Margaret reached the edge of the crenellations and hung over them breathlessly. It was a brisk autumn day, the seas beyond the beach choppy with white foam, the sky above bright and blue, clouds racing across it. She saw six galleons beached below, and then she saw Bruce striding up the last of the road leading to Dunaverty’s front gates.
Three dozen men were behind him. Everyone carried their swords, but nothing else. Bruce was thin and gaunt, as were his men—frighteningly so. And many of the men were barefoot. Their hair was long, she now realized, their clothing in tatters. She was shocked.
When she and Alexander had left Bruce at Dalry, they had not been so lean, and he had had no more than twenty men. Tears filled her eyes. She could not imagine what had happened as they had tried to flee the mainland of Scotland to Kintyre.
But the cheers did not abate. Bruce had not changed otherwise. His head was high, his shoulders square. He did not look like a man who had suffered defeat after defeat. He smiled, holding up his hand. The crescendo increased. The crowd roared its approval.
When Bruce had disappeared from view into the entry tower, Margaret returned to the keep. She hurried inside, intent on getting down to the hall, for she wished to learn what had happened.
Bruce stood with Alexander and Angus before one hearth, the rest of his men already being given wine. Margaret slowed her pace as she approached.
The king saw her. He smiled. “Lady MacDonald. Congratulations. You have made a fortunate choice.”
Margaret bowed her head. “Your Majesty.” Then she met his piercing blue stare. The moment she did, she saw the resolve in his eyes—the strength in his demeanor.
Robert Bruce had been defeated, but nothing had changed. He was Scotland’s king.
He turned back to Angus and Alexander. As she listened, she learned about how he and his men had been reduced to surviving upon roots, berries and small game. With winter approaching, it had been terribly cold, causing everyone to suffer. They had found shelter in caves.
They had been able to avoid a dangerous journey through MacDougall lands at Loch Lommond, by finding a sunken boat to carry them across the loch, in stages. By now, they were near starvation. Bruce divided his men into two hunting parties, as they were desperate for venison. And by sheer good fortune, the sound of their hunting horns was heard by the Earl of Lennox, who was also out hunting that day. A wonderful reunion ensued, as each man had thought the other to be dead.
Bruce and his men then joined Lennox at his camp, as he was in hiding, as well. There, they managed to eat and drink, and then go on to meet Neil Campbell, who had been sent ahead after Dalry and who had two galleys waiting for them.
Bruce now paused, handing his cup to a passing maid for more wine. Angus clasped his shoulder. “But ye live. The king of Scotland lives.”
“Was there ever doubt?” Bruce asked with his usual arrogance. “There can be no delay. I am sending my brother to Ireland to raise men from my estates there, and I will visit my brother’s wife, Christiana of the Isles, as she will also give me men.”
Margaret heard them discussing an invasion of Scotland in the following spring. She was in disbelief. Bruce’s army had been reduced to a handful of starving knights. Yet he intended to invade Scotland and rejoin the war against King Edward in a matter of months! Aghast, she left the men.
But as she went upstairs, she began to think of how Bruce had thus far stolen Scotland’s crown, and survived attack after attack by the mightiest army in the land. His ambition knew no bounds. If anyone could raise a mighty army now, it was Robert Bruce.
She was alone in their bedchamber, needlepoint in her hand, when Alexander came in many hours later. He smiled at her. “How can ye see to sew now?” Only two tapers were burning, while a small fire crackled in the hearth.
She set the embroidery down. Her heart had filled with warmth the moment Alexander had entered the chamber. How she loved him, for better or for worse. “Will Bruce be able to raise another army—one strong enough to fight King Edward?”
“Can ye doubt it?” Alexander came to her and took her into his arms. “I ken ye hate war.” He kissed her temple. “But ye married a warrior, Margaret. Do ye have regrets?”
She turned and put her arms around him. “I will never regret loving you or becoming your wife.” For a moment, she simply pressed her face to his chest. Then she looked up. “I am glad Bruce lives, Alexander.” And she meant it.
“Yer becoming a MacDonald, Margaret,” he warned, with a gentle smile.
“I hope so,” she said.
* * *
ALEXANDER WAS THE one to bring her the letter from her brother. It was a crisp October day, the skies bland and gray, the seas dark, the waves high. “Ye have a letter, Margaret, from William,” he said, smiling.
His smile seemed odd but she ignored it, thrilled to have a missive from her brother. She had written to him shortly after her marriage, telling him that she was now Alexander’s wife. She had written a lengthy and similar letter to Buchan. She did not know if her uncle would ever reply, but she was ecstatic to hear from her brother.
She eagerly read his every word. “He is at Balvenie now,” she reported to Alexander. She read on and looked up. “He is enjoying days spent hunting and fishing.” She read more. “He does not mention Buchan’s reaction to my letter!”
Alexander sat down next to her. “Is there more?” he asked quietly.
She suddenly realized that his eyes were dark, his expression grim—something dire had happened. She picked up the parchment and read the final two paragraphs, her insides curdling. “Kildrummy has fallen.”
“Aye,” he said.
In horror, she reread what William had written.
