Pride of the Clan

by Anna Markland

  “’Tis no wonder ye are both exhausted. Poor bairn could barely stay awake to suckle,” Hannah declared. “Ye must get to bed. Yer husband was right ye should have stayed at Dunalastair in yer condition.”

  Margaret admitted inwardly the journey had been harder on her than she’d expected. Her feet had swollen to twice their size and her back ached like the devil. “But I had to come for Logan’s wedding,” she whined, wondering if her aches and pains and premonitions of an ill-wind had been brought on by the ghosts of Blair.

  Hannah pecked a kiss on the sleeping babe’s forehead. “I agree with my lord Rheade. Women in their fifth month shouldna be traipsing around the Highlands, especially when they’re carrying the clan’s heir.”

  Margaret recognised that arguing with her lady’s maid would be futile. Hannah had become the irrefutable authority on everything since they’d first met in Stirling, and had assured everyone her mistress’s third child would be a boy. It was true this pregnancy had been more difficult, but it didn’t necessarily mean anything. Rheade longed for a son, but he’d never censured her for their two daughters. If ever a man was in love with his bairns, it was Rheade, and at eighteen months, Isobel Roberston knew it.

  Margaret made an attempt to prize her hips out of the comfortable chair. “I suppose Logan and his lady will be leaving the gathering soon, I must—”

  Hannah snorted. “Losh! My lord Logan and his Douglas bride are long gone to their nuptial chamber.”

  A memory surfaced of her own wedding night, when Logan had hinted at shenanigans. “I canna credit I didna hear a commotion,” she said, conjuring a vision of her fun-loving husband leading the bawdy well-wishers. “Did Rheade go with them?”

  “Nay,” Hannah whispered. “Keegan and his pals took care of the nonsense, not to mention the rowdy lot from the Douglas clan. Yer husband’s too busy with his daughter.”

  Their attention was drawn to shouts coming from the Hall itself. “Well, something’s going on in there,” Margaret said, managing to extricate her weight from the chair. “Take Jocelin to our chamber. I’ll follow soon, I promise.”

  She waddled into the Hall, alarmed that the mood was now far from festive. Angry men brandished swords, calling for revenge. Something had gone terribly awry. She quickly located Rheade. He came towards her, Isobel in his arms. He tried to pass the bairn to her, but his daughter clung to his neck like a limpet.

  “What’s happened?” she asked, trying to ignore the lead weight in her belly that made her feel twice the size she was.

  Rheade kissed his wailing daughter’s head. “She’s upset at the commotion, and no wonder,” he rasped. “News has come from Stirling. Queen Joan has been arrested.”

  She gasped, envisioning the haughty Queen’s anger. Her fury when Archibald Douglas assumed the Regency was legendary, though the recently departed Douglas had proven to be a wise Regent. “Arrested?”

  “Aye, the thing we feared after Archibald’s death might yet come to pass,” he replied, smoothing a hand over Isobel’s blonde braids. “Those who’ve long coveted Douglas’s power have moved to exert their control over the young King.”

  He glanced back at the angry crowd. “The Douglases in attendance here are already clamoring for action, and naturally Tannoch is urging them on. We must return to Dunalastair at first light.”

  Her heart filled with sadness for Logan. Her wedding night had been interrupted by a family crisis. Her brother-by-marriage had wed into the family at the center of civil strife. Her confused thoughts went to the child crowned at the age of seven on the day of Robert Stewart’s execution. “But where is King James?”

  “The conniving Livingston claims to have placed Joan and her new husband under what he calls house arrest,” Rheade explained. “Our boy King is purportedly not a prisoner, but he too is at Stirling, and Livingston is warden there now.”

  It struck her as ironic. “Little did the Black Knight know what he was in for when he married Joan.”

  Isobel reached for Margaret. “Mamaidh!”

  “I’ll carry ye, Isobel,” he said sternly.

  The bairn pouted but buried her face in his neck, thumb stuck firmly in her mouth.

  Rheade put a hand under Margaret’s elbow and guided her out of the noisy Hall. “Marrying into a clan like the royal Stewarts was fraught with danger, and Garth must have known it, especially now Crichton holds power over Scotland.”

  “But he shares it with a Douglas, the Earl of Avondale,” she replied, relieved her husband was carrying Isobel who she suspected had fallen asleep. She uttered a silent prayer of thanks their chamber was on the ground floor.

  “Aye, but there’s no love lost between families when the thirst for power rears its ugly head,” he said.

  She recognised sadly that had been true of Rheade’s own brother, though since resigning the chieftaincy, Tannoch seemed content to play the role of elder of the clan.

  “But what do they hope to gain from arresting the Queen?” she asked when they arrived at their chamber.

  Rheade opened the door and ushered them in. “They’ll force concessions so they control the King.”

  Hannah rushed to Rheade and lifted Isobel from his arms.

  Distraught, Margaret might have collapsed to the floor had Rheade not taken her into his embrace. “No matter what happens, I love ye more than life. I’ll do everything in my power to keep the Robertsons out of the conflict, but now Logan’s wed a Douglas—”

  She stood on tiptoe to kiss him, annoyed her girth lay between her and the reassuring male hardness she craved. “Ye’re a great chieftain. Ye’ll safeguard yer clan. Now I must get off my feet.”

  He returned her kiss, delving his tongue deep into her mouth. “The taste of ye strengthens me,” he rasped. “No matter what the future holds, we’ll face it together.”

  SORROW

  Dunalastair Castle, One month later

  Exhausted, Rheade rode into the bailey of his home, the tidings he bore weighing heavily on his mind. He wished he brought better news.

  He and Logan had spent the better part of the past month away from home, riding from one castle to another, trying to gauge which way the wind blew among the Scottish nobility in the matter of Queen Joan.

  He pitied his younger brother, obliged to spend so much time away from his new bride. At least he and Margaret had enjoyed two years of relative peace in the Highlands. But he’d worried about leaving her. It was evident she was struggling with her latest pregnancy. He’d barely noticed she was with child when they were expecting Isobel and Jocelin, but this time was different. He prayed Hannah’s prediction was right. He chuckled inwardly. A feisty lad was what he wanted in a son.

  Tannoch came to greet him as he dismounted. His expression was grim, but there was naught unusual about that. “What news?” his brother asked.

  Rheade thanked Joss as he took the reins. “He’s like Fion,” he observed to his brother. “Appears out of nowhere exactly at the right time.”

  Tannoch huffed impatiently as they walked into the keep. “Aye, he’s a wonder,” he said sarcastically. “Now, what news?”

  Fion appeared with a tankard of ale. The man never seemed to age.

  Rheade gulped down the refreshing brew and belched, thumping his chest. “See what I mean?”

  Tannoch scowled.

  It struck Rheade as odd his wife hadn’t come to welcome him home, something she never failed to do. “Where’s Margaret?” he asked.

  Fion glared at Tannoch then scurried off.

  A knot formed in Rheade’s belly. “Where is my wife?”

  Tannoch put his good hand on Rheade’s shoulder, confirming by that action alone something was amiss.

  “First yer news,” his brother insisted, digging his fingers into Rheade’s flesh.

  He might stand here for hours arguing with his stubborn brother. “Livingston has released the Queen and Garth.”

  One of Tannoch’s rare half smiles greeted this news. It would disappear when
he heard the rest. “But he has extracted what he wanted. She has turned over custody of King James to him, and surrendered her dowry for his maintenance. In addition, she’s signed an acknowledgement Livingston acted only in the interests of the King.”

  “So Livingston and Crichton and the cursed Douglas of Avondale have what they wanted,” Tannoch hissed.

  “Aye,” Rheade replied impatiently. “Now where is my wife?”

  “Abed,” Tannoch replied.

  “Is she ill?” he asked, his worry increasing.

  “In labor,” came the laconic reply.

  Rheade’s heart stopped. “’Tis too early,” he shouted, running to his chamber.

  “Dinna worry,” Tannoch called after him. “She’s in good hands. My wife’s with her.”

  Taking the steps two at a time, Rheade wondered bitterly what help Glenna would be. The woman’s disposition had improved considerably since Tannoch had surrendered the chieftaincy, but she’d never birthed a babe, and he didn’t recall she’d been much help when his daughters had come into the world.

  His alarm grew when he espied Fion pacing outside his chamber. The auld retainer moved to block the door with his body. “Dinna go in, laddie. The women are with her.”

  He grabbed fistfuls of his hair, fearing he might go mad. “This canna be happening,” he thundered, towering over his faithful servant. “What women?”

  “Hannah, and Glenna, and the midwife, o’ course,” Fion replied softly. “Now, ye must wait patiently like all fathers, and pray for yer wife and bairn.”

  Rheade stepped back lest he retch on Fion. “I canna lose her,” he rasped. “He’s come too soon. I should never have left her alone.”

  Fion laid a hand on his arm. “Mayhap, but they’re in God’s hands now, and Lady Margaret knows ye had to do yer duty as laird.”

  He swallowed hard, wishing he’d never become chieftain. His racing heart slowed, until it struck him. “Why can I not hear anything from the chamber?” he growled. “Let me in.”

  Fion averted his gaze, but stood his ground. “Nay!”

  He was saved from having to manhandle the Steward out of the way when the door creaked open. Fion stepped aside as Glenna emerged. It was evident she’d been weeping. He’d never seen Glenna weep.

  He braced his legs, unable to control the trembling of his body. “Tell me,” he croaked.

  She took hold of both his hands. Alarm surged when she inhaled deeply.

  “The babe is lost,” she said, her breath hitching in her throat. “There was never a chance. He came too early.”

  A son! How he’d longed for a son. His heart bled. For himself and for Margaret. She would be devastated. If she’d survived. The question died in his constricted throat.

  “She cried out for ye,” Glenna murmured, pulling her hands from his manic grip. “Ye can go in, but dinna stay too long.”

  The door stood open, but his legs refused to carry him over the threshold. He’d failed the one person he loved more than life. He peered inside, gripping the doorframe when the midwife abruptly turned away, a tiny bundle wrapped in linen cradled in her arms.

  Hannah was closing the draperies around the bed, her face wet with tears. She curtseyed. “’Tis heartsore I am, my laird.”

  He must have walked the few steps to the bed, must have opened the draperies, must have looked upon his wife’s ashen face and grieved her loss.

  Sobbing, he fell to his knees and took hold of his dead wife’s cold hand. “Margaret,” he breathed. “How can I live without ye?”

  “I’m nay dead yet,” she replied hoarsely, “but I reckon I came close.”

  Relief flooded him as he leapt to his feet and showered her wet face with kisses. “I’m sorry about the bairn,” he whispered. “Verra sorry.”

  She sifted her fingers through his hair. “Aye. Ye wanted a son.”

  “And we’d have had our laddie were it not for the strife tearing our land apart,” he said, unable to hide his bitterness.

  “Nay, Rheade. Ye canna blame anyone. ’Twas God’s will.”

  Hannah loomed at his side. “My mistress needs rest,” she declared. “As do ye. Dinna fret. I willna let her die.”

  He came to his feet and turned around, relieved the midwife had disappeared with her bundle of grief. A burial would have to be arranged, and he’d eventually have to look upon his dead bairn. Time enough for that. He resolved to devote his efforts to helping his wife heal.

  Let powerful noblemen play their deadly games. His first duty lay with his wife and family. He took Hannah’s hand. “I thank ye. But I willna leave her side again.”

  EPILOGUE

  Dunalastair Castle, Fourteen months later

  Rheade paced outside the chamber where his wife labored to bring forth their child. The moaning that had gone on for nigh on a day and a half had rendered him witless. He hadn’t shaved, slept or eaten since the ordeal started. Early on, he’d been allowed into the chamber from time to time, and even been permitted to bring Isobel and Jocelin for a brief visit.

  Five hours had passed since anyone had emerged from the chamber to invite him back. He supposed he should be thankful Margaret had survived the loss of their son, and her screams reassured him she still lived. His own mother had died in childbirth. He shoved away the painful memory.

  Fion’s son appeared. The stairs were now too much for the auld man, and Menzies had taken over most of his duties. He was a capable Steward, but lacked his father’s knack for anticipating events.

  “My lord Logan has been sighted nearby,” he announced. “Riding at speed with a large contingent.”

  Rheade was reluctant to abandon his vigil, but Logan must be making this unexpected visit for some good reason. His gut clenched. The last time bad news came to Dunalastair, he’d lost a son. He cast a worried glance at the closed door then hastened to the bailey to greet his brother, arriving there a moment or two before Tannoch.

  His older brother may have reformed his belligerent behavior, but his continuing penchant for the whiskey and his disdain for bathing caused Rheade to stand downwind of him as they watched Logan and his men dismount. “Ye stink, Tannoch,” he said. “But then I suppose ye dinna care because I’ve told ye often enough and ye do naught to remedy the problem.”

  Tannoch made a mock bow. “Ye’re right, my laird,” he replied in a voice edged with sarcasm. “But by the look on Logan’s face, I’ll wager ye’ll have more to worry about than my irksome habits.”

  Anxiety gnawed at Rheade as Logan approached, his clenched jaw an ominous sign. “What news?” he asked as they clasped arms.

  “I need a drink before I can tell ye,” Logan replied, slapping Tannoch on the back.

  Menzies appeared with tankards when they entered the keep. Logan drained his in one long gulp. “Ale for my men,” he said to the servant who immediately hurried off.

  Logan braced his legs. “The Earl of Douglas and his brother have been murdered.”

  Rheade was sure he’d misheard. “Nay, Archibald Douglas died more than a year since.”

  Logan shook his head. “I’m speaking of his sons, the new Earl, Uilleam and his brother Daibhidh.”

  “Uilleam’s but a boy of sixteen, Daibhidh younger,” Rheade protested as the catastrophic news seeped into his veins, turning his blood to ice.

  “Aye,” Logan agreed. “Two innocents lured to Edinburgh Castle two days ago by an invitation from King James to dine at his table.”

  A glimmer of understanding flickered in Rheade’s mind. “But James is only ten. Surely he didn’t plot such a crime?”

  Logan inhaled deeply, accepting another tankard from Menzies. He stared into the liquid. “’Twas Crichton organised the occasion. The meal was served. While the lads were eating, the head of a black bull was placed on the table in front of the Earl.”

  “The symbol of death,” Tannoch said, rubbing his beard with the back of his good hand.

  “Then the Douglas lads were dragged out to Castle Hill, tried on so
me trumped up charges and beheaded.”

  Rheade remembered Archibald Douglas, an honorable man who’d ruled fairly, and whose sons now lay dead, butchered by lesser men. He thought of his wife, laboring in the upstairs chamber to birth his son, God willing. It took strength and pain and love and hope to bring a bairn into the world and raise him, and only a moment for that precious life to be snatched away by men greedy for power.

  The young king had likely been convinced the butchery was for his protection.

  “Clan Douglas thirsts for revenge and they have already laid siege to Edinburgh Castle,” Logan announced. “I’m obliged to fight with them.”

  Logan wouldn’t ask, but Rheade recognised his duty to support his brother. He didn’t know if he would go to Edinburgh or not. But one thing he knew for certain. “My wife is in labor. This news must not reach her ears.”

  Logan was contrite. “Forgive me for being the bearer of bad news on such an occasion. How goes it?”

  “It goes well,” Fion rasped from behind them. “They’re looking for ye upstairs.”

  Rheade suddenly felt light-headed. He came close to tripping over his own feet as he made for the stone steps. “It goes well,” he babbled. “Fion said so. I didna see the auld man sneak up on us, did ye? I hafta go. They’re looking for me.”

  His brothers’ laughter echoed on the landing as he paused, breathless, outside his chamber. He put an ear to the wood. No sobbing or lamenting. Indeed, female chatter from within reassured him. Mayhap he had a son. He smiled broadly, praying his wife and bairn had both weathered the journey, and slowly opened the door.

  Margaret lay in the bed propped up with pillows. She looked tired, and her hair had seen better days, but she was smiling. And holding a bundle. His heart did a peculiar flip inside his chest.

  “Come and meet yer son,” she murmured in the sultriest voice he’d ever heard.