She felt her stomach contract with pain. “How is William?”
“He is weak, but he is healing. There is no infection,” Alexander said. “Do ye have a death wish, now? To stand barefoot on the stone in the midst of winter?”
“I have no plan to die.” As if he cared—but then, of course he did—she had a great value to him as his hostage.
“How pleased I am to hear that.” He faced Peg. “Get her shoes.”
Peg fled past him into the chamber, seizing Margaret’s shoes. She stepped into them, never removing her gaze from his. “Why did you deceive me? Why did you refuse my act of homage? I could be your vassal now.”
“Do ye wish to come down and dine?” he asked flatly, indicating he had no wish to answer her.
She said, very coldly, “I would rather starve than dine with you.”
“I am not foolish enough to invite ye to dine with me. Ye hate me. I ken. But ye must eat.”
“I am your hostage so you want me alive. I am tempted to starve myself just to deny you.” How she meant it. Thwarting him in any way would give her a great satisfaction.
Behind him, Peg gasped. His eyes were chilling now. “Yer defiance will not serve ye well, and yer clever enough to comprehend that.” He turned. “Feed her.” He strode back down the stairs.
Margaret held out her hand and Peg rushed to her, seizing it. “How can ye defy him? He is our master now!”
“I can and I will—and he will never be my master,” Margaret said. Then, “Is William truly getting better?”
“He is awake, and there is no infection. But he remains weak, having lost so much blood. Still, he is asking about ye. Oh, I have been so worried about ye, Margaret!”
Margaret smiled grimly at her. At least her brother was on the mend, and she thanked God for that. She ignored Alan, who remained at attention, not far from his stool. “And Sir Neil? How is he?”
Peg started. “He has been terribly worried about ye, Lady Margaret. We all have.”
She absorbed that. “And what of the fact that MacDonald would not let me swear fealty to him? Are they furious?”
Peg hesitated. “I dinna think so. I think they’re relieved.”
Margaret grimaced, imagining that Peg was right.
“And they are occupied with the tasks being given them,” Peg added. “Every man has been set to repairing the fortifications. Our soldiers are getting on with the Wolf’s men. They do not seem to mind being his men, either.”
She wondered at that. “Has there been any news? Any news of this war between Bruce and the English, any word of Buchan or even Sir Guy?”
Peg lowered her voice. “I have only heard the Wolf speaking once, to Padraig—that Bruce went directly to Glasgow from Castle Ayr.”
She was so weak and so hungry, it was hard to make sense of this fact. “That is all you have heard? What does that mean? Why would Bruce go to that city?”
“To seek absolution for his sins,” Peg said. She shrugged. “’Tis what I heard, and he did murder Red John inside a church!”
“He cannot receive absolution,” Margaret said. “He will surely be excommunicated by the Pope—if he hasn’t already been. Oh, if only we could learn whether or not Buchan and Sir Guy know of the fall of Castle Fyne! Peg, we must have war news!”
“Aye, in time, but right now, his lordship is right, ye must eat, Lady Margaret, so ye can gain back yer strength—if ye still wish to fight him.”
Peg was right—she needed her strength, and all of her wits. “Peg, I am a Comyn and my mother’s daughter. I will fight him until I take Castle Fyne back—or until I die.”
Peg flushed. “I dinna think ye’d have changed yer mind. But ye should not speak of dying.”
Margaret nodded. She was seventeen, and she did not want to contemplate dying anytime soon. They went down the narrow stairwell side by side, Peg supporting her by holding her elbow. The great hall was empty, and Peg left Margaret alone at the table, rushing off for a meal.
Margaret stared at the hall. No one had changed the rushes, and no one had scented them with lavender. She saw some scraps and bones along the walls on the floor, where his men’s pallets were piled up until the evening. There were some rotting morsels of meat on the table, too, not far from where she sat.
Her every instinct was to order the rushes removed, the floors swept clean, the tables scrubbed, and new rushes brought in. But this was his keep for the moment, and she must not lift a finger to improve it.
