William suddenly kissed her cheek, turned and strode from the room, his huge sword swinging against his thigh. The other Buchan knights followed him, but Sir Ranald did not move, looking at her.
Margaret hugged herself. “Godspeed, Sir Ranald.”
“God keep you safe, Lady Margaret.” He hesitated, as if he wished to say more.
Margaret waited, but he only nodded at Sir Neil and Malcolm, then he ran after William and the others.
Margaret heard the heavy door slam closed and felt her knees buckle as they left. She was about to sink onto the closest bench, just for a moment, when she realized that every woman and child in the room was staring at her. The great hall was absolutely silent. Slowly, she turned around, scanning the faces of everyone present—noting each fearful and expectant expression.
She had to reassure them.
Yet what could she say, when she was so frightened? When their lives might well rest in her clumsy hands?
Margaret straightened her spine, squared her shoulders. She smiled, firmly. “My brother will succeed in driving the Wolf back,” she said. “But we will prepare for a siege. Start every fire. Bring up the casks of oil from the cellars. Begin boiling oil and water.” Peg stared at her, her mouth hanging open, and Margaret realized her tone had been oddly firm, so strangely commanding and decisive.
Margaret lifted her chin and added, “Bring up the stockpiles of rocks and stones. Prepare the catapults. And as soon as William has left, raise the drawbridge and lock it and set up the barricade.”
Murmurs of acquiescence greeted her. And as everyone left to do her bidding, Margaret prayed William would chase the Wolf of Lochaber away.
CHAPTER TWO
MARGARET STARED ACROSS the castle’s ramparts, feeling as if she had been transported to a different place and an earlier, frightening time. The battlements she had walked earlier no longer resembled any castle she had ever visited in her lifetime. Trembling, she hugged her mantle to her cold body.
The ramparts were crowded with casks of oil, piles of rock and stone, slings and catapults of various sizes, and a dozen pits for fires. All the women of the keep were present, as were a great deal of children—they had sorted through the rocks and stones, assembling the various piles by size and weight, while preparing the pits for the fires they might later light, some still coming and going with armloads of wood. Although the drawbridge was closed, a small side entrance in the north tower was being used now. Margaret had quickly realized that they could not run out of wood for the fires, or oil, or stones. Not if they were besieged.
Her archers remained at the walls. Perhaps fortunately—for so she was thinking—they only had two walls to defend. Because the keep was on the cliff overlooking the loch, two of its sides were insurmountable. They had three dozen archers on the vulnerable walls, and quivers of spare arrows were lined up behind each man. Another dozen warriors stood beside the archers, armed with swords, maces and daggers.
Margaret did not have to ask about the extra dozen soldiers. Although she had never been in a siege, she took one look at them and knew what their use might be: if the walls were successfully scaled, the archers would become useless. The battle for control of the castle would turn into hand-to-hand combat.
Margaret stared down at the glen, where the huge MacDonald army was gathered. It had not moved for the past three hours.
How she prayed that meant that William and Sir Ranald were picking off each and every enemy soldier as the Wolf attempted to traverse the ravine.
She felt a movement behind her and half turned. Malcolm smiled at her. If he was afraid, he had given no sign, but then, everyone seemed terribly brave. Margaret was so impressed with the courage of her people. She hoped that no one knew how her heart thudded, how light-headed she felt—how frightened and nervous she was.
“Has there been any word?” she whispered. Malcolm had sent two scouts out earlier to report on the ambush.
“Our watch has not returned,” he said. “But it is a good sign that the Wolf cannot move his men forward.”
She shivered. Hadn’t she also heard that the Wolf had a terrible temper? He would be furious at being thwarted. Unless, of course, he was dead.
How she prayed that was the case!
“Ye should go down, my lady,” Malcolm said kindly. “I ken ye wish to hearten the men and women, but it is growing very cold out, and if ye sicken, ye will dishearten them all.”
Margaret remarked Sir Neil, on the other side of the ramparts, as he and an elderly Highlander attempted to fix one of the catapults. Peg was with them, apparently telling them how she thought it best repaired. Had the situation not been so dire, Margaret would have been amused, for Peg was so nosy all of the time. And she was also a bit of a tease, and Sir Neil was terribly handsome with his fair complexion and dark hair.
He had been indefatigable. She did not know him well, but she was impressed with his tireless efforts on behalf of the keep—on her behalf.
Of course, if they were besieged and defeated, they would all die.
She looked at Malcolm. “Is it true?” She kept her voice low, so no one would overhear her. “That the Wolf slays all of his enemies—that he never allows the enemy to live?”
Malcolm hesitated, and she had her answer. “I dinna ken,” he said, with a shrug meant to convey ignorance.
How could such barbarism be possible? “Have you met him?”
Malcolm started. “Aye, my lady, I have.”
