William had healed completely, and he was eager to plan an escape. He was impatient to join their uncle Buchan and go to war against Bruce. With an ever-present guard, they could not discuss such matters openly. William was an avid artist, and allowed to sketch, and he managed to slip her an occasional note, hidden within his drawings.
At least a week had passed since the battle of Cruach Nan Cuilean when she was sewing in her chamber by candlelight one evening. She had seen William earlier and she was concerned—he had used his eyes to communicate to her that he wished to speak with her. Margaret felt certain he had come up with a plan of some kind. She was going to have to use her sleeping potion on the guard so they could converse freely. She stabbed her forefinger with the needle, crying out.
“How did ye prick yerself?”
She tensed, her gaze slamming to her door, which was now open. Alexander stood there.
He smiled slightly. “Yer too skilled to make such a mistake. I wonder at yer deep thoughts.”
She set the embroidery down, aware of a new tension. Alexander was such a big man that he dominated her small doorway.
“Ye have been avoiding me—dinna try to deny it.” He stepped into her chamber and now she saw that he held a scroll, one tied tightly with twine.
“Is that a missive?”
“Buchan has written ye.” Alexander’s small half smile never wavered. He came forward. “He has written me as well, asking after ye—and demanding yer release.”
She slid unsteadily from the bed, breathless with excitement now. “Have you replied?”
“No.” His gaze moved over her—she was wearing a simple leine with a belt, instead of one of her usual gowns. “Ye look like a Highland lass.”
She felt like hopping from one foot to the other, so impatient was she. “I am a Highland lass. What will you say, Alexander?” A pleading note had crept into her tone.
He handed her the rolled-up parchment. “I will refuse, Margaret. The time isn’t right for a ransom or yer release.”
“Will it ever be right?”
“I dinna ken.”
She sat down, untying the twine. “Did you read this?”
“No, but I will. He will expect me to read it,” he added, rather unnecessarily.
Margaret barely heard him.
February 19, 1306
My dear niece Margaret,
I have received word of the siege of Castle Fyne and its fall. Your courage in defending the castle moves me to hold you in the highest regard. My brother would be so proud of you if he were with us today, as would the great lady Mary. Had I known of the siege, I would have come to your aid, but alas, the news has but reached me recently.
I need you to have courage now. The land is at war. Robert Bruce attempts to claim Scotland’s throne. If you have not heard, he has murdered our cousin Red John in a church in Dumfries. We go to war, Margaret, for Bruce must never be allowed to take the throne, and he must be punished for our cousin’s murder. As I write to you, asking for your patience, I am gathering our allies and soldiers. We will fight with England now, for Scotland’s freedom from a bitter and conscienceless rival.
I have asked MacDonald for your and William’s release. However, your value as a hostage is being widely discussed throughout the land, and whether he will release you or not is uncertain. It is also clear that he will hold Castle Fyne if he can. I have offered him other lands; he has refused. In such a time of war, between kings and traitors, it will be difficult to raise an army with which to rescue you.
However, I know you to be a strong, proud woman, capable of enduring captivity in his hands, so if all fails, you will have to wait for the Wolf’s defeat in battle to attain your freedom. But have hope. That day will come. And know that you are not forgotten.
You are a boon to the great Comyn family, Margaret. Sir Guy sends his regards, as we all do.
God keep you safe.
Your uncle, John Comyn, the Earl of Buchan
Margaret was in disbelief at the significance of his letter. She was being abandoned.
“The news is not good?”
She thrust the parchment at Alexander. Then she stood, feeling as if her uncle had struck her. No, he had not struck her—he had tossed her away. “He is not coming. Not to free us—nor to take Castle Fyne back.”
