by Amy Jarecki
She clutched her fingers around her constricting throat. “The fever took him in the night?”
“Aye.” Mother clasped her fists to her chest and released an anguished wail. “What am I to do without him?”
Margaret’s heart squeezed. Must everything end in pain? “There, there, Ma, everything will be all right,” she cooed. “Robert is lord now. He will see to your comfort.”
“I know.” She flailed her hands. “But I am alone.”
Margaret sat beside her mother and cradled her until the weeping subsided, while knives of her own pain stabbed at her heart. Too well she knew what it was like to sit alone night after enduring night. At least she could cling to the hope Colin would eventually return. Could she not?
***
Before the funeral, Margaret paid her respects in the chapel’s vestibule. Seeing her father’s lifeless body laid out on the board hit her in the stomach. Her head swooned. She covered her mouth. Life is but a fleeting moment in time, and suddenly you are no more.
The day drudged on. Completely dazed, Margaret sat through the service. Though she tried to be strong, a voice in her head repeated, Where is Colin? Is he with Da?
Everything proceeded in a blur to the tune of her mother’s sobbing. Ewen MacCorkodale remained beside her like a wall of strength.
Margaret had retired to her chamber to dress for the evening meal when Mother tapped on the door and entered. She’d washed her face and appeared stoic. “Dear child, you must forgive me.”
Margaret crossed to her. “Whatever for?”
“Alas, you have come home, and I’ve spent the entire time wallowing in my own sorrow.”
She gave her mother an affectionate hug. “You need to grieve. ’Tis unhealthy to hold it in.”
Mother took in a deep breath and sighed. “I do not think I have any tears left.” She grasped Margaret’s hand and pulled her to the embrasure in the window and bade her to sit on the embroidered cushions. “We must talk. It has been too long since I last visited you and the lads. Tell me. What news of Colin?”
Margaret bit her bottom lip and looked at her hands.
“Still nothing?”
This time it was her turn to well with tears. Her fingers trembled. “It’s been over five years.” A tear spilled from her eye and dropped onto her hand. “I even sent a missive to the Pope, with no response.”
“And what is your relationship with Laird MacCorkodale? He didn’t leave your side all day.”
Margaret drew in a heavy sigh, fully aware Ewen’s presence must appear untoward. “He’s a friend. I asked him to remain behind in Glen Orchy, but he insisted upon accompanying me.”
“By the way he looks at you, his feelings run far deeper than friendship.”
She buried her face in her palms. “I cannot even think of it.”
Mother smoothed her hand over her daughter’s back. “You must consider the fact Colin may never return.”
Margaret splayed her fingers and cast her gaze toward the ceiling. Could no one understand how much Colin meant to her?
Mother folded her hands. “Your boys need a father.”
“But I have not received Colin’s token. He swore I would know he had fallen if a messenger arrived bearing only the…symbol.” She turned the matching ring around on her finger. She would never tell a soul about their pact. They’d sworn an everlasting vow to each other. It was the only concrete covenant she could hold on to.
“You’ve not received his token, nor have you received a single letter. As you’ve said, it has been five years.” Mother stood. “You may never see either. At some point you must come to grips with that.”
When Mother left, Margaret dashed to the bed and buried her face in a pillow. She’d held in her emotions for so long, five years of pent-up worry burst forth. Rocking herself, she wept into the satin. A gut-wrenching, torturous bout of melancholy swept over her. Colin had yet to lay eyes on John. He couldn’t be dead. She prayed to God to show her a sign.
The ram’s horn sounded, announcing the evening meal. Tears still streaming from her eyes, Margaret poured some water into the bowl and used a cloth to wash her face. It shamed her not that she’d been weeping. After all, this was a day of great mourning. Her father dead, her husband missing—who wouldn’t succumb to a bout of uncontrollable tears?
After supper, Ewen offered Margaret his hand. “Will you take a walk with me in the garden? ’Tis a fine summer’s eve, which must be enjoyed.”
With a nod she accepted, praying her eyes were no longer swollen. The fresh air invigorated her. With the azaleas in full bloom, the garden was alive with reds and brilliant pinks.
Ewen’s strides were long compared to hers. “Is it nice to be home?”
“Aye, though sad. It will never be the same now Father’s gone.”
“True, but ’tis peaceful here.”
A willow warbler called. “It seems a world away from Kilchurn.”
He gestured to a bench. “Would you sit, m’lady?”
Margaret would have preferred to walk, but something in his pinched brow made her bite her tongue and do as asked.
He kneeled in front of her, taking both of her hands between his large palms. They weren’t as big or as rough as Colin’s, but then Ewen wasn’t a warrior like Colin.
“Margaret, I have stood beside you all these years…watched you suffer in silence as you waited for Lord Glenorchy to return home.”
“Aye, you’ve been a good friend.” She tried to pull her hand away to pat his cheek, but he held her fast.
“I must ask you to reconsider my proposal of marriage.” He cleared his throat. “I love you.”
Margaret gaped, staring into Ewen’s pale blue eyes. Yes, he’d said the words, but why did she feel nothing?
His eyes pleaded. “You must know combining our houses will build the strength of our families.”
She bit her bottom lip. “Duncan is the rightful heir to the Lordship of Glenorchy.”
“Of course he is—will always be, but you are the lady. Join with me and we shall continue to build the dynasty.”
She paused a moment and measured his words, her heart heavy as a stone. “But I do not love you. I-I’m married to Colin. I’ve not received his token.” How many times must she repeat herself?
“Margaret. At some point you need to realize he’s not coming back. Your token is lost. Perhaps you should choose a date—decide upon a time when you will relinquish hope.”
He was a good man and would be a good role model for the boys. As much as she wanted to resist, Ewen’s words must be considered.
“You owe it to your own sanity, my love.”
No word in five long years.
What other option did she have? The boys needed a father—but she also needed more time. She sighed, with a nod of her head. “If Colin has not returned by the time the Kilchurn chapel is completed, I shall accept your proposal.”
Ewen held her hands to his lips and kissed them. Margaret’s heart fluttered with the image of another man doing the same. A man now lost to her.
Chapter Thirty
The Isle of Rhodes, January, 1461
The fighting continued nonstop for nine grueling months. Every living soul on the Isle of Rhodes had been driven behind the walls of the great Hospitaller fortress. Colin couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept a full night. The tension in the air was palpable, and the stench of unclean humanity and sewage sweltering in the hot sun pervaded his nostrils.
Having given up his tiny cell to a homeless family, he lay on his pallet, watching the sky. The firmament above changed from midnight blue to cobalt at the mere blink of his eye.
Dawn.
Colin rose and woke Maxwell. “’Tis time.”
Full battle armor today. The squire had gone through the ritual of helping Colin suit up so many times, the once tedious task had become nearly as easy as putting on chausses and a surcoat. Fortunately, a cool breeze blew in from the Mediterranean. It would make the fight
ing easier.
Colin spun the ring on his finger. Then he pulled it off for the first time since he’d put it on whilst Margaret watched. The Celtic pattern had worn in the past six years. He held it up to Maxwell. “Today you will not fight.”
“But I—”
“Hear me.” Colin placed the ring on a thong and tied it around Maxwell’s neck. “You will hide in the church catacombs. If I should die this day, take my ring back to Lady Margaret and tell her I love her. Tell her I did not witness a single sunrise without thinking of her.” He grasped the young man’s shoulders and shook. “Promise me you will do this.”
Maxwell’s jaw twitched, then he nodded once. “I swear my oath.”
By the time the squire buckled Colin’s last finger gauntlet, the courtyard was astir with fighting men, all in various stages of dress. No one spoke. The only sounds were of iron scraping against mail and leather slipping though buckles.
“William, bring me a tankard of water.” Colin’s voice cut through the silence.
The knight did as requested. Colin unclasped the charmstone from around his neck and dipped it in the water three times. “Lady Margaret gave this stone to me. Its charms have kept me alive all these years. Legend is anyone who drinks the water into which it has been dipped will have good health and a safe journey home.” He refastened the stone around his neck and took the first sip. “Drink, all of you. We need the stone’s special powers against the Turks this day more than ever before.”
Colin passed the cup to Maxwell and watched each man sip. He hadn’t given a second thought about the reputed magic of the stone. But it had survived with him all this time. He should have died when the boom hit his head—or in the Turkish prison, or in any of the battles he’d led in the past year. The stone hadn’t failed him, nor had it been lost. Its charms were genuine—Margaret’s charms.
Colin inspected his weapons—dirk on his right hip, sword on his left, a dagger lashed to each leg iron. He picked up his targe and pike, and headed to the stables. The groom already had Colin’s warhorse fitted with armor and saddled. He climbed up the mounting block and took the reins. Nodding his thanks, he rode back to the courtyard at a slow trot.
He glanced at the grim faces of the men—some his, others serving knights from every corner of Christendom. One thing reflected in each man’s eyes.
Fear.
That was no way to start a battle. Colin spurred his horse to a canter and rode back and forth in front of the gates until all eyes focused on him.
“Are we going to let the Ottoman Empire drive us out of Christendom?”
“No,” someone hollered from the crowd.
“One person says no? That does not sound like an army ready to face the fiercest battle of their lives.” He slammed his pike into the ground. “I ask you again. Will you allow the rutting Turks to take our lands?”
“No,” a unanimous roar boomed from the crowd.
“Will you return home a coward and a failure?”
“No!”
“Are you ready to fight for your God and your freedom?”
“Yes!”
Colin gave the signal for the heavy gates to open. “Who are you fighting for?”
“God!”
“What are you fighting for?”
“Freedom!”
“We will not let them win…”
“Deus vult, Deus vult, Deus vult!”
Leading the ancient crusader’s cry “God wills it,” Colin led the charge out the gate to face the Ottoman army.
Joined by the cavalry, Colin steadied his pike against his steed’s shoulder as they approached the enemy at breakneck speed. His fearless horse breathed a steady, but labored rhythm beneath his heavy plate armor. Colin glared into the eyes of his opponent, riding head-on, the bastard’s sword held high, ready to strike.
One step before impact, Colin raised his pike and launched it into the heart of the man who aimed to chop off his head. The Turk’s stunned eyes bulged before he fell from his horse, trampled by his own men.
Colin snatched his sword and swung, fighting the onslaught right and left, spinning his horse in the fray, heads and arms flying, men shrieking in pain, thudding to the ground. Hour after hour he fought, swinging, thrusting, hacking. There was no time to check his men. A sea of Turks washed over them. Cannons blasted from the battlements. Arrows hissed overhead, and though Colin’s muscles burned with the weight of his armor and the relentless fighting, he could not stop.
His battle lust grew until something blunt struck him from behind. Bellowing, Colin spun and swung his blade. Out of the corner of his eye, a battle hammer flung through the air, straight for his temple. The weighty weapon connected with bone-jarring force. Flung from his saddle, his eyes rolled back.
He’d never see home.
Goodbye, my Margaret. My token will release your heart.
Colin’s body thudded to the ground. Blackness took him to a place with no pain.
Chapter Thirty-One
Kilchurn Castle, 1st May, 1461
As they grew, Duncan and John became more similar—almost like twins. It was the Beltane Festival, and Margaret shared her plaid with Ewen near the big bonfire. All the children, Campbell and MacGregor skipped around the maypole, weaving their ribbons as they laughed and danced to the piper’s tune.
Ewen sipped from his flask while Margaret clapped and laughed with the children. She glanced at Ewen’s face. A quirky smile crossed his lips, and he took another swig, keeping his gaze fixed across the courtyard.
Margaret followed his line of sight. Alana’s eldest had just come of age, and she wore a gown that revealed far too much of her young flesh. Margaret grimaced, but leaned in so only Ewen could hear. “Morag just turned five and ten. She’s a sweet lass.”
He snapped his gaze away and chuckled. “A lassie such as her won’t stay a maiden for long.”
“Pardon me? Please excuse your vulgar tongue.”
Ewen took a long draw from his flask. “Apologies, m’lady. I meant nothing untoward—just making an observation.”
“I don’t care for that train of thought, especially coming from a leader of men.”
“Aye, but all men think with their cods. We cannot help it.”
“I think you may have indulged in a wee bit too much spirit this eve.” Margaret scooted away by a hand’s breadth.
He held the flask upside down and belched. “’Tis empty. I suppose I’ll have to switch to ale.”
“Mayhap you should seek your bed.”
Ewen shrugged.
Margaret pursed her lips and looked away. The laird usually wasn’t so uncouth. She hated the way Beltane and spirit brought out people’s unsavory side. Ewen was no different. Thank heavens she’d not seen him inebriated before—drunkenness didn’t become him.
The bagpipes stopped, and the children all fell to the ground in a heap of laughter. Margaret stood and clapped. “Duncan, John. ’Tis time to turn in.”
John’s bottom lip jutted out. “Och, Mummy, we’re having so much fun.”
Mistress Lena stood, but Margaret held up a hand. “I’m ready to retire. I’ll take them up.” She dipped a quick curtsey to Ewen. “Goodnight.”
She grasped the boys’ hands and led them into the tower before Ewen could protest.
“I wanted to dance some more,” Duncan complained. “You always make us go to bed when everything starts to become fun.”
Margaret strengthened her grip. She would have allowed them to stay up a bit longer had Ewen kept out of his cups. One thing she hated was watching a man overindulge in spirit. They became loose with their tongues, as well as their hands.
Amongst the courtyard filled with people, a black chasm filled Margaret’s chest, as if she were completely alone. If only Colin would return home. Alas, hope was running out.
She put the boys to bed and read them a passage from The Manual of Good Conduct for Children. Though it contained valuable and important material, it never failed to put them to sleep.<
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She shut the nursery door quietly and headed down the passage to her chamber. Footsteps echoed up the tower stairwell. Margaret listened for a moment. They were heavy steps, like a man’s. She darted to her door—Beltane was renowned for its ill effect on people. They lost their sense of propriety, became emboldened.
She grasped the latch.
“There you are.” Ewen slid between her and the door, smiling broadly.
She frowned at the sour whisky odor wafting around him. “Laird, whatever are you doing up here?” She’d never invited Ewen above stairs, and his presence here now sent prickles along her nape.
He brushed an errant lock of hair away from her face. “Do you not think ’tis time we took another step? I’ve resisted you for so long. ’Tis Beltane.” His voice grew husky. “The night when women choose their bed partner.” He placed a hand on her waist.
Margaret’s entire body shuddered. Ewen’s warm hand upon her body was nearly more than she could bear. She gazed into his pale eyes. Filled with lust, they stared at her. Her traitorous insides fluttered. No, Ewen wasn’t as handsome or brawny as Colin, but he was a flesh-and-blood man. Too many years had passed since a man placed hands on her with an unmistakable intent to ravish.
But she couldn’t.
Groaning, Ewen tugged her body against his. He crushed his mouth over her lips. Knees turning to mush, Margaret clenched her fists against her deep, base urge for passion. Heat swirled inside her loins, and her breasts ached from the friction of Ewen’s chest colliding with hers.
He thrust his tongue into her mouth. Margaret responded, sucking, swirling. Oh God, she wanted to feel a man make love to her, wanted to be caressed and dig her fingers into powerful shoulders.
But not with the fleshy man who had her backed against her chamber door. Margaret’s mind took control of her reckless senses and screamed no. She closed her eyes and pictured Colin in her arms. She must, she absolutely must remain faithful to her husband—at least until hope had run its course.
“Mummy,” a tiny voice called from down the darkened corridor.
Trembling, Margaret pushed away and swiped a hand across her mouth. “Yes, John?” Her voice shook in time with her trembling fingers.
