by Amy Jarecki
“I shall become a stepmother?” Of course, Margaret wanted to marry, but no young woman in her right mind wanted to marry a complete stranger who’d already—and recently—fathered a child.
Da painted on one of his feigned smiles. “I’ve met Campbell. He’s not as bad as his reputation might suggest.”
Margaret was in no way convinced. Black Colin? Would he beat her and keep her locked in a tower with iron branks holding her tongue?
Mother gestured toward Margaret’s collection of trunks. “I’ve already sent for Master Tailor. There’s scarcely enough time. We leave in a sennight.”
Margaret watched her parents take their leave. Questions swarmed in her head. Black Colin? Is he grey with age? Why on earth would the king choose me out of all the eligible women in Scotland? Does he despise me? But then, the king would see this as an honor. The king has been most kind to the Lord of Glenorchy.
Margaret dropped onto the bed, completely numb. Her life was about to end.
Chapter Three
Kilchurn Building Site, 30th September, 1455.
A half-day’s ride from Dunstaffnage, Colin walked beside his nephew, Lord Argyll. Both men shared the same name, thus Lord Glenorchy preferred to use the younger man’s title. When his brother died, Colin had fostered Argyll until the lad attained his majority of one and twenty. He looked upon his nephew, only five years his younger, with pride. The lad’s impressive height matched his own. Inheriting his brother’s dark hair, he’d grown into a powerful and fearsome lord.
Neither man had broken their fast as they stood shoulder to shoulder in their quilted doublets and watched the mist rise from the depths of Loch Awe.
Colin inhaled the crisp autumn air. “I shall never tire of this site.”
“’Tis peaceful.” Argyll glanced over his shoulder at the newly completed curtain wall. “Do you ever think you’ll be finished?”
“Bloody oath, I will be. I’ve no business maintaining my household at Dunstaffnage.” Colin spread his arms wide. “Not when I am lord over these magnificent lands. Besides, every nobleman needs a castle.” A muscle above his eye twitched. “If matters would ever quiet down.” Since Jonet’s death, getting out of bed each morning had become a chore.
“Honestly, I’m surprised your mason hasn’t moved along faster. How long has it been since you commissioned him?”
“I was fighting for Rome—we both were when my father made the appointment.”
“Four years, then?”
Colin shrugged. “Near enough.”
Argyll arched a single brow. “Four years and only the curtain wall finished? What are you paying him?”
“Too much.” The mist now hung above the loch and refused to budge, just like the grey stone walls that surrounded…nothing. Colin growled. “’Tis time to reestablish Mr. Elliot’s priorities.”
Speaking of the master mason, Tom Elliot marched their way, tools swinging from a sturdy leather belt. “Lord Glenorchy.” He bowed and nodded to Argyll. “M’lord. When did you arrive?”
“Last eve, of course.” Colin fisted his hips. He never traveled without a contingent of men. Surely Elliot would have heard them arrive, the horses clomping into the wooden stable he used on his infrequent trips to Glen Orchy. “I must express my concern at your lack of progress on my tower house. How is a man to direct the affairs of his lands if he has no castle from which to do so?”
Elliot flushed red above his scraggly brown beard. “Forgive me, m’lord. But the labor situation has been most disagreeable.”
“Labor? With people starving in Scotland’s cities, you mean to tell me you cannot find a decent hand?”
“No, m’lord. With every step forward, we take a step back—sometimes we arise in the morning to see our work vandalized.”
The back of Colin’s neck burned. “Vandals? And why am I only hearing of this now?”
“I’ve sent repeated missives, m’lord.”
Colin grimaced. The situation became direr with Elliot’s every word. Not a single missive had reached him. “And who are these vandals?”
Elliot’s eyes darted around the site. He stepped closer. “The MacGregors, m’lord.”
Ballocks. Colin thought he’d appeased the squatting clan, paying them off years ago. For the love of God, they’d even sworn fealty to him. “Have you hanged anyone—made an example of a slippery cur?”
“No, m’lord. No one has been caught in the act. I think they’re all conspiring between themselves.” Elliot shook his head. “Besides, they believe these lands belong to them.”
Argyll crossed his arms. “The king would differ with that. These are chartered Campbell lands.”
Colin held up a palm to silence his nephew. There would be no question of his rightful ownership. “All rebellious actions must cease immediately. Elliot, in appointing you master mason, you have my seal of approval to deal with any lawlessness with a firm hand.” Colin shook his finger under the mason’s nose. “I will increase the guard at once. However, if I do not see progress by my next visit, I’ll have no choice but to seek out another, more enterprising mason. I want my keep completed within the year.”
“But sir, winter’s near upon us.”
“And I expect you work through the winter.”
“’Tis madness. Do you want the mortar to crack? I was just about to say we need to start mudding up the walls in preparation for the freeze. One cannot build with frozen ground and mortar. Your castle will crumble to the ground.”
Colin ground his back molars. Must everything be difficult? “It is your responsibility to see the castle is completed within the year—two at most—without structural issues. I will see to it you have the men and materials you need to take the project to completion. You, sir, will work day and night come spring if necessary.”
Mr. Elliot’s lips formed a thin line. If Colin had another option, he’d fire the mason on the spot, but skilled stonemasons were scarce in the Highlands.
Horses approached at a rapid trot.
“King’s men,” Argyll said.
Colin didn’t miss the relief that crossed Tom Elliot’s face. Yes, the approach of soldiers was a distraction, but Colin would not forget his threats. He grasped Tom’s arm and squeezed. “You shall continue building until All Hallows Day. I will see marked progress, or you shall not return to Kilchurn come spring.”
With a nod, Elliot tugged his arm away and headed toward his laborers.
The king’s man-at-arms dismounted and marched up to Colin with purpose. “Lord Campbell?”
“Aye?” Colin and Argyll said simultaneously.
The soldier’s flustered gaze darted between them. “Black Colin of Rome?”
It wasn’t always a bad thing to have an unsavory reputation. At the very least, it commanded respect. Colin dipped his head. “’Tis I.”
The man reached inside his cloak. “I’ve a missive from the king.”
Colin accepted the folded velum and ran his thumb under the seal.
“What is it?” Argyll asked before Colin had a chance to read the first word.
Colin shot him a sharp glare and focused on the scrolling penmanship. He thought he’d be relieved when he read the news a match had been made. But Colin’s palms perspired. He’d tried to push aside the fact he had asked for a flesh-and-blood woman to move in and share his home—mostly to raise his son. He arched his brow and met Argyll’s inquisitive stare. “Do you know of Lord Struan’s daughter, Margaret Robinson?”
Argyll, at two and twenty, was still unmarried. Perhaps he’d seen the lass at court. But his nephew shook his head. “I cannot say I’ve met her, though Lord Struan is a good man.”
“Aye, that he is.”
“Has the king made a match, then?”
Colin folded the missive and slipped it into the leather pouch on his belt. “Our sovereign has found a stepmother for Duncan. We must away to Stirling. I’ll need to spirit her back to Dunstaffnage before I leave for Rome.”
Argyll didn�
��t budge. “Wait a moment. You’re planning to wed a woman you haven’t met because Duncan needs a mother? You’re not the type of man to accept simply anyone.”
“How do you suggest I proceed, given the urgent message from the grand master? I’ve no desire to marry, but my son must be raised as a proper nobleman—and only another member of the nobility will suit.”
Colin hated it when Argyll studied him with wide eyes, as if he hadn’t uttered a sensible word. “And what do you assume will be Miss Margaret’s reaction to your pragmatic solution for Duncan’s upbringing?”
Colin shoved his nephew in the shoulder. “Love, cherish and obey. Remember that when you marry. Obey is the most important word in the whole ceremony.”
“But it’s in Latin.”
“Aye—however, it carries no less meaning.”
***
Margaret had only been to Stirling Palace once, and that had been a joyous occasion. Only a year ago, she’d met Lord Forbes at the baptism of the king’s third child, Alexander Stewart. Though their introduction had been brief, she’d found Forbes handsome. But her hopes had been dashed for good. Before they departed Loch Rannoch, Father informed the backstabbing lord was betrothed to an English woman.
No white knight would come to her rescue.
Along the two-day journey south, she became ill—that was what she told herself. First, she considered running away, racing her mare into the forest and hiding—amongst the outlaws? Not the most practical idea she’d come up with.
She’d pleaded with her parents until they could hear no more. The further the procession rode from Loch Rannoch, the more she grew short of breath. At one point she actually swooned. The cadence of the hooves on the stony trail tolled the knell of doom. With nothing to do but sit her horse and stare boldly ahead as if she were Joan of Arc, she rode in a state of paralyzed abandon.
Perhaps the Black Knight desired a stalwart woman who was willing to meet her fate head-on.
Late afternoon on the second day of their journey, in the distance, the palace loomed atop a cliff, presiding over the countryside like a volcano ready to erupt. Margaret’s palms slipped on her reins. She hated being out of control of things that concerned her. I swear on everything that’s holy, I’ll never be used as a pawn again.
Though her father led the procession at a steady walk, they arrived at the colossal palace far too quickly.
Shod hooves clambered over the timber bridge. Approaching the central triplet gatehouse, Margaret’s mouth grew dry. Capped with crenelated wall-walks and tall, conical roofs with a drum tower at each corner, there would be no escape. The chains of the portcullis bellowed and creaked as the heavy gate rose to welcome them through the great arch emblazoned with the lion rampant of royalty.
Trumpets announced their arrival in the courtyard. Before she could dismount, a swarm of servants surrounded them. A groom held her horse and another placed a mounting block beside her mare and offered his hand.
A chambermaid grasped her other elbow. “This way, m’lady. We’re all agog with the wedding. The queen has appointed you with the finest chamber in the White Tower.”
“Thank you,” Margaret mumbled, allowing the maid to pull her through the bustling courtyard into a dimly lit, whitewashed square tower. Her feet moved, but she felt as if she were floating. All that lay ahead was a bad dream. Certainly, she must wake soon.
***
At least they’d allowed Margaret the evening to become accustomed to her surroundings. The only word to describe her chamber was ornate. The ceiling frieze alone must have cost a fortune. A deep forest green, embossed with gold leaf, the opulence numbed her mind. Rich tapestries of purple, green and burgundy shrouded the walls, each one woven with gold thread.
She’d slept in a four-poster bed with purple velvet curtains. Unfortunately, she couldn’t enjoy the luxury. In all honesty, this room stifled her breathing like the wooden slats sewn into her new gowns.
Ever since the king’s men had visited Dunalasdair Castle, Mother hadn’t stopped preparing for the fast-approaching wedding. The morning’s doting had driven Margaret to the brink of insanity. She could handle no more of her mother’s endless prattle. Did Ma not understand how nervous she was, how utterly devastated her world had become?
Dressmakers and their assistants filled her chamber, and even now, they sat in every available chair, embroidering and stitching seams with the finest silk thread, all of which must be completed by the morrow.
The tension in the room crept over Margaret’s skin and attacked her shoulders, clamping them like a vise. Trepidation of marrying the Black Knight worsened, if that was possible. Every time she closed her eyes, she imagined a grizzly old man snarling at her with yellow teeth and an unkempt beard.
She needed fresh air. “Mother, I should like to visit the fair below the palace grounds. Did you see all the tents? I imagine there are a great many wares on display.”
Mother looked up from inspecting a worker’s embroidery. “How can you think of traipsing through a muddy fete at a time like this?”
“And why ever not?” Margaret pulled away from the tailor, crossed to the window and drew the furs aside. She craned her neck for a chance to spy the activity. I need a moment of respite even if I go alone. “Please, Ma, come with me, just for a little while. I cannot stand being poked and measured for another moment. Master Tailor has it in hand.”
The man’s bony fingers stopped stitching for a moment. He glanced to Margaret with a thankful smile turning up the corners of his mouth.
It appeared she wasn’t the only soul in the room who needed relief. One more minute in this stifling chamber, being prodded, poked and pinned was more than she could bear.
Mother wrung her hands. “I don’t know. I should really…”
Margaret grabbed Ma’s arm and tugged. “Come. I’ll go mad if I remain inside—Black Colin won’t want to marry a lunatic. Mayhap you’ll find a suitable fur to replace your winter cloak. Pleeeease.”
Mother smoothed her hands over her white wimple and reached for a woolen mantle. “Very well—but only a quick walk around the grounds, and then straight back. I think ’tis best to keep you hidden from the nosy nobility. Let their eyes behold your beauty on the morrow.”
Margaret snatched her green velvet cloak and slipped the hood over her head. She cared not if she was covered—she was escaping this chamber and all the worrisome thoughts that had her innards twisted in knots.
Margaret looped her arm through her mother’s as they paraded out Stirling Palace’s fortified north gate, with two of her father’s guardsmen following at a respectful distance. The throng below hummed. White tents flapped in the breeze with a mass of colorfully costumed nobles and not-so-colorfully dressed commoners. They moved in a web of activity, accompanied by minstrels playing lutes and wooden flutes. Smells of humanity burned her nostrils—how invigorating it was to be out of doors. Everywhere Margaret looked, something was for sale—pigs, fruit and food to her right. Bright textiles, leathers, knives and everything imaginable ahead and to her left.
When she spied a bowl full of red apples, her mouth watered. She hastened to the display. “The fruit looks delicious.”
A dirty-faced vendor with brown teeth grinned at her. “Fancy a peck of apples, m’lady?”
“Perhaps.” Margaret mulled over the assortment of pears, dates and nutmeats. A young tot peeked out from behind the vendor’s cart. His blue eyes sparkled from beneath a layer of dirt. The child’s hair was matted, his cheeks sunken. Why, he appeared half starved. Margaret’s heart squeezed. She smiled at the child and snapped her gaze to the vendor. “I’d like a half-dozen each, apples, pears and dates, if you please.”
The man’s grin spread to his ears. “Aye, m’lady. Have ye a basket?”
Margaret bit her lip and glanced back to her mother. In her haste to leave, she hadn’t thought to bring one. “Have you a basket for sale? It appears I’ve left mine behind.”
“Honestly,” Lady Stru
an groused in Margaret’s ear.
The vendor held up a gnarled finger. “I’ve just the thing, but I’ll have to charge ye a penny.”
Mother gasped. “Thievery.”
Margaret held up a hand. “’Tis only fair. I should have thought to bring mine.”
The man filled the rickety old basket and held it out. “Four pennies, m’lady.”
She dug in her leather purse that hung from a cord on her belt, and handed him the coins. “Thank you, sir.” Margaret shifted her gaze to the laddie and plucked the largest apple. “This one’s for you.”
A huge grin lit up the child’s face. “Ta.” His darling little voice peeped when he accepted the gift with both hands.
Mother grasped her elbow and led her into the throng. “How could you allow that man to take advantage of you so?”
Margaret twisted her arm away. “I did no such thing. Did you see the half-starved child hiding behind the barrow?”
Mother frowned.
“I was simply buying the lad enough food to last through winter. Had I a mind to barter, I would have paid no more than one and a half.”
“Thank heavens someone else will be providing your allotment in the future. It pains me to see coin tossed away with such frivolity.”
Margaret tightened her grip on the basket handle. She loved her mother dearly, but the woman thought charity was giving alms at Eastertide and that was the end of it. She’d seen plenty of hardship, collecting rents from the estate’s crofters. A master with figures, Margaret knew full well her father could support a number of starving commoners without feeling the slightest pinch to his coffers.
Mother led her toward a tent filled with textiles. “Cloth from the east is more worth your coin, my dear.”
Margaret sighed. She’d spent the past week up to her eyeballs in cloth, standing for hours on end while the tailor pinned and snipped an entire new wardrobe. Dutifully crossing the grassy aisle, Margaret followed her mother’s lead. A juggler caught her attention. Dressed in bright yellow and red with a pointed hat, he tossed three balls high in the air.
