The Striker

by Monica McCarty

  But maybe most of all she missed the freedom. She missed galloping across the countryside with the wind tearing through her hair. She missed being able to go where she wanted and say what she wanted without having to worry about offending someone or doing something wrong.

  She was wild, she realized. And now she felt caged. Margaret didn’t know how much more of this she could take. She was dying on this island. Each day she was losing more and more of herself.

  Her only escape was at night. At night she held tight to the memories of her husband and the love she felt for him, as she touched her body as he had. At that moment he seemed closer. But when she woke, the loneliness was even worse.

  The only bright spot in the weeks that followed after Eoin left was the day not long after May Day, when Fin rode out with Eoin’s father and brothers to join the call to rally to Bruce’s banner. He hadn’t followed her again since the day Eoin had come home, but she was still relieved to see him go.

  Marjory, on the other hand, was heartbroken. Thinking that perhaps their shared grief and fear over the men who’d gone off to battle might bring them closer, Margaret had made yet one more overture to her sister by marriage. But it was harshly rejected. It seemed Margaret wasn’t the only one aware of Fin’s unwanted attention toward her. Marjory, however, suffered under the illusion that the attention was solicited. She accused Margaret of “flirting” and “toying” with Fin in her boredom and “need to have all the men fawning over her.”

  Margaret had protested and gently tried to warn her about Fin, but Marjory was blinded by love and refused to countenance any criticism of the handsome young warrior. Margaret left her to her illusions, but hoped for Marjory’s sake that she learned the truth before tying herself to a man who Margaret was certain would only bring her heartbreak.

  Even Tilda seemed different. Margaret found out why about a week after Eoin left, when she asked Tilda if she wanted to go out on the skiff—the girl loved sailing almost as much as Margaret did—and she’d shaken her head without meeting her gaze. Eventually she’d squeezed an explanation from her. “My brother said well-brought-up young ladies don’t sail boats by themselves.”

  Margaret argued with her, until she realized it wasn’t Neil or Donald, but Eoin who’d spoken to her. Apparently, Lady Rignach had threatened to marry Tilda to the son of a nearby laird if she continued in her “wildness.”

  It shouldn’t have hurt so much, but it did. Was Margaret such a bad influence that Tilda had to risk being sent away rather than spend time with her? Is that what Eoin thought, too?

  But by far the worst part of intolerable weeks that passed was not knowing what was happening, and the constant fear that came from knowing that her husband was in danger. With no word from him since he left, she had no idea where he was, what he was doing, or whether he was lying somewhere injured—or, God forbid, worse.

  He’d told her nothing about his plans, and if Lady Rignach knew more, she did not share it with her son’s MacDowell bride. News of “King” Robert’s movements was sparse and took an interminable time to reach them. It was early July by time they heard of Bruce’s disastrous defeat at Methven two weeks before. Bruce’s forces had been decimated, crushed under the mighty English king, Edward I, the self-described Hammer of the Scots. And it was another agonizing week of waiting and imagining before Lady Rignach received word from her husband telling her that they had all survived, although Neil had suffered a serious arrow wound to his shoulder.

  For weeks Margaret stared out the window, looking for a ship, praying that Eoin would see the uselessness of Bruce’s cause and return to her. No one—not even the charismatic knight she’d met at Stirling—could defeat Edward of England. And certainly not with only half of Scotland behind him.

  It wasn’t until late August that she saw a birlinn of warriors approaching from Oban. She ran down the stairs of the tower house into the bailey just as the men started stumbling through the postern gate from the dock like the walking dead. Although not all were walking. Some were limping, some were being helped by marginally more able men, and a few were being carried on litters.

  Heart in her throat, Margaret scanned the grimy, bloodied faces of the men for someone familiar. But it wasn’t until she saw the bloodied face of the man speaking to Lady Rignach that she recognized one of the laird’s captains. He’d lost part of his arm, which was wrapped in a bandage that was bloody and dirty enough to make Margaret’s stomach lurch.

  But it was her heart that lurched a moment later, when Eoin’s mother paled and gave a pained cry that rose above the din of chaos.

  Margaret reached her just as Lady Rignach’s legs gave out. The look on the proud lady’s face was not one Margaret would ever forget. Her formidable mother-in-law looked shattered and suddenly very fragile.

  Margaret helped Lady Rignach inside, called for wine, and sat her on a bench in the Hall. Marjory and Tilda joined them at some point. Eoin’s sisters stood to the side, looking as anxious and scared as Margaret felt. For once, Marjory was happy to let her take charge.

  As soon as the housekeeper brought the wine, Margaret asked her to gather the servants and start preparing beds, food, and to send for anyone with knowledge of healing. The men flooding the bailey would need to be cared for.

  By the time she returned to Lady Rignach, the other woman had stopped shaking and looked marginally more composed. Steeling herself, Margaret forced herself to ask the question. “What has happened?”

  Tears seeped from the corner of Lady Rignach’s eyes. “It’s over. My nephew’s cause is lost.” She drew a deep, shaky breath. “Bruce’s army was all but destroyed yesterday at Dal Righ by the MacDougalls.”

  Tilda and Marjory cried out in despair, as Margaret fought to steady her wobbly knees. Oh God, Eoin! Please don’t say . . .

  Her chest, her eyes, her heart burned.

  “Father? Our brothers?” Tilda asked.

  Lady Rignach shook her head. “Connach isn’t sure. He believes they escaped with the king, but it was chaos as they were forced to flee the battlefield and disappeared into the hills. The men who were too injured to follow were left to make their way home. The army has been disbanded, and the MacDougalls and their allies are hunting for what is left of Bruce and his supporters.”

  “Fin?” Marjory asked breathlessly.

  Lady Rignach shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  Something in Marjory seemed to snap. She turned on Margaret, her eyes blazing fury. “I hope you are happy. You and your traitorous family have won. Maybe your father is dancing on my brother’s grave?”

  Margaret gasped, looking at the girl in horror.

  “Marjory, that’s enough!” Lady Rignach said. “Margaret is your brother’s wife. It is not her fault her clan chose to side with our English enemies.”

  The subtle dig masking as a defense snapped the last threads of her control. “My father chose to fight for his king—the rightful King John—and not for the man who murdered his kinsman.” She turned from a stunned Lady Rignach to her daughter. “I love your brother, and when I married him I gave him my loyalty. Have you ever thought for one moment how difficult this is for me? Can you imagine what it is like to know that my husband is fighting my father and brothers, and the torture I live with every day wondering if they are meeting across some battlefield? I chose none of this, and I’m doing the best I can under difficult circumstances. I know you hate me and think I’m not good enough for Eoin, and maybe you’re right, but he chose me. He wanted to marry me, whether you want to accept that or not, and maybe if you can’t give me the benefit of the doubt, you should give it to him.”

  They stared at her in shock, even Tilda.

  Margaret knew she’d probably made a mistake, but she could not stand there another minute and hold her tongue. She was never going to fit in here anyway. No matter what her husband wanted to think.

  Without another word, she turned and walked away. The men in the bailey needed her, and it would help her kee
p her mind off Eoin and the uncertainty of knowing whether he lived or died.

  She was done trying. She just prayed her husband kept his promise better than she.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing. Chief is going to be furious, when he discovers you’ve gone.”

  Eoin stared at the man who’d been his partner in the Highland Guard since the first day of training on the Isle of Skye over nine months ago. He and Lamont—known by the war name Hunter—had been through hell and back the past three months. They’d saved each other’s lives more times than he’d like to recall. There was no one he trusted more, which is why he’d confided in him.

  Tor MacLeod wasn’t just going to be furious, he was going to kill him. The leader of the Guard would never grant Eoin leave at this time, which is why he hadn’t asked permission. But Eoin couldn’t leave Scotland for God knew how long without telling his wife. Except for MacLeod—who’s wife was privy to everything and safe on the Isle of Skye—Eoin was the only guardsman who was married. At times like this, he could understand why. It gave him a responsibility the others didn’t have.

  “I’ll be gone two days—no more. I will catch up with you at Tarbert. Chief will barely have time to notice I’m gone.”

  Neither of them believed that. Chief would be cursing him to Hades as soon as he woke and discovered Eoin was gone. He didn’t want to think about his punishment when he returned.

  “Assuming you can make it past the MacDougalls. They’ll be patrolling every inch of waterway between here and Dunaverty.”

  After the loss at Dal Righ at the hands of the MacDougalls, Bruce and what were left of his men were on the run. After fleeing the battlefield, they’d taken refuge in a cave on the northern shore of Loch Voil in Balquhidder—MacGregor country. But with the MacDougalls hunting them from the west, the Earl of Ross from the north, and the English closing in from the east and south, there was no place safe for them to hide. They had to leave Scotland. From here they would make their way to Dunaverty on the southernmost tip of Kintyre, where they hoped Erik MacSorley, the best seafarer in the West Island kingdom of seafarers, would be able to slip a ship past the English blockade.

  “That is why I plan to swim the short distance from Oban to Kerrera tomorrow night. I’ll cross back before dawn, and make my way through Argyll. They won’t be looking for one man on a horse.”

  Lamont didn’t look convinced but nodded. “Bàs roimh Gèill,” he said in parting.

  Death before surrender—the motto of the Highland Guard, and Lamont’s way of wishing him good luck.

  The words were with Eoin on the treacherous journey over fifty miles of rough terrain, filled with more sightings of war parties than he’d anticipated. But less than twenty-four hours later, he was trudging up the shore of Kerrera. Soaking wet and cold, but he’d made it.

  Not sure what he would find, he approached the postern gate of the darkened castle cautiously. The MacDougalls would come here eventually, but for now, he hoped they were too busy trying to catch Bruce.

  The bell for curfew would have been rung hours ago, and the castle gates were locked. But recognizing the guards on watch, Eoin took a chance and approached. The man called for the porter, and a short while later the gate was unlocked. Eoin was home.

  He woke his mother first. After she recovered from the shock and he’d assured her of their well-being, she found him some dry clothes while he told her what he could of their plans. Knowing his time was short, he asked her to bid farewell to his sisters and went to wake his wife.

  The sob of relief that tore from Margaret’s throat, and the feel of her in his arms a moment later, made the risk he’d taken in coming to her worth it.

  “Thank God, you are alive,” she sobbed against his chest. “I was so scared. But the nightmare is over. You are back. I missed you so much. I didn’t know how much more I could take.”

  He cursed the words that he must speak, knowing how hard they were going to be for her to hear. She’d sat up to throw her arms around his neck, and now he gently pushed her back so that he might look at her. “It’s not over, Maggie. But I couldn’t leave without letting you know I was alive—without saying goodbye.”

  She blinked, as if she’d misunderstood him. “What do you mean goodbye? Of course it’s over. Bruce has been defeated. His cause is lost.”

  Eoin shook his head. “It’s not over. Bruce has been defeated, aye, but he has not lost. We will regroup and return when we are ready to fight again.”

  She looked at him as if he were mad. “Regroup? You can’t be serious. Bruce can’t have but a handful of supporters left. His army has been disbanded. Those who were not killed in battle have renounced their loyalty to Bruce and surrendered either to John MacDougall, the Earl of Ross, or the Earl of Buchan.”

  Eoin’s jaw hardened; he was well aware of the men deserting the king. His own foster brother was among them. The betrayal stung, but he was trusting Fin to protect his family. “I haven’t. Nor will I.”

  “But you have to!” There was a wild, panicked looked in her eye that he’d never seen before. “You can’t stay with him, you’ll be hunted like a dog and executed. Everyone knows what happened to William Wallace—do you want to die like that?” Her hand clutched at his arm, as if willing him to listen. “My father will help. If we go to him now, he’ll see that you aren’t punished.”

  He carefully detached her hand. “I’m not going to your father, Maggie. Not now, not ever. My place is with Bruce, and it will be as long as there is a breath of freedom in his lungs.”

  “Which won’t be long when King Edward gets ahold of him. There is no rock big enough to hide under for Bruce and his men. King Edward will have every man from Ross to the Borders looking for you.” Which is why they were fleeing the mainland, taking refuge in the hundreds of isles in the western seas. “Where will you go?”

  He looked at her mutely.

  “You won’t tell me?” she said, the hollowness of hurt echoing in her voice. “Of course not.”

  He cursed, raking his fingers through his hair frustratingly. Damn his kinsman to hell for doing this to them. “I can’t, Maggie. It’s not just my secret. I took a vow.”

  “And it has nothing to do with my being a MacDowell?” When he didn’t deny it—couldn’t deny it—her expression hardened. “Don’t be a fool, Eoin. Don’t do this. Don’t give your life to a lost cause.”

  Eoin tried to keep a rein on his temper. He hadn’t expected her to understand, but neither had he expected to be called a fool. After fighting beside his cousin for months, Eoin’s belief in Bruce’s cause had only grown stronger. But Eoin knew that was the last thing his wife wanted to hear. She only wanted him safe. “I didn’t come here to argue with you, Maggie. I came to say goodbye. I don’t know how long it will take, but I will be back.”

  She shook her head frantically. “No, you can’t leave me here. If you will not listen to reason then take me with you. I can’t stay here any longer without you.”

  His chest tugged, hearing the desperation in her voice. “I would if I could, but it’s impossible. Where we are going is no place for a woman.” Bruce had sent his own wife, sister, and daughter away. Lachlan “Viper” MacRuairi was leading them and the Countess of Buchan east to Kildrummy Castle.

  “I don’t care. I swear I will not be a burden. Just don’t leave me here alone. Please,” she cried. “I can’t bear it.”

  Coming here had been a mistake. He was only making the situation worse. Her voice was verging on hysterical. He tried to soothe her panic by taking her in his arms, but she was stiff and unyielding.

  “I would if I could. You have to believe that.”

  She wrenched out of his arms with a hard jerk. “I’m tired of believing. I’m tired of waiting here, while you disappear for months without telling me anything. We’ve been married almost a year, and we’ve spent less than three weeks of that together and shared a bed but one night. One night, Eoin. You can’t leave me here. I won’t allow it. Either st
ay or take me with you or . . .”

  Eoin knew she was upset, and he was trying to be understanding, but he didn’t like ultimatums. “Or what, Maggie? What choice do you have? This is the way it must be.”

  Her mouth pursed stubbornly, and she turned her head from him in the candlelight. He could almost hear what she was thinking, and it infuriated him. Fin’s words of warning came back to him. Why did she have to be like this? This wasn’t easy for him either. Couldn’t she at least try to understand without making demands? Lady Barbara would have known her duty. This was war, damn it.

  But she was young and impatient—he’d known that.

  Taking her chin, he forced her gaze back to his. “You are my wife, Margaret. You will stay here and wait for me—where you belong.”

  “I don’t belong here! Not without you. I can’t do this anymore.”

  His chest pounded from the blow. She didn’t want to be married to him. His jaw was locked so hard, he could feel the pulse in his neck ticking. “Maybe so, but as it’s too late for second thoughts, I suggest you do your best to live with it. Who knows, maybe you’ll get lucky, and King Edward will put you out of your misery.”

  She gasped, staring at him with a stricken look on her face. Tears filled her eyes, but he was too angry to offer her comfort.

  “How could you say something like that? The fear of something happening to you has haunted me every hour of every day that we’ve been apart. I love you, it’s just that I can’t . . .”

  But she had to. They both knew that. She was his wife.

  She gazed at him helplessly, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  The anger seeped out of him. He drew her into his arms again, and as he could say nothing to comfort her, he just held her as she sobbed. They made love almost out of desperation, but it only seemed to widen the chasm between them.

  When he left a short while later, she would barely look at him. He felt like he was ripping apart. He’d come home to make things better and had only made them worse. And he feared that time and separation were cleaving a distance between them that he would never be able to bridge.