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.
* * *
T HE 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
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.
* * *
T HE 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
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