but they were so clearly exhausted. The blonde stared at her now, her mouth pursed. Had she heard? Did she know that Sir Neil wished for her to flee? A few of her soldiers were fighting the enemy with daggers, not far from her. And she had only four archers left, but they were not even firing their arrows now. Instead, they were staring at her, too, as was Malcolm.
How could she leave them now? When the Wolf intended to execute them all?
“I am not abandoning my people,” she heard herself say.
Sir Neil choked.
She had no will to explain. But the men and women who had survived were her responsibility.
She must beg for the Wolf’s mercy, she thought.
“It is time to surrender,” she said tersely.
“Lady Margaret,” said Sir Neil, “he will not accept your surrender now, when victory is but hours away!”
God, was he right? She knew nothing of warfare! “If we try to surrender now, maybe he will show mercy later.”
Sir Neil was aghast. “You will be his captive, Lady Margaret, and you’re too valuable to be taken hostage. We must go! I swore to keep you safe!”
He was right—she would be taken prisoner. In that moment, Margaret knew she would rather be a hostage for the rest of her life than flee her people, leaving them to be slain by the Wolf of Lochaber. She must fight him tooth and nail, she thought, until he showed them mercy.
One battle had ended, now, another had begun.
“Raise the white flag,” she said.
CHAPTER THREE
MARGARET STARED UP at the gray sky, watching the white flag of surrender as it was hoisted high above the south tower. It slowly unfurled.
Tears blurred her vision as the hail of arrows lessened, as the barrage of missiles and stones ceased. The clang of swords was silenced, as were the whistling screams from the projectiles, the whirring from the arrows, the shouts of men being burned and falling to their deaths.
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.
