“If yer captured, ye might have no choice—and it is a better choice than death.” He was sharp. “If we marry now, ye’ll be hanged as a traitor the moment yer captured—for ye’ll be the Wolf of Lochaber’s wife.”
He had no doubt, she saw that, and he was so much worldlier than she was, especially when it came to matters of war and politics.
“And you, Alexander?” she whispered. “Who will save you, if you are ever captured?”
“I live by the sword, Margaret. One day I will die a warrior’s death.”
She wondered if he considered being hanged—or drawn and quartered—for the crime of treason a warrior’s death. And Bruce’s army had been reduced to a few hundred men. The English army numbered thousands. “Will Bruce ever give up? Does he truly believe he can somehow defeat King Edward? If he loses this war, he will be hanged—and his allies will hang, too!”
“Bruce will never surrender—he is Scotland’s king.” He gave her a hard look. “I am not afraid to die, Margaret, but I also intend to live. And Bruce intends to raise a new army with my brother’s support. He will hide from the English until we are strong again, until we can fight back. I doubt we will see more fighting until next spring. Sometimes a battle is lost, Margaret, before the war is won.”
She shivered. This war would last for years, she thought in dismay, and when it ended, so many would be dead. Alexander somehow believed the cause was not lost. If only she could believe that, too.
He suddenly pulled her close. “We may have a few days or a few weeks here. I dinna wish to argue. I wish to hold ye—while I can.”
* * *
SUMMER HAD SETTLED over northern Scotland in all her glory.
Each day brought blue skies filled with puffy white clouds and bright sunshine. Birds sang merrily from treetops, hawks soared above the encampment, Bruce’s men repaired their weaponry, played mock war games, fished and hunted, and wenched amongst the village women.
It was as if the war for Scotland did not exist.
Margaret resolved to cherish every moment of the strange respite they were being given, well aware that at any time, Bruce’s emissaries would return from Norway, and she and the queen’s court would be sent to the Orkney Islands. They had so much leisure time now. Alexander took her swimming, taught her to use a bow with better accuracy, gifted her with a small dagger, and took her for long rides in the forest, where they made love to the sound of scurrying squirrels and merry blue jays. At night they retired to their respective tents, he with the men, she with the women. And as pleasant as the summer was, everyone knew it was only a matter of time before they must flee King Edward’s armies again.
Margaret dreaded the impending separation, but did not speak of it.
For the first time since arriving at Aberdeen, the skies were gray, threatening a summer storm. Alexander had indicated they would take their usual afternoon ride, and she hurried through the camp to meet him. As she turned past one tent at the end of the camp, the forest a short distance ahead, she came face-to-face with Marjorie and Atholl.
The earl had his arm around his wife’s waist, and clearly, they had come from a tryst of their own in the forest. Margaret smiled at the couple. “Have you seen Alexander?”
“No, we have not,” Atholl answered. “It is going to rain, Margaret, and I wouldn’t go into the forest if I were you.”
She happened to agree, so she joined them as they started back into the encampment. At that moment, a deer leapt out of the forest, directly in front of them, and then it streaked away across the road.
Atholl seized his wife’s arm just as thundering hoofbeats could be heard. He then grabbed Margaret, pulling both women back off of the deer path, as a rider galloped out of the woods.
He raced past them, a man in Highland garb, his horse covered in foam and sweat.
For one moment, they just stood there, watching as the rider galloped his mount into the camp at a breakneck speed.
“News,” Atholl said, and he began to run.
Margaret and Marjorie ran after him, Margaret’s mind racing. A messenger had come. The summer was over. The war had come.
They ran hard through the outskirts of the camp, which was oddly vacant—everyone had rushed toward Bruce’s tent to find out what tidings the rider was bringing. Margaret thought her lungs would burst. She prayed the news held some tiny seed of hope.
Finally they could see Robert Bruce standing with the rider, who remained astride his blowing mount. Most of the court had gathered in a circle around the king and the messenger, including the queen, Bruce’s brothers and sisters, his closest nobles, Isabella and Alexander.
Margaret and Marjorie slowed to a staggering walk, clutching one another for support, breathing too hard to speak. But neither took her gaze from Bruce and his entourage.
The rider finally ceased his diatribe and slid from his horse. Bruce simply stood there, stiff with tension, unmoving.
“Oh, God,” Margaret finally whispered, still out of breath. The news was as bad as she had expected.
Alexander suddenly saw her. They rushed to one another. “What is it? What has happened?” she cried.
He caught her by her shoulders. “Aymer de Valence is in the north—he knows where we are and is two days’ march from us.”
