A Rose in the Storm

Her heart was thundering. “I could not see their colors. But the banners are dark—very dark!”

They exchanged intense looks. The MacDonald colors were blue, black and a piping of red.

“Is it Clan Donald?” she cried.

“I would imagine so,” Will said harshly, two bright spots of color now on his cheeks.

“Will!” She seized his arm, and realized how badly she was shaking. “I hardly counted, but by God, I think there are hundreds of men approaching! They are so deep in rank and file, they could not fit upon the path we followed—they are coming up the glen below the ridge!”

He cursed terribly. “I am leaving my five best knights with you.”

It was so hard to think clearly now—as she had never been in a battle before, or in a castle about to be attacked. “What do you mean?”

“We will fight them off, Meg—we have no choice!”

She could not think at all now! “You cannot go to battle! You cannot fight off hundreds of men with our dozen knights and our few foot soldiers! And you cannot leave five knights with me! You would need every single one of them.”

“Since when do you know anything about battle?” he cried in frustration. “And our Comyn knights are worth ten times what any MacDonald brings.”

Oh, how she hoped he was right. Peg came racing into the chamber, her face so white it was ghostly. Margaret held out her hand and her lady’s maid rushed to her side, clasping her hand tightly. “It will be all right,” Margaret heard herself say.

Peg looked at her with wide, terrified eyes. “Everyone is saying it is Alexander MacDonald—the mighty Wolf of Lochaber.”

Margaret just looked at her, hoping she had misheard.

Sir Ranald rushed into the hall with Malcolm. “We will have to hurry, William, and try to entrap their army in the ravine. They cannot traverse the glen for much longer—they will have to take a smaller path that joins the one we came on. If we can get our men positioned above the ravine, there is a chance that we can pick them off, one by one and two by two—and they will not be able to get out of it alive.”

Was there hope, then? “Peg just said that it is the bastard brother.”

William became paler. Even Sir Ranald, the most courageous of their men, was still, his eyes wide and affixed to her.

One of Malcolm’s sons rushed inside, breaking the tension but confirming their fears. “It’s the Wolf,” he said grimly, eyes ablaze. “It’s Angus Mor’s bastard, the Wolf of Lochaber, and he has five or six hundred men.”

Margaret was deafened by her own thundering heartbeat. The Wolf of Lochaber was a legend in his own time. Everyone knew of Alexander MacDonald. It was said that no Highlander was as ruthless. It was said that he had never lost a battle. And it was said that he had never let his enemy live.

Dread consumed her. Margaret thought about the legend she had heard, gripping Peg’s hand more tightly.

Just a few years ago, Alexander had wished to marry his lover, the widowed daughter of Lord MacDuff, but he had been refused. So he had besieged the castle at Glen Carron in Lochaber. And when it finally surrendered, he had taken the laird prisoner, forced him to his knees, and made him watch as he coldly and ruthlessly executed those who had fought against him. He then burned Glen Carron to the ground. He had been about to hang Lord MacDuff, but his lover had begged for mercy. The Wolf had spared his future father-in-law’s life, but only after forcing him to swear fealty to him—and then he had kept him prisoner for several years. As for his lover, they were immediately married, but she died in childbirth a few months later.

If Alexander MacDonald was marching upon them, with hundreds of men, he would take Castle Fyne and he might destroy it before he was done.

“What should we do?” She did not know if she had ever been as afraid. But even as she spoke, a fierce comprehension began. Her question was foolish. They must defend the keep. Didn’t they have the combined force of about a hundred men with which to do so?

Sir Ranald was grim. “There are two choices, Lady Margaret. Surrender or fight.”

She inhaled. No Comyn and no MacDougall would consider surrender without a fight first.

“We will surprise him with an ambush at the ravine and stop him,” William said. He looked at Sir Ranald and Sir Neil, who had joined them, and Malcolm and his son. “Can such an ambush succeed?”

There was a hesitation—Sir Ranald exchanged glances with Sir Neil. “It is our only hope,” Sir Neil said.

Margaret felt her heart lurch with more dread. Peg seemed to moan at her side. Maybe the stories weren’t true, maybe God would help them—maybe, this one time, the Wolf would suffer defeat.

“We will ambush them at the ravine, then,” William said. “But Margaret—I want you to return to Bain, immediately.”

“You want me to flee?”

“You will do so with Sir Ranald and Sir Neil. If you leave now, you will be well out of any danger.”

Her mind was spinning—as if she was being whirled about while upside down. She could not leave! She glanced around at the women and children who had crowded into the hall. The menfolk, even the most elderly, were on the ramparts, preparing for battle.

Sir Ranald took her elbow. “He is right. You must be taken out of harm’s way. This castle belongs to you, which makes you a valuable bride—and a valuable prisoner.”

A chill swept over her. But she shrugged free. “I am not a coward—and I am not about to become anyone’s prisoner. I am lady of this keep! I can hardly flee like a coward, leaving you here, alone, to defend it. And what of the men, women and children here? Who welcomed me so warmly?”

“Damn it, Margaret, that is why you must go—because the castle is a part of your dowry. It makes you too damned valuable!” William shouted at her now.

She wanted to shout back. Somehow, she did not. “You go and you turn Alexander MacDonald back. In fact, do your best to make certain he never returns here! Ambush him in the ravine. Kill him, if you can!”

Peg gasped.

But Margaret’s mind was clear now. William would ride out with their men to fight the notorious Wolf of Lochaber. And if they could kill him, so be it. He was the enemy!

Sir Ranald turned. “Malcolm, send someone to the Earl of Argyll and another man to Red John Comyn.”

The Earl of Argyll—Alexander MacDougall—was her mother’s brother and he and Red John would surely come to their rescue. But both men were a day’s ride away, at least. And neither might be in residence; word might have to be sent farther afield.

Margaret stared as Malcolm rushed off, her mind racing. Sir Ranald said grimly to her, “If our ambush does not succeed, you will need help to defend the keep.”

It was hard to comprehend him now, and just as hard to breathe. “What are you saying?”

William spoke to Sir Ranald. “Should we prepare the ambush with the men we came with? And leave the castle garrison here?”

Margaret tried to think—why would they leave fifty men at the keep? And just as it dawned on her, Sir Ranald turned to face her. “You must prepare the castle for a siege.”

Her fear confirmed, she choked. She knew nothing of battles, and less of sieges. She was a woman—one of seventeen! “You will not fail!”

His smile was odd—almost sad, as if he expected the worst, not the best. “We do not intend to fail. And I hate leaving you, Lady Margaret, but we are undermanned—your brother needs me.”

She was shaking now. She prayed William and Sir Ranald would succeed in turning back Alexander MacDonald. “Of course you must go with William.”

William laid his hand on Sir Neil’s shoulder. “Stay with my sister and defend her, with your life, if need be.”

Sir Neil’s mouth hardened. Margaret knew he wanted to fight with William and Sir Ranald, but he nodded. “I will keep her safe and out of all harm,” he said harshly.

Margaret had the urge to weep. How could this be happening?

Malcolm rushed back into the hall. “I have sent Seoc Macleod and his brother. No one knows these forests the way they do.”