“How is that possible?” Was Sir Guy with him? Of course he was!
“Some of our scouts were captured, tortured and hanged.”
Margaret stared into his eyes and saw how worried Alexander was. “What will happen now? What will we do?”
“I dinna ken. But we must plan and we must do so swiftly.”
He had hardly finished speaking when a woman’s scream rent the afternoon. It was a scream of protest and anguish, a wail unlike any other. Margaret’s gaze flew past Alexander.
Christina Seton was on her knees before Robert Bruce, screaming in protest and sorrow. Bruce dropped down to his knees and pulled her into his arms. She screamed again, pummeling him repeatedly.
Margaret felt tears flood her eyes as she gazed up at Alexander. He put his arm around her. “Sir Christopher was captured and hanged.”
* * *
SHE HAD LEARNED to hate the forest.
Margaret sat her mare in single file now, as Bruce’s court and his army traversed a narrow ravine in Dalry. The king and his soldiers led the cavalcade at a walk, the queen and her women following. Behind them were more knights, and behind them, the foot soldiers. There were no wagons, no supply carts. They had fled Aberdeen with what could be carried by hand, or upon one’s back.
The morning was shockingly silent. No birds chirped from the pines on the slopes of the gully, no squirrels raced through the trees. No one spoke—it was not allowed. The only sounds being made were the steady clip-clop of their horses’ hooves, the jangle of their bridles, the creak of their saddles.
She had come to hate the silence, too—she feared it.
Had the enemy finally caught up to them, and was it lying in wait, around the next bend? Or was it Bruce’s own men and women who had chased the wildlife away?
She had lost count of the days that they had been traveling through the forest. She had lost count of the nights. She slept in Alexander’s arms, but sleep had become impossible. Beneath the open stars, they listened for the same sounds of pursuit among each and every sound of the night, when the forest came alive. Brush whispered, leaves sighed, owls hooted, wolves howled.... At night, it would be almost impossible to discern an enemy that was stalking them.
For how long could they go on this way?
Bruce believed he could elude the English and find sanctuary in Argyll—upon MacDonald lands. They were in Argyll now. But they were not on lands belonging to the king of the isles—they were on MacDougall lands.
Margaret did not want to think about Alexander MacDougall of Argyll, her mother’s brother, now. But she did. He had never responded to her single plea for aid last February, after Alexander had besieged Castle Fyne. He was at war with Bruce and he was at war with Alexander. She could not wait till they had crossed his lands.
Her glance wandered to Christina, who remained deeply in grief. She rode with her head bowed, which she never lifted, her entire body hunched over. From time to time, she wept. Christina was so anguished that she had not spoken more than a syllable since they had left Aberdeen.
Margaret knew she would be as inconsolable, should anything happen to Alexander. But maybe there was hope. Maybe they would somehow arrive safely at a MacDonald stronghold....
Suddenly, Highland war cries rent the day.
Margaret halted her horse as arrows whizzed from the treetops above the ravine, as soldiers leapt down from the trees and rocks above them, as knights began charging down the precarious sides of the gulch. In front of her, a horse screamed, struck by an arrow, and collapsed. She realized in horror that Marjorie was astride it! But before she could cry out, battles began between Bruce’s men and the attackers, up and down the column, throughout the ravine. Screams sounded, both the screams of horses and men. In horror, she saw several of their knights falling from their mounts, slain by Aymer’s archers.
In panic, she prepared to flee, except the ravine was narrow—and there was nowhere to flee to!
A man seized her, pulling her from her mount. Terror gave way to relief when she slid into Alexander’s arms.
He dragged her across the ravine, through the fighting men, the wheeling horses, the bodies already strewn about, and shoved her into a crevice between several boulders. “Marjorie!” she cried.
“Stay here,” he ordered, and then he whirled and ran into the melee.
Margaret watched him swiftly engage an English knight, exchange blows and expertly knock the man’s sword from him. He pulled the knight from his horse and thrust his sword into his enemy’s chest. He then leapt astride the English charger and turned to face his next opponent, sword raised. He moved with such practiced grace and speed it seemed a blur.
Frantically, Margaret looked for Marjorie. Hundreds of men filled the ravine, most on foot, although a dozen knights were close to where she hid, including Alexander. Everyone was engaged in life-and-death combat.
Finally she saw Marjorie, on foot, hunched over, trying to run through the warring men.
“Marjorie!” Margaret screamed. But she knew she could not be heard, not when everyone was screaming, when arrows were whizzing, when horses were neighing....
Margaret glanced for Alexander, but he was far down the ravine, still astride, and slaying those in his path. She ran from the boulders.
