A Rose in the Storm

If Juliana had been unwilling at first, then they had a great deal in common, Margaret thought. But this was not marriage. She was merely swearing to give her loyalty to Alexander in times of both war and peace, for as long as she lived. Juliana had had to marry the enemy; she had had to sleep with him and bear his children.

She realized she was staring at him, and that he was staring back.

“Oh, he makes a fine figure of a man,” Peg said angrily. “Is that why ye’ll swear fealty now? Betray yer beloved family? Did something happen last night? Do ye yearn for his embrace another time?”

Margaret was so angry, she could not breathe properly. “How dare you! I thought we were friends. I am trying to do what is right! This is hardly an easy decision.”

“This isn’t right!” Peg cried. “Yer a great lady—a Comyn lady! Ye usually think so hard. But not this time. I think he’s turned yer head! What of Buchan? Have ye thought at all about yer uncle now? Buchan will never forgive ye for this!”

He would disown her; of that, Margaret had no doubt, just as Sir Guy would, and she would have no one as a protector, no one except for the mighty Wolf.

“Go see William, then, at least tell him what ye intend,” Peg now pleaded.

Margaret wrapped her mantle more closely about her and started down the steps, leaving Peg behind. She approached Alexander, who stood with the guards, not far from her men.

She could not smile as he turned to her. “It is noon,” she said. “I will pay you homage first.”

“No. You will stand aside, until the end.”

She started, meeting his intense blue stare. Why did he wish for her to go last?

He turned away. “Bring me the first soldier.”

One of her archers came forward, bareheaded and unarmed. He got down on one knee, clasping his hands in prayer, which he then outstretched. “My lord Alexander, mighty Wolf of Lochaber, I, Duncan MacDougall of Ardvaig, promise on my faith to ye, now and for all time, as I live and breathe, to be yer loyal man, to never cause ye harm, and if I dinna keep the faith, may God strike me down.”

Alexander took his hands and clasped them. Solemnly, he said, “I, Alexander of Clan Donald, son of Angus Mor, lord of Glencarron, Coll and now of Castle Fyne, do accept yer pledge of fealty. Ye may rise, Duncan, and take up yer arms and join my men.”

Duncan stood, smiling, and Alexander clasped him on the shoulder, smiling back. Then another archer came forward, getting down on one knee, making his oath of fealty.

Margaret stood back, somewhat behind Alexander, watching as he received each of her men in their acts of complete submission. As each man came forward, she thought about her parents, her uncles, her betrothed. She thought about her brothers, all dead, and William, who still lived. She thought about Alasdair Og and Lady Juliana.

Scotland was never at peace. Every lord, whether great or small, had rivals; every clan had friends and enemies. Fathers lost sons and wives lost husbands. Politics changed in a single breath. Widows married rivals. Battles raged daily. Stolen cows might be at stake—or stolen crowns.

The politics of the land frequently changed. Hadn’t they just done so? The Comyns hated the English—now, they would surely fight for the English, against Bruce. This great lord, Alexander MacDonald, had once kept the law for King Edward in the wilds of the western islands. Now he fought against the king, in the hopes of making a new one.

She blinked back hot tears. Alliances changed, and now, she would be in a war, and on the side opposed to her entire MacDougall and Comyn families. Her heart felt as if it were breaking in two.

Sir Neil had come forward, his gaze on her, not on Alexander. Margaret brushed her falling tears away awkwardly, wishing she hadn’t succumbed to such female weakness. She met Sir Neil’s worried gaze again, and somehow, lifted her chin proudly.

Ignoring Alexander, who stared at them both now, Sir Neil said, “Lady, are ye certain? ’Tis not too late to change yer mind!”

If Sir Neil did not perform homage and swear fealty, he would be hanged. Margaret knew one thing—she would never let that happen. “I am not changing my mind, Sir Neil.” She spoke as firmly as she could, but heard the quaver in her own tone. Worse, she felt more hot tears burning her eyes.

His eyes filled with doubt. Margaret stepped forward and clasped his arm. “Please. We will fight for the Wolf now, we will fight for Bruce—we will put a Scot on the throne.”

His eyes flickered. She realized he might not be allied with Bruce, but he thought as she did—any Scot was better than King Edward.

Sir Neil smiled grimly at her and turned. “I beg your pardon, my lord,” he said.

“Ye have it,” Alexander said, and Margaret wondered at the slight flush mottling his high cheekbones.

Sir Neil knelt, extended his hands, and swore to be faithful to Alexander for the rest of his life, God strike him down otherwise. Alexander took his hands and accepted the pledge. When Sir Neil had arisen to his full height, Alexander dropped his hands. He did not clasp his shoulder, as he had thus far done to the previous men. For one moment, the two men stared at one another—as if antagonists, not friends.

“I will treat ye well, as long as ye remain faithful,” the Wolf said.

“I dinna care how ye treat me. She is my lady, ye must treat her well,” Sir Neil said.

“Go and receive your weapons and join my men,” Alexander returned evenly. But he glanced at Margaret, as did Sir Neil.