The Striker Read online

  The MacLeans were formidable warriors, he continued, and despite their ties of kinship with the Bruces, they were still giving signs of indecision on whether they would fight for him if war came.

  Her gaze might have turned too speculative. For although her father might not have much schooling and he had as much idea on how to play chess as she did, he was shrewd, and the look he subsequently directed to John Comyn reminded her of what was expected of her.

  He need not have worried. Margaret knew her part. She liked the young nobleman well enough, and when the dancing began, she was surprised to discover that he was a good—if slightly stiff—dancer. When another man claimed her for the next dance, he was clearly reluctant to let her go, which Margaret took as a good sign.

  Swept up in the dancing and three cups of wernage—the sweetened wine having gone to her head—it took her awhile to realize that Brigid was trying to get her attention.

  When she could finally break free, her friend dragged her outside of the Hall into a small corridor.

  Brigid looked like she was about to cry. “What is it?” Margaret asked.

  “I heard them,” Brigid answered, twisting her hands anxiously.

  “Heard who?”

  “All of them,” her voice broke. “The ladies.”

  Margaret pursed her mouth. She might have thickened skin when it came to gossip, but Brigid did not. If someone had hurt her feelings, Margaret would see them regret it. “What did they say?”

  “They called us heathens,” she said in a hushed voice.

  “Is that all?” Margaret laughed and shook her head. “That’s ridiculous, Brige. You can’t let people like that upset you.”

  Brigid shook her head. “That’s not all. They are saying . . . horrible things.”

  Margaret frowned. Clearly those horrible things must be about her, as Brigid seemed reluctant to say more. “It’s all right. You will not hurt my feelings.”

  Brigid chewed nervously on her bottom lip. “It isn’t you . . . exactly. It’s more your clan. The MacDowells do not have the, er, best reputation.”

  Margaret’s frown turned sharper. Fiercely proud, she had been raised to think of the MacDowells as akin to royalty. They’d ruled over Galloway like kings—and queens—for hundreds of years. “What do you mean?”

  “The MacDowells are thought to be . . . uh . . . a little uncivilized. A little wild.”

  Margaret was indignant. “Because we do not act like Englishmen? Because we hold true to our ancient Gàidheal culture and Brehon laws more than the feudal yoke of English kings?”

  “They see it as backward.”

  “You mean us as backward.”

  Brigid shrugged indifferently, but Margaret knew it mattered to her. As much as she just wanted to dismiss it, she knew it wasn’t so easy for Brigid to do so. “They have their ways and we have ours. Just because we do things differently doesn’t make them wrong.”

  “I know that,” Brigid said, her eyes swimming with tears. “It’s just not as easy for me to ignore them as it is for you.”

  A wry smile turned her mouth. “It isn’t always easy.”

  Brigid appeared shocked by her admission. “It isn’t? But you always appear so confident. You never take anything from anyone—even your father.”

  Margaret had always thought her friend intimidated by her father, but at that moment her voice held something more like fear.

  “I am the only girl in a home of nine overbearing—or on their way to overbearing—men,” she said. “How long do you think I would have survived if I’d shown any weakness? Appearing confident was a matter of survival. I learned early that if I didn’t assert myself, I would be lost. I had to shout pretty loudly to be heard over all those male voices,” she said with a smile. “But eventually I learned to make myself heard without raising my voice.” She paused and said gently, “You can’t let them intimidate you, Brige. People like those women, if they sense blood, they’ll dive in for the kill. The trick is to not let them see that their words have wounded you.”

  Brigid eyed her skeptically. “And how might I do that? I’m not like you. I don’t have a rebellious nature.”

  Did she? Margaret had never thought of it that way, but maybe Brigid was right. She was a MacDowell, and the MacDowells were always ready to fight. “By smiling in the face of their rudeness and remembering who you are,” she replied. “A MacCan. A proud member of an old and respected clan. You are not ashamed of your family, are you?”

  For the first time since they’d arrived, her friend showed a flash of the spirit Margaret knew was lurking underneath. She looked outraged by the mere suggestion.

  Brigid straightened her spine and gave Margaret a long, proud look down the length of her nose. “Of course not.”

  Margaret grinned. “Hold that look, Brige, and smile. It’s perfect. They won’t stand a chance. And once we’ve shown them they can not intimidate us with their gossip, we’ll slay them with our most powerful weapon.”

  A slow smile crept up her friend’s delicate features, as she realized she’d been tricked. “What’s that?”

  Margaret linked her arm in hers. “Why friendliness, of course. Once they get to know us, they’ll see we aren’t all that different. We might not dress the same, and our customs might not be the same, but inside, where it counts, we are all alike.”

  Brigid shook her head and laughed. “All alike? You have the oddest ideas, Maggie. I don’t know where you get them.”

  Margaret didn’t know either. But her certainty must have convinced her friend. A moment later when they re-entered the Hall, Brigid was smiling every bit as broadly as Margaret.

  4

  A WEEK LATER, Margaret’s smile had begun to falter. Discouraged, she was having a hard time following her own advice. Good gracious, these women were as judgmental as St. Peter at the pearl gates!

  No matter how hard she smiled and tried to be friendly, her efforts were rebuffed. If anything, the disapproving looks had become less veiled and more outrightly hostile, and the whispers had grown louder and more cruel.

  From her “idiotic” gaffe with the chessboard, to being mistaken for a servant and a wanton—which she’d unknowingly added to with her apparently forward attempts to “seduce” Eoin MacLean (first by asking him to teach her chess and then by “winking” at him—it wasn’t a wink, blast it), to her gowns and uncovered hair, she’d apparently played into every ridiculous misconception they had about her and her clan.

  But she refused to let them get to her. She had nothing to be ashamed of, and she would not pretend to be meek and mute for a bunch of narrow-minded, mean-spirited women. The MacDowells were not the unruly bunch of heathens everyone made them out to be. She might have been permitted more freedom than most women, being raised in a household of men so far from society—and after a week of being at Stirling with these women who made some nuns Margaret knew seem more fun, she could concede that was certainly true—but that didn’t make her immoral.

  Could they not see how ridiculous that was?

  Apparently not.

  Before every meal she had to practically get on her knees and beg to get Brigid to leave their chamber. She didn’t know why she bothered, when they were met with such cold unfriendliness by half the guests at the castle. Even her own notorious good cheer had begun to wane.

  Fortunately, if she hadn’t made an impression (at least a good one) on the women, her ostracism didn’t extend to the men. She never lacked for dance partners, and men crowded the benches at their table for every meal. They laughed at her jokes, listened to her stories, and did not seem to mind when she made a “misstep.” Men were much more accepting of differences.

  At least most seemed to be, but she wondered about the Lord of Badenoch. Her father told her not to worry, that the son was utterly “charmed,” but Margaret did not think the same could be said of his sire. She had the sense that like his wife and daughters, the Lord of Badenoch did not approve of her. She hoped she was imagining it