She wondered at his words, though. It had seemed as if he meant that it was fortunate for her, that Sir Neil was so loyal. But he was not her knight now.
Her stomach churned. Soon it would be her turn. Could she really betray her family? But there was no choice. She had promised to do just that, and Alexander was fulfilling his end of the bargain.
Malcolm had paused before Alexander, and before he even spoke, Margaret knew a crisis was at hand. His shoulders were stiffly set, his head tilted with defiance. His gray eyes blazed.
Alexander’s calm demeanor changed; his hand went to the hilt of one sword. “Ye will not make homage today?”
“I will never swear an oath of fealty to ye, MacDonald,” Malcolm spat.
Margaret gasped as Alexander said, “Hang him.”
She rushed forward. “Malcolm, you will die this day if you do not make your vows!”
He faced her, eyes blazing. “I am a MacDougall, Lady Margaret, and I gladly die—a MacDougall!”
She cringed. He would never change his mind. “Oh, Malcolm! This is my fault! I should have surrendered the castle to him!”
“No, lady, ye were brave, and I am proud to have served ye, even in defeat. And I will not judge ye for what you have decided to do this day. I ken, ye wish to save the lives of yer men. But I canna go against my brothers, my uncles, my cousins...not even for ye.”
She started to cry.
Two of Alexander’s men now seized Malcolm, one of them shackling his wrists behind his back. They marched him across the courtyard, past the great hall. A scaffold was at the far end of the bailey.
Margaret watched the three men, Malcolm walking proudly between the MacDonald soldiers, until she simply couldn’t see. Her tears entirely blurred her vision.
“Ye have only lost one man today—and the choice was his, not yours, to make.”
She faced Alexander furiously. “You could still spare him!”
He studied her. “I cannot spare him.”
She actually understood why Malcolm could not be spared, but she hated Alexander anyway.
And she hated herself for crying. For failing to surrender when given the chance, and for what she must now do. Margaret dropped to both knees. She wiped her wet face on her sleeves, and joined her hands as if in prayer, then held them out. She could not breathe properly now. More sobs threatened, from deep within her chest.
He seized her hands. “Get up,” he said. As he spoke, he dragged her dead weight upward, until she was standing.
“What are you doing?” She tore her palms from his. “I haven’t made my pledge yet!”
“I will not accept yer vows.”
She was so distraught, so desperate, so angry, at first, she did not understand him and she stared through her tears. And as he stared back, his face hard, she realized what was happening. “You deceived me? Is this treachery? You said you would spare them, if I swore my oath of fealty, too.”
“I am not accepting yer oath, Lady Margaret,” he said, in that tone she hated, that tone that was as final as the word of God.
She screamed at him. “This is trickery! You have tricked my men! They were following me!”
He looked past her. “Get her maid. Take her away,” he said.
Her men were loyal to her. They had only pledged their faith to Alexander, because they were following her—because they expected her to do so, too! She could not allow her men to pledge to him, and then fail to do so, herself.
Margaret sank back down to her knees. She held out her hands, but gazed up at Alexander. “I, Lady Margaret Comyn, of Castle Fyne, daughter of Mary MacDougall, niece of the Earl of Buchan, do swear to you, Alexander MacDonald, lord of Castle Fyne, son of the lord of the isles, my faith, here and now, for as long as I live—God help me and strike me down if I lie!”
“Get up,” he snapped at her. “I dinna accept!”
She shoved her hands upward, at him. “Bastard!”
Flushing, he said fiercely, “Get her on her feet, and get her gone.”
