A Rose in the Storm. Brenda Joyce

      He nodded. “Ye should not be here, Lady Margaret. The dungeons are no place for a lady.”

      She looked past him at the soldiers and archers in the cell. No one was hurt, and for that, she was thankful. “Of course I came to see you. I must speak with you all.”

      She took a deep breath. “I have failed you all. I refused to surrender to the mighty Wolf of Lochaber, when I am but a young, untried woman. My pride as a MacDougall knew no bounds. Pride led me to believe we could achieve the impossible—that we could defeat a superior force, that we could defeat the great Wolf.” She fought rising tears.

      “Lady, we all wished to fight,” Malcolm said grimly.

      “We would do so again, if we had such a choice,” Sir Neil cried.

      “Aye,” the others agreed in a chorus.

      She shook her head and said hoarsely, “Had I surrendered, you would all be free now. Instead, you are the Wolf’s prisoners.”

      No one tried to speak now. Everyone was intent, awaiting her next words, her direction. And it amazed her that they would follow her still.

      “I am not worthy of you, and certainly, I was not worthy to lead you. The Wolf said he would spare no one if I did not surrender. I should have considered that far more carefully when I chose to fight him. But I did not.” She paused, but not for effect. She hated what she must now divulge.

      “I have begged him to change his mind. He will not do so.”

      No one moved, and no one seemed surprised. Sir Neil said, “You were the most worthy leader a knight could have, lady, and I would follow you into battle another time.”

      “Aye, I would follow ye again,” Malcolm said. “Yer the great lady of Fyne!”

      “I would follow ye, lady,” one of her archers said. “We would all follow ye, a great lady like yer mother, into battle—or anywhere ye might lead!”

      Everyone murmured in agreement.

      Margaret could not believe the extent of their loyalty. She had never been as moved, as shaken. She whirled to face Alexander.

      He stood as still as a stone statue, an arm’s length from her, his expression impossible to read.

      “I cannot bear this burden, this fault of mine! If you hang them, you must hang me, too, MacDonald!” she cried. And she had never meant anything more.

      Behind her, several men gasped. Alexander said, unsmiling, “Ye will not hang, Lady Margaret. I said so last night and I am saying so, now.” He was final.

      Before she could argue with him, Sir Neil said, “Lady Margaret, do not prostrate yourself before him. Do not submit, do not bend. This is war. Men die in war. I am prepared to die. We are all prepared to die for you.”

      Margaret hugged herself, tears now falling. She could not let them die...they would follow her into battle again...they would follow her anywhere....

      She stiffened, seized with a terrible comprehension—she thought she knew how to commute their death sentences.

      “You would follow me anywhere?” she asked.

      “Aye,” everyone said.

      Trembling, she turned to face her captor again. His gaze instantly narrowed. “You lost a great many men, yesterday,” she said.

      With suspicion, he said, “Aye, I did.”

      “My men have proven their loyalty—and their courage in battle.”

      He waited.

      “They will get down on bent knee before you, my lord, and swear their oath of loyalty to you now—if you will spare their lives.”

      He stared and she felt his mind racing. After a long pause, she said, “They will be loyal in battle, my lord, and this is war. You need every soldier you can get.”

      His stare had sharpened. “And ye, Lady Margaret? Will ye get down on your knee before me, will ye make an oath of fealty, too?”

      She inhaled, their gazes locked. She did not dare look away now—not that she had the power to do so. It was as if time had stopped.

      This was, beyond any doubt, a defining moment. She must save the lives of her men. But she was a Comyn and a MacDougall. Could she swear her allegiance to the Wolf of Lochaber—to Clan Donald?

      Her mind felt frozen now. And there did not seem to be time to think. She only knew that if she refused, he would probably execute her men; if she accepted, he would spare them.

      “Yes,” she said.

      Sir Neil cried out. “Lady! You cannot do such a thing!”

      She blinked back hot tears, thinking of her mother now. Even as she spoke, she did not look at Sir Neil—she only had eyes for Alexander. “I can, and I will. This is war, Sir Neil, and in war, men change sides all the time. Why can’t I change my loyalties, too?” But she felt a tear sliding down her cheek. Her mother would approve. She simply knew it. But she felt ill, because once she performed an act of homage to Alexander MacDonald, her family would be her enemy.

      But she must not contemplate that now.

      “Bring them up into the courtyard at noon,” Alexander ordered his guards, eyes ablaze. “The prisoners will make their vows before me—as will Lady Margaret Comyn.” With that, he looked at her.

      Margaret was taken aback. Why was he angry?

      But Alexander then whirled and strode out of the cell, across the dungeons, and vanished into the stairwell.

      Margaret hugged herself, staring after him. And all eyes remained upon her.

      CHAPTER FIVE

      “YE’LL SWEAR YER loyalty to the Wolf of Lochaber?” Peg had spoken with both disbelief and hostility.

      It was noon. Margaret stood on the topmost step of the stairs leading from the great hall into the courtyard. Her men had already assembled there—Malcolm, Sir Neil, the archers and the soldiers. They were under a heavy guard.

      The sun was high, amidst blue, cloudless skies, the mountains in the distance snowcapped. But she barely noticed the beauty of the land, for she was ill—very, very ill. In her stomach, in her heart—and in her soul.

      She looked at Peg as she came to stand beside her. “He will spare them if I do.”

      Peg’s eyes were on fire. “Yer mother despised the MacDonalds—as we all do!”

      Margaret trembled, her stomach churning. What was she about to do? Could she really get down on one knee before Alexander MacDonald, and swear to keep her faith to him and him alone, as her liege lord, for the rest of her time on this earth?

      “Mother would do what she had to do, to save her people,” Margaret whispered.

      “She hated the MacDonalds!” Peg cried.

      She had hated Clan Donald more than she had hated the English—that was true. But Margaret was certain her mother would have sacrificed her own interests, as Margaret was doing, to save the lives of the men who had fought so courageously for her.

      “How will ye go to war against yer own family? Ye’ll have to fight every Comyn now, every MacDougall. What of William? He’d never let ye do this, Margaret, if he were not so ill!”

      “Hush! Enough!” Unfortunately, every word Peg had uttered was true. Alexander was at war with all of England and half of Scotland—he was at war with the great Comyn family now. It would not be long before their armies met, the one on Bruce’s behalf, the other opposed against him. And what was she to do, then?

      Would she be at Castle Fyne, awaiting word of a battle, whilst knowing her kin was fighting her liege lord?

      She suddenly