by Amy Jarecki
Bone crunched. Margaret screamed, digging her heels into her mare’s barrel. Searing pain radiated up her arm. Was the bone shattered?
The mare leapt over a mass of fighting men. Her arm jostled with mind-numbing pain. Mevan appeared from nowhere and latched on to her bridle. Galloping at full speed, he led Margaret from the mayhem.
She clutched her arm against her body. Warm blood oozed through her sleeve and dripped to her skirts. She dared glance down and push her sleeve back. The skin was broken, and a large knot swelled under the throbbing pain.
“Are you all right, m’lady?” Mevan hollered.
“My arm is broken,” she managed a high-pitched reply.
“Hold on. I’ll have you to the castle in no time.”
Mevan drove the horses hard, the steady grunt of air forced through their nostrils with every pounding step. White froth bubbled on the mare’s neck. Margaret’s arm jostled. She gritted her teeth against the jarring, and focused her mind on the trail, on getting home to her boys—anything but the fearsome face of the barbarian who attacked her.
The forest opened.
Kilchurn loomed ahead.
“Open the gate,” Mevan boomed.
He rode straight into the courtyard and gingerly pulled Margaret from her horse, cradling her in his arms. “Summon the healer at once.”
Margaret placed a shaking hand on his mailed chest. “Thank you. I can walk.” Her head spun.
“I wouldn’t hear of it, m’lady. I’ll see you to your chamber.”
He carried her up the winding stairwell, straight to the comfort of her bed. Again she thanked him. “Do you know who attacked us?”
Mevan’s brow creased. “Never seen them before—outlaws, for certain.”
“What about the other men?”
“We should know soon. Any survivors won’t be far behind.”
Alana dashed into the chamber. “What on earth happened?” She took one look at Margaret’s arm and slapped her hand over her mouth with a gasp.
Mevan stepped beside her. “We were set upon by outlaws. Lady Margaret was struck by a hammer.”
“Heavens, no!” Horror flashed in Alana’s eyes. “Who did this?”
“A band of twenty or more.” Mevan tapped Margaret’s shoulder. “I’ll gather an army and leave at once. I’ll find these brigands and ensure they’re brought to justice.”
Margaret nodded and cast a grim frown at Alana. “There will be more men to tend.”
“My heavens. But first I need to set your arm. The sooner I do it, the cleaner it will heal.”
A clammy sweat covered Margaret’s skin. She’d seen bones set before, and undoubtedly the cure hurt far worse than the initial blow.
Alana worked quickly. She gathered two flat pieces of wood, a stick and rolled bandages, then ushered in two sentries to hold Margaret’s shoulders down. “I’ll not lie to you, m’lady. This will hurt.”
Alana held up the stick and Margaret opened her mouth, willing back her urge to vomit as she bit down on it. Her heart thundered, her body trembled and she nearly wet herself. Margaret clenched her abdominal muscles taut. She couldn’t lose complete control. When Alana stretched Margaret’s arm to the side, she jolted and hissed.
Panting, she stared at the canopy above the bed and ground her teeth into the stick. In one quick move, Alana jerked the bone into place. Bucking, Margaret screamed bloody murder through her teeth. Stars flashed through her eyes. Her throat burned. Her body convulsed beneath the steely hands holding her to the mattress.
Blinking once, all went black.
***
Margaret had no idea how much time had passed when consciousness returned. Her arm throbbed. She splayed her fingers, met with a sharp jolt of pain that traveled up her shoulder and rattled in her skull. She licked her parched lips and cracked her eyes open.
Ewen jumped up from a chair beside the bed. “Margaret?”
She feigned a smile. Why did her heart not flutter at the sight of him? “How long have you been here?”
“A day. You’ve been asleep for two.”
She tried to push herself up and grimaced. My stars, that hurt. Margaret used her good elbow and scooted her hips beneath her. Resting awkwardly against the pillows, she raised her gaze to Ewen’s face. “And my guard? Did they all make it back? Has Mevan found the outlaws?”
Ewen placed his hand on her shoulder. “Och, you’ve been unconscious for two days and you’re worried about the guard?”
She shrugged away from his touch. “I most certainly am.”
“Kirk dead, three with minor injuries—they’ll live.” He sat back in his chair. “Mevan and my man, Ragnar, brought in four outlaws this morn. They’ll hang on the morrow.”
Margaret hated to hang any living soul, but outlaws had no place on this earth. She swiped her hand across her forehead. “Why?”
“Thievery. What else?”
“I cannot believe it.” She shook the cobwebs out of her head. She must visit Kirk’s kin straight away and pay them alms. “Would you please call the chambermaid? I’d like to dress.”
“I think you should stay abed for another day at least.” He crossed his arms and made no attempt to assist her—not one fluff of a pillow. “What on earth were you thinking?”
Margaret’s arm ached. “Pardon?”
“You went to Edinburgh without me.”
So that was what had his braies in a twist? “I needed to purchase some fabric for my wedding gown.” She softened her voice. “I wanted to surprise you.”
His lips formed a thin line. “This is exactly why we should be married straight away.”
He knelt beside the bed and clasped Margaret’s hand between his palms. “When I received word you’d been hurt, I nearly died.” His eyes shifted sideways, and then he kissed her fingers. “Do you know how worried I was?”
She sighed. Of course he would be worried. Her trip to Edinburgh was reckless, but now she’d returned with no news of Colin, she could accept her lot. Surely she could not repeat that to Ewen. He’d never understand. “I apologize. Though I’d assumed a guard of twelve men was sufficient, I was clearly wrong.” But they would have been attacked whether Ewen was with them or not. What if he’d been killed? Where would she be then?
“Once we are wed, you shall never again be out of my sight.” He raised his chin and brushed his lips across hers. A flicker sparked deep inside. Yes, Ewen cared for her deeply, and she would find it in her heart to return his feelings. She owed him that.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The Isle of Rhodes, 19th June, 1462
Colin stepped off the transport onto the pier. He still couldn’t remember anything from the two weeks after the battle on Rhodes—couldn’t believe he had survived. After he’d recovered from his bludgeoning, the fighting continued endlessly. The days blurred together. A black hole stretched his heart. He’d stopped writing to Margaret. He’d die in this hell. No question. He would die, just like all the others.
Of the fifty men who accompanied him, only a handful remained—Maxwell, Hugh, William and a few more. His armor hung heavily from his limbs, as if the weight of the entire fortress rested on his shoulders alone.
He turned to Maxwell. “Come. If I don’t remove this armor soon, my blood will boil and I’ll be as dead as a roasted pheasant.” Sweat saturated his doublet and braies beneath—dampness mixed with dirt, salt and blood. His skin chafed.
In his cell, Maxwell quickly untied and unbuckled Colin’s walking “oven.” The squire had reached his majority five years ago, and yet he continued to serve the Black Knight without a word to request his own promotion. Colin took a deep breath as his breastplate was removed. “’Tis time you became a knight.”
Maxwell stopped mid-motion. “M’lord?”
“You’re of noble birth. You have proved yourself in battle ten times over. ’Tis time I made it official before we’re all cut down.”
He looked as if the thought had never dawned on him…or he figured
he’d be dead before the opportunity arose. “But who will be your squire?”
“How about the Earl of Argyll?” A voice boomed from the passageway. “He squired for old Lord Glenorchy once before.”
Colin’s gaze darted to the door. It couldn’t be… “Earl?”
“Aye, a lot has changed in seven years, uncle.” Argyll stepped inside Colin’s cell and fanned his nose. “Good God, you smell like gas from a privy.”
Colin passed a hand across his unbelieving eyes. “Have you become so soft you’ve forgotten the stench of battle?” Is this a hallucination? Argyll? Here?
“Soft? I’ll say things are anything but soft in Scotland.”
Blessed be the Virgin Mary. It is he. Colin’s knees grew weak at the mention of his homeland. He staggered forward and pulled Argyll into his embrace. “My God. ’Tis good to see you.”
The younger man gave him a firm clap on the back and coughed. “What the devil happened to you, and why have we not heard one word from you in seven long years?”
Colin stepped back. “What? Aside from the two years I spent in a Turkish dungeon, I wrote once a week, sometimes twice.”
“Prison? Really?” Argyll scratched his head. “Word in Scotland is you were killed.”
“Nearly was—more than once.” Colin grabbed two drying cloths and tossed one to Argyll. “Come. We can continue in the bathhouse. Not a single missive has reached Lady Margaret, you say?”
“Not a one.” Argyll followed him out the door and down the passage. “Worse, she’s engaged to marry Ewen MacCorkodale.”
Colin jolted as if he’d been dealt a blow to the gut. “God’s teeth.” His throat closed. He leaned against the cloister wall. “I…I’ve only survived each day knowing she was waiting for me.”
“We must hurry. According to Effie, your lady has put off his advances until the completion of Kilchurn’s chapel. But time’s running out. It’s due to be completed this summer.”
“The chapel’s nearly finished?” A million thoughts flooded his mind. Margaret must have completed the tower house. Margaret. “Did she? Is she? How is? What about?”
“Slow down.” Argyll shook his head. “I must admit, my affairs at court have kept me away from Kilchurn and Inverary. I haven’t been to see Margaret since John was christened near six years ago.”
“John?”
“Aye, your son.”
“A son?” Colin ran his fingers down his long beard. “I knew she was with child, but never allowed myself to dream…”
Argyll beckoned him forward. “I’ve arranged a transport for the morrow. After you bathe, you must pack your belongings. I shall tell you all on the journey home.”
Colin pushed off from the wall. The news had dealt such a blow, his legs could barely hold his own weight.
He’d beg an audience with the grand master this night and gain a pardon. Surely he wouldn’t balk. No knight could be expected to remain in Rhodes while a snake slithered between the linens of his bed.
Colin nearly vomited before he climbed into the steamy washtub. He made quick work of cleansing the stench from his body. Argyll did the same in the basin beside him. Colin ran a rag over his face. God in heaven, he needed a healthy tot of good whisky. He clenched his fists. He had to ask. “Does she love him?”
Argyll lowered his cloth and frowned. “I left before I could speak to your lady. But what do you expect? She has two boys to raise, your dynasty to supervise.”
“But does she love him?”
“I know not. Rumors spread of your death. What other choice has she whether she loves him or not?”
Colin threw his head back and roared, releasing years of pent-up anguish. How could this have happened? Never once had she left the forefront of his mind. Had someone schemed against him? He could not allow MacCorkodale to move into his castle, change the deeds on his land, claim Colin’s property as his own.
But Margaret, his dear, sweet, beautiful Margaret. Why had she given up hope? He still wore the ring on his finger. He hadn’t sent her the token.
Did she still wear hers?
He froze.
What if she no longer loved him?
Chapter Thirty-Five
Kilchurn Castle, 15th July, 1462
Alana insisted Margaret wear the splint and sling for two months. One more grueling month to endure. The MacGregor woman wouldn’t even allow her to remove it for the wedding.
But that was the only thing Margaret could fault her for. Alana had shown herself as a God-given angel so many times, even from the first day they’d met. She’d known it was a risk, yet she stood her ground and spoke true about Walter MacCorkodale. That seemed ever so long ago.
Margaret used a key she’d found hidden in Colin’s sideboard and slid it into a keyhole of his chest. She and Alana nearly had his things packed, and this was the last. Since he’d left it locked, she’d respected his privacy and kept the chest that way. In fact, his whole room remained locked after she’d moved everything to Kilchurn.
Soon another man would occupy this chamber. Margaret’s heart twisted, weighing heavily in her chest with a familiar pang. Alas, Colin hadn’t spent one minute within its walls. He’d never see the landscape tapestries she’d ordered, nor would he lie beneath the forest-green silk comforter she’d once thought suited him. Honestly, her memory was fading and she could scarcely remember the contours of his face.
The hinges squeaked when Alana shut the lid of a trunk. “What will you do with all this?”
Margaret released the key and surveyed the three large trunks. “Perhaps I shall stow them in the tower. The boys will most likely want to search through Colin’s effects when they come of age.”
“Good thinking, m’lady.”
Margaret turned the key and opened the small chest’s lid. It was filled with neatly stacked parchment and missives. She reached in and grasped the top document. The penmanship scrolled with lavish strokes, and she moved to the candle to better read.
By royal charter, Colin Campbell, Lord of Glenorchy, hereby submits petition for the annulment of his marriage to Margaret Campbell, Lady of Glenorchy…
Margaret froze. Prickling heat fired across her skin. God strike me dead where I stand.
The parchment fell from her trembling fingers. Gasping for breath, she clutched her broken arm to her stomach and bent forward. Bitter bile stung her throat. Head spinning, she staggered forward and rested a hand on the sideboard.
“Lady Margaret.” Alana rushed across the floor. “Are you unwell? Goodness, your face has drained of all color.”
Margaret covered her mouth with her palm, trying to swallow. “He was…” She couldn’t say it.
“What?”
“He…he…” She met her friend’s concerned gaze. “Colin was planning an annulment.”
“No.” Alana picked up the paper and studied it. “I do not believe it. Lord Colin was completely, utterly in love with you when he set sail. Of that I am absolutely certain.”
Margaret stared at the document like it was a missive from hell. “Th-things didn’t start well for us. I feared he was going to send me back to Loch Rannoch more than once.” Tears stung her eyes. She shook her finger at the parchment. “An-and I was right.”
Alana studied the document. “I cannot read much, but it doesn’t look like it is signed.”
Margaret reached out then snapped her hand back. “On what date was it drawn?”
Alana looked at it blankly and shrugged. “Not certain, m’lady.”
“Oh heavens.” Margaret paced. She must know when he’d drawn the papers. If it was after he’d been knocked out by William, he would have deceived her for certain.
Oh Mother Mary, help. I’m not sure I want to know.
Margaret cast her mind back. She’d been married on the eighth of October, 1455. Colin’s accident had been a month or two later. Palms perspiring, she grasped the document. Trying to hold it steady, again she read the first line. She choked back an involuntary heave.
Have I been played for a fool all these years?
Scanning to the end, she found no date. Stunned, she let out a slow, ragged breath. Annulment papers were the last thing she thought she’d find in Colin’s secret chest.
Alana’s feet shuffled. “Anything?”
Margaret glanced up. “’Tis not dated.”
“Is it signed?”
Margaret shook her head and dropped her arm. “Nay.”
Alana slapped a hand to her chest. “Then he acted out of anger and didn’t follow through.”
Margaret tore the parchment down the middle and shoved it back in the chest. “I’ve no idea what to think.” She slammed the lid and buried her face in her hand. “What if he never did intend to return?”
The words attacked her heart like knives. She wanted to race up to the battlements with his vile wooden box and hurl it into the depths of Loch Awe. Though she tried to hold her torment in, sobs boiled up from the depths of her gut and racked her shoulders. How could he have deceived her?
She’d waited seven long years—built his keep—raised his children. And he was going to ruin her?
“My lady, of course he planned to come back. If I know Colin Campbell, he would have done anything to return to you and the boys.” Alana pulled Margaret into a matronly embrace and smoothed a hand over her shoulder. “There, there. Lord Colin loved you. I remember how he gazed upon you at Duncan’s christening. His eyes were filled with adoration as if you were the only woman in the chapel.”
Margaret closed her eyes and forced out a staccato breath. If only I could believe it. Through her tears, the silver ring flickered with the candlelight. And what of his token?
***
She’d been wearing the brace for six sennights. The miserable arm ached and itched and kept her awake half the night. Margaret flexed her fingers and made a fist. The pain was getting easier to bear.
“Does it still hurt, Mummy?” asked John.
