to hearten the men and women, but it is growing very cold out, and if ye sicken, ye will dishearten them all.”
Margaret remarked Sir Neil, on the other side of the ramparts, as he and an elderly Highlander attempted to fix one of the catapults. Peg was with them, apparently telling them how she thought it best repaired. Had the situation not been so dire, Margaret would have been amused, for Peg was so nosy all of the time. And she was also a bit of a tease, and Sir Neil was terribly handsome with his fair complexion and dark hair.
He had been indefatigable. She did not know him well, but she was impressed with his tireless efforts on behalf of the keep—on her behalf.
Of course, if they were besieged and defeated, they would all die.
She looked at Malcolm. “Is it true?” She kept her voice low, so no one would overhear her. “That the Wolf slays all of his enemies—that he never allows the enemy to live?”
Malcolm hesitated, and she had her answer. “I dinna ken,” he said, with a shrug meant to convey ignorance.
How could such barbarism be possible? “Have you met him?”
Malcolm started. “Aye, my lady, I have.”
“Is he a monster, as claimed?”
Malcolm’s eyes widened. “Are such claims made? He is a powerful soldier—a man of great courage—and great ambition. ’Tis a shame he is our enemy and not our friend.”
“I hope he is dead.”
“He will not die in an ambush, he is far too clever,” Malcolm said flatly. And then his gaze veered past her and he paled.
Margaret whirled to stare down into the glen and she choked. The army was moving, a slow rippling forward, like a huge wave made of men. “What does that mean?” she cried.
Before Malcolm could answer, Sir Neil came running across the ramparts with a red-haired Highlander, Peg following them both. “Lady Margaret,” Sir Neil said. “One of our watch has returned and he wishes a word with you!”
Margaret took one look at the watchman’s frozen face and knew the news was not what she wished for it to be. And while she wanted to shout at him to declare the tidings, she held up her hand. “You are?”
“Coinneach MacDougall, my lady.”
“Please, step aside with me. Malcolm, Sir Neil, you may join us.” Her heart was thundering, aware that everyone upon the battlements was gazing at them. She led the three men down the narrow stairwell and into the great hall, where she turned to face them. “What happened?” She kept her tone quiet and calm.
“The ambush has failed, my lady. The Wolf and his army are passing through the ravine now. Within an hour, they will be at our front gates,” Coinneach said, his expression was one of dismay.
She knew she must not allow her knees to give way—not now. “Are you certain?”
“Yes. Some dozen of his knights are in the pass, even now.”
Margaret stared at him, unseeingly. “My brother? Sir Ranald?”
“I dinna ken, my lady.”
She supposed no news was better than the news of their deaths. Please God, she thought, let William and Sir Ranald be alive—please!
She did not think she could bear it if she lost her brother.
“Do you know if any of our men are alive?” she asked.
“I saw a handful of yer knights, my lady, fleeing into the forest.”
She breathed hard. “They will return here, if they can.” She had no doubt.
“It might be better if they rode hard and fast for Red John or Argyll,” Sir Neil said. “We will soon be under siege, and they could attack MacDonald from the rear.”
Maybe her men were not returning, after all. She squashed her instant dismay, turning back to Coinneach. “Is the Wolf—is Alexander MacDonald—alive?”
“Aye—he is at the very front of his men,” Coinneach said, his blue eyes now reflecting fear.
She felt sick.
Footsteps pounded down the stairwell, and they all turned toward the sound. Peg skidded into the hall, her eyes wide. “A man is below, outside the barbican—with a white flag!”
Margaret was confused. She turned to Malcolm, who said quickly, “The Wolf has sent a messenger ahead, my lady, I have little doubt.”
She felt her eyes widen. “What could he possibly want?”
“Yer surrender.”
* * *
MARGARET PACED FOR the next half an hour, as she waited for Sir Neil and Malcolm to disarm the messenger—verifying that was what he was—and then bring him safely and securely to her. Peg sat on one of the benches at one of the trestle tables, staring at her, her expression aghast. Margaret was accustomed to her friend’s wit and humor, not to her silence and abject fear.
She turned as they entered through the front door, having used the narrow side entrance in the north tower. A tall Highlander in the blue, black and red plaid walked inside, between Sir Neil and Malcolm. He was middle-aged, bearded and lean. He had been disarmed—his scabbard was empty, as was the sheath on his belt where a dagger should hang.
When he saw her he smiled, but not pleasantly. Margaret shivered.
“Margaret of Bain?” he asked.
She nodded. “Do you come from the Wolf?”
“Aye, I do. I am Padraig MacDonald. He wishes to parley, Lady Margaret, and I am instructed to tell you as much. If you agree, he will bring three men, and you may bring three men, as well. He will keep his army below the barbican, and you can meet just outside its walls.”
Margaret stared, incredulous. Then she glanced at Malcolm and Sir Neil. “Is this a trap?”
“Parleys are not uncommon,” Malcolm said. “But the Wolf is canny—he doesn’t keep his word.”
“It is a trap,” Sir Neil said firmly. “You cannot go!”
Margaret could not even swallow now. She faced the messenger. “Why does he wish to parley? What does he want?” As she spoke, Peg came to stand beside her, as if protectively.
“I was told to offer you a parley, lady, that is all. I dinna ken what he will speak of.”
Parleys might not be uncommon amongst warriors, but she was not a warrior, she was a woman—and her every instinct was to refuse.
“You cannot go,” Sir Neil said again, blue eyes flashing. “He will take you hostage, lady, faster than you can blink an eye!”
It was so hard to think! She stared at Sir Neil. Then she looked at the messenger, Padraig. “Please stand aside.”
Malcolm
