A Rose in the Storm. Brenda Joyce

her mother—the most courageous woman she had ever known. “I cannot surrender Castle Fyne.”

      He stared up at her, a terrible silence falling.

      No one moved now—not on the ramparts, not in his army.

      Only Margaret moved, her chest rising and falling unnaturally, tension making it impossible to breathe normally.

      And then a hawk wheeled over their heads, soaring up high into the winter sky, breaking the moment. And disgust covered the Wolf’s face. Behind him, there were murmurs, men shifting. More whispers sounded behind her. The sounds were hushed, even awed, from behind and below.

      Finally, he spoke, coldly. “Yer a fool.”

      She did not think she had the strength to respond. Sir Neil flinched, his hand moving to his sword. She had to touch him, warning him not to attempt to defend her. She then faced the dark Highlander below her again. “This castle is mine. I will not—I cannot—surrender it.”

      She thought that his eyes now blazed. “Even if ye fight alone?”

      “Someone will come.”

      “No one will come. If Argyll comes, it will be after the castle has fallen.”

      She swallowed, terrified that he was right.

      It was a moment before he spoke again, and anger roughened his tone. “Lady Margaret, I admire yer courage—but I dinna admire defiance, not even in a beautiful woman.”

      Margaret simply stared. She had given him her answer, there was nothing more to say.

      And he knew it. The light in his eyes was frightening, even from this distance. “I take no pleasure in what I must do.” He then lifted his hand, but he never removed his eyes from her. “Prepare the rams. Prepare the siege engines. Prepare the catapults. We will besiege the castle at dawn.” And he turned and disappeared amongst his men, into his army.

      Margaret collapsed in Sir Neil’s arms.

      * * *

      PEG SHOVED A cup of wine at her. Margaret took it, desperately needing sustenance. They were seated at one of the trestle tables, in the great hall. Night was falling quickly.

      And at dawn, the siege would begin.

      Sir Neil sat down beside her, not even asking permission. Malcolm took the opposite bench. Peg cried, “Ye should have surrendered, and it isn’t too late to do so!”

      Margaret tensed, aware that Peg was terrified. When she had left the ramparts, she had gazed at some of the soldiers and women there—everyone was frightened. And how could they not be?

      Alexander MacDonald had been forthright. If they did not surrender, he would defeat the castle and spare no one.

      She hugged herself, chilled to the bone. Should she have surrendered? And dear God, why was such a decision hers to make?

      She inhaled and set the cup down. “Is it possible he is telling the truth? Is it possible that Red John is dead—and that Robert Bruce has seized the royal castle at Dumfries?”

      Sir Neil was pale and stricken. “Bruce has always claimed the throne, but I know nothing of this plot!”

      “Even the Wolf would not make up such a wild tale,” Malcolm said. “I believe him.”

      She could barely comprehend what might be happening. “Is Bruce seeking the throne of Scotland? Is that why he attacked Dumfries?” And did that mean that Sir Guy was there with his men? Sir Guy was in service to King Edward. He was often dispatched to do battle for the king. Was that why MacDonald had claimed no one would come—because Sir Guy would be occupied with his own battles for King Edward?

      Sir Neil shook his head. “Bruce is a man of ambition, but to murder Red John? On holy ground?”

      “If the damned Wolf is telling us the truth,” she said, “if Red John has been murdered, Buchan will be furious.” The Comyns and Bruces had been rivals for years. They had fought over the crown before—and the Comyns had won the last battle, when their kin, John Balliol, had become Scotland’s king. “A great war will ensue.” She was sickened in every fiber of her being—these events were too much to bear.

      “Lady Margaret—what matters is that if this is true, Red John will not be coming to our aid. Nor will Sir Guy.”

      Margaret stared at Malcolm as Peg cried, “We can still surrender!”

      She ignored her maid. “But Argyll will come to our aid if he can.”

      “If the land is at war, he might not be able to come,” Sir Neil said grimly. “And MacDonald claims he has the means to stop him.”

      She looked at Sir Neil and then Malcolm. “I am frightened. I am unsure. So tell me, truly, what you think I should do?”

      Malcolm said, “Your mother would die defending Castle Fyne.”

      Sir Neil stood. “And I would die to defend you, my lady.”

      God, these were not reassuring answers!

      “But, my lady, if you decide you wish to surrender, I will support you,” Malcolm said.

      Sir Neil nodded in agreement. “As would I. And no matter what MacDonald has said, you can decide to surrender at any time—and sue him for the terms he has already said he would give you.”

      But that did not mean the Wolf would give her such terms. He had been very angry when they had last parted company.

      Margaret closed her eyes, trying to shut out the fear gnawing at her. She tried to imagine summoning MacDonald and handing him the great key to the keep. And the moment she did so, she knew she could not do such a thing, and she opened her eyes. They all stared at her.

      “We must fight, and pray that Argyll comes to our aid,” Margaret said, standing. If they were going to fight, she must appear strong, no matter how terrified.

      The men nodded grimly while Peg started to cry.

      * * *

      MARGARET DID NOT sleep all night, knowing what would begin at dawn. And because Peg kept telling her that she must surrender, and that she was a madwoman to think to fight the Wolf of Lochaber, she had finally banned the maid from her chamber. Now, she stood at her chamber’s single window, the shutters wide. The black sky was turning blue-gray. Smoke filled the coming dawn. The sounds of the soldiers and women above her on the ramparts, speaking in hushed tones as they stoked the fires and burned pots of oil, drifted down to her.

      She could not bear the waiting, and she had never been as apprehensive. She heard footsteps in the hall on the landing, and she picked up her mantle, threw it on and hurried out. Sir Neil stood there, holding a torch.

      “Are we ready?” she asked.

      “As ready as we can be. If they think to scale our walls, they will be badly burned, at the least.”

      And that was when she heard a terrible sound—a huge and crushing sound—accompanied by the deep groaning of wood.

      “It has begun,” Sir Neil said. “They are battering the first gates on the barbican.”

      “Will they break?”

      “Eventually,” he said.

      Margaret hurried past him, heading for the stairwell that went up to the crenellations. He seized her arm from behind. “You do not need to go up!” he exclaimed.

      “Of course I do!” She shook him off and raced upstairs, stepping out into the gray dawn.

      Smoke filled the air from the dozen fire pits, as did the stench of burning oil. The sky was rapidly lightening, and Margaret saw men and women at the walls, but no one was moving. “What’s happening?” she asked.

      Malcolm stepped forward and said, “They are just moving their ladders to our walls.”

      Margaret