How she wished she had not. The great barons of Scotland were furious with the humiliation King Edward had delivered upon them by stripping all her powers—she would now be ruled by an Englishman, an appointee of King Edward’s. There were fines and taxes being levied upon every yeoman, farmer and noble. She would now be taxed to pay for England’s wars with France and the other foreign powers he battled with. He would even force the Scots to serve in his armies.
But the coup de grâce had been the brutal execution of William Wallace. He had been dragged by horse, hanged, cut down while still alive, disemboweled and beheaded.
Every Scot, whether Highlander or lowlander, prince or pauper, baron or farmer, was stricken by the barbaric execution of the brave Scottish rebel. Every Scot wanted revenge.
“Of course my marriage was made for politics,” she said, aware that her voice sounded strained. “No one marries for affection. I expected a political alliance. We are allies of the Crown now.”
“I did not say you should have a love match. But our uncle is hardly an ally of King Edward’s! This is beyond politics. He is throwing you away.”
Margaret would never admit to him that if she dared think about it, she might feel just that way—as if she had been thoughtlessly and carelessly used by her uncle for his own ends—as if she had been casually tossed away, to serve him in this singular moment before his loyalties changed again. “I wish to do my part, Will. I want to keep the family strong and safe.”
William moved his horse close, lowering his voice. “He hardly has a claim, but I think Red John will seek the throne, if not for himself, then perhaps for King Balliol’s son.”
Margaret’s eyes widened. Red John Comyn, the Lord of Badenoch, was chief of the entire Comyn family, and lord even over Buchan. He was like another uncle to her—but truly he was a very distant cousin. Her brother’s words did not surprise her—she had overheard such speculation before—but now she realized that if Red John sought the throne, or attempted to put the former Scottish King John Balliol’s boy Edward upon it, Buchan would support him, leaving her married to an Englishman and on the other side of the great war that would surely ensue.
“Those are rumors,” she said.
“Yes, they are. And everyone knows that Robert Bruce still has his eye upon the Scottish throne,” William said with some bitterness. The Comyns hated Robert Bruce, just as they had hated his father, Annandale.
Margaret was becoming frightened. If Red John sought the throne—if Robert Bruce did—there would be another war, she felt certain. And she would be on the opposite side as an Englishman’s wife. “We must pray for this peace to hold.”
“It will never hold. I am going to lose you, too.”
She was taken aback. “I am getting married, not going to the Tower or the gallows. You will not lose me.”
“So tell me, Meg, when there is war, if you become loyal to him—to Sir Guy and Aymer de Valence—how will you be loyal to me?” His expression one of revulsion and anger, William spurred his gelding ahead of her.
Margaret felt as if he had struck her in the chest. She kicked her mare forward, hurrying after him, aware that he wasn’t as angry as he was afraid.
But she was afraid, too. If there was another war, her loyalty was going to be put to a terrible test. And sooner or later, there would be another war—she simply knew it. Peace never lasted, not in Scotland.
Dismay overcame her. Could she be loyal to her family and her new husband? And if so, how? Wouldn’t she have to put her new husband first?
Her gaze had become moist. She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders, reminding herself that she was a grown woman, a Comyn and a MacDougall, and she had a duty to her family now—and to herself. “We will never be enemies, Will.”
He glanced back at her grimly. “We had better pray that something arises to disrupt your marriage, Meg.”
Suddenly Sir Ranald, one of Buchan’s young knights—a handsome freckled Scot of about twenty-five—rode up to them. “William! Sir Neil thinks he has seen a watch in the trees atop the hill!”
Margaret’s heart lurched with a new fear as William paled and cursed. “I knew it was too damn quiet! Is he certain?”
“He is almost certain—and a watch would scare the wildlife away.”
Sir Ranald had ridden in front of them, blocking their way, and they had stopped on the narrow path. Margaret now realized that the forest surrounding them wasn’t just quiet, it was unnaturally silent—unnervingly so.
“Who would be watching us?” Margaret whispered harshly. But she did not have to ask—she knew.
MacDonald land was just beyond the ridge they rode below.
Margaret looked at Sir Ranald, who returned her gaze, his grim. “Who else but a MacDonald?”
Margaret shivered. The enmity between her mother’s family and the MacDonald clan went back hundreds of years. The son of Angus Mor, Alexander Og—known as Alasdair—was Lord of Islay, and his brother Angus Og was Lord of Kintyre. The bastard brother, Alexander MacDonald, was known as the Wolf of Lochaber. The MacDougalls had been warring against the MacDonalds over lands in Argyll for years.
She looked up at the forest-clad hillside. She saw nothing and no one in the snowy firs above.
“We only have a force of fifty men,” Will said grimly. “But there are four dozen men garrisoned at the castle—or so we think.”
“Let’s hope that Sir Neil saw a hunter from a hunting party,” Sir Ranald said. “Master William, you and your sister need to be behind the castle walls as soon as possible.”
