A Rose in the Storm. Brenda Joyce
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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.