by Amy Jarecki
Effie frowned at the trunks. Margaret patted the old nursemaid’s shoulder. “It will be fine. You’ll see. The three of us will be cozy in the cottage.”
“Soon there’ll be four.”
Margaret grinned. “Aye, so start your packing.”
Margaret had the household necessities stowed in trunks within two days. By a stroke of luck, the weather cleared. With Mevan in the lead, she set out with a handful of servants and a dozen Campbell guards.
When she arrived at the building site, Tom Elliot was there to greet her. He already had the laborers working with shovels and barrowing away the mud and thresh. Margaret grasped his hand warmly. “How fared your winter, Master Elliot?”
“Well. Glad to be back on the job. My coffers are wearing a bit thin.”
“We shall see what can be done about that. I want this keep thriving before Lord Glenorchy returns.” She glanced toward the cottage. “But first you must build on a nursery to the cottage.”
His beetle brows pinched together. “Is that necessary? It will slow our progress.”
“I’ve brought healthy guardsmen from Dunstaffnage to help. It should take no additional time. Put them to work forthwith. I want it done in a fortnight.”
“A fortnight, m’lady?”
“Aye.” She spread her arms wide. “Complete with hearth.”
“But—”
“You’d best make haste, else your purse will remain empty.” Margaret inhaled the fresh air as she strode away. It enlivened her to be back at Kilchurn. The dead of winter gone, she could face the coming months with renewed purpose.
It was early August when Margaret waddled through the portcullis of her tower house with Tom Elliot. She was proud of her belly, now so large, no amount of fabric could hide it. Her only sorrow was that Colin would not be there to share in the birth. He’d promised to send a missive once he reached Rome, yet it had been almost eight months since he set sail and she’d received not a word.
“The first floor is complete, and the great hall above will be finished before winter sets in.”
“You’ve done a fine job.” She pulled a torch off the wall and walked to the dungeon. Droplets of water splashed on the stone floor. “This room is aptly dank.”
“Aye, but necessary for keeping the peace.” He reached for the torch and led her through the guardhouse into a sturdy passageway. “The cellars are dry and will keep the food cool. I’ve fashioned a grand hearth for the kitchen.”
Margaret stood inside the immense fireplace, which had been started last autumn. “Many a feast will be prepared here.” To her right, the bread oven recessed into the now completed thick stone walls. “I can practically smell the loaves baking already.”
“And it’s only a few paces from the great hall for easy access.”
The baby kicked with Margaret’s excitement. A bit lightheaded, she leaned against the wall. “This child is ever so anxious to come out and see the progress on the new keep.”
Tom grasped her arm. “Are you all right, m’lady?”
“Aye, just a passing pang.”
“Your time will be upon us soon. A building site is no place for a woman in your condition.”
“So repeats Mistress Effie. Do not fear. I shall be confined soon enough.” Margaret smoothed her hands over her wimple. “I detest the thought of it.”
“Can I escort you back to the cottage, m’lady?”
“No, you have much more important work to do, Tom. I’m pleased with your progress. Give the men an extra ration of bread and ale for their efforts, and after the babe is born, we shall kill a steer and have a grand feast.”
“I’ll look forward to that, m’lady.”
Alone, Margaret walked the short path through the trees to the cottage. Though Colin had insisted she remain at Dunstaffnage for her confinement, she would hear none of it. The nursery had been completed on schedule, Effie and Duncan had settled into the cottage, and Alana was on hand as her midwife. Margaret trusted the MacGregor woman far more than Master Hume, the old physician. Besides, birthing a bairn was women’s work.
A pain clamped around her womb so hard she fell to her knees. Her head spun. She gritted her teeth to bear it. A rush of hot liquid flushed down her legs. ’Tis time. Panting, Margaret waited until the pain subsided. She could see the cottage through the trees ahead. Surely she’d make it before the next pain came.
She rushed as quickly as she could, trying not to jostle the baby. Pregnancy was alien to her. Being the youngest, she’d never seen a woman actually give birth, though Alana and Effie did their best to explain what to expect. At first the pains would come far apart and grow closer and closer until the baby was ready to slide out.
Breathing heavily, she pushed through the door. “Effie! Fetch Alana. I’ve lost my water and the pains have begun.”
Effie blanched. “Your water has shown already?”
Nodding, Margaret supported herself on the chair with one hand and held her swollen abdomen with the other.
“Haste ye to the bed.” Effie signaled to the serving maid to run for Alana and tugged on Margaret’s elbow. “Come, m’lady.”
Another pain hit her like someone had wrapped a noose around her belly and tied it to a team of oxen, drawing the rope tighter with every breath. Margaret clamped her hands around her stomach and panted. “Merciful heavens, it hurts.”
Effie rubbed the small of her back. “Breathe through it. Do not rush. We’ll move to the bed soon enough.”
“If I can manage to stay on my feet.” As the gripping pain began to ease, Margaret took a step. “I think I can make it.”
Effie supported Margaret’s elbow and aided her into the chamber. “Hold on to the bedpost while I layer the old linens atop the mattress.”
The old matron worked quickly and helped Margaret change into a clean shift. “Rest against the pillows. Try not to push. ’Tis too early in your labor.”
Margaret nestled her shoulders into the pillows. “Thank you.” She swiped a hand across her brow, moist with sweat.
“I’m here, m’lady.” Alana strode into the room attended by three other women. “Where is Duncan?”
Effie pointed. “He’s napping.”
“Mistress Lorna will care for the bairn.” She eyed Margaret. “You lost your water?”
“Aye.”
“How far apart are your contractions?”
Margaret convulsed with another.
Effie smoothed a hand over her hair. “Far enough apart to walk to the bed and allow me to spread the linens.”
Margaret panted through the blinding pain. She clenched her teeth and started to bear down.
“Boil a cauldron of water,” Alana ordered. “Where are the swaddling cloths? Is the ewer full? Come on, ladies, we have a bairn on the way.”
She grasped Margaret’s hand and rubbed it gently. “’Tis not time to push yet. Try to ease yourself.”
Margaret could have strangled her. “Are you completely mad?” She gasped for air, a bead of sweat rolling into her eye. “My entire being is screaming for me to push.”
Alana’s gaze softened. “I know. But I’ve birthed five of me own and assisted at least twenty other women. I ken what I’m saying. Listen to me and you might survive to hold your bairn in your arms.”
An icy shudder coursed over Margaret’s skin. Not once had she allowed herself to consider she might die giving birth to her first babe, but now the reality of her potential death struck her with a crashing wave of trembling and nausea.
The afternoon turned into dusk. Margaret writhed in a pool of her own sweat, struggling to hang on, completely at her wits end.
Alana ordered the candles lit. Effie, at eight and seventy, excused herself and retired. Night filled the chamber, dimly lit with candles. The pains were coming frequently. Margaret’s hair stuck to her face. Alana held a cool cloth to her forehead, but that didn’t help.
With each contraction, she pushed with every shred of remaining strength. Her eyes strai
ned in their sockets as she clenched her teeth and bore down. Her arms shook of their own volition.
Alana held up the linens. “I can see his head. It won’t be long now.”
“It better not be.” The entire bed shook with Margaret’s effort. She hissed through her teeth. “Why isn’t Colin here? He did this to me then left me alone—curses to the Pope as well.”
“Aye, m’lady.” Alana’s voice was ridiculously soothing.
Margaret didn’t want to be soothed. She pushed the midwife’s hand away from her forehead. “Take that cloth from me and make this insufferable pain stop.”
Alana stepped back. “Breathe.”
How could that woman be so placid at a time like this? “I can’t take it anymore!” Margaret screamed. Her insides felt like they were being ripped out.
“He’s coming, m’lady. Push…push…push!”
Margaret bore down with everything she had, exhaustion making her lose control. Her fingers shook as she splayed them beside her on the bed. Pushing, her body stretching, she thought it would never end. Then suddenly, the pain subsided, the stretching eased. Margaret’s eyes blinked open, blurred through her sweat.
A tiny voice cried. It sounded more holy than church bells.
Alana walked to her, holding a beautiful bundle. “’Tis a boy.”
Margaret laughed out loud, her heart soaring to her throat. He was the most beautiful tomato-red bairn she’d ever gazed upon. “John.” Margaret reached out her arms. “Colin asked me to name him John.” The babe yawned adorably. He had a smattering of brown fuzz pasted atop his damp head. He smelled as fresh as apple blossoms.
“’Tis a fine name.” Alana untied the bow on Margaret’s shift. “You must make the bond. It burns a wee bit when the babe starts to suckle, but the pain doesn’t last.”
Margaret held the tiny bundle to her breast. John turned his head as if he could smell her milk. Latching on to her nipple, he suckled. It did sting a little at first, but watching the angelic face of her son feeding from her body made her heart swell. “Dear boy, you will remind me of your father until the day I take my last breath.”
The third day after John’s birth, Margaret felt well enough to take a brief stroll through the cottage gardens. A messenger approached with a parcel. Margaret could scarcely breathe. Had Colin’s letters finally arrived?
The man hopped down from his mount and bowed. “M’lady. I’ve a gift from my esteemed chieftain, Ewen MacCorkodale of Loch Tromlee.”
Margaret’s spirits sank to her toes. How desperately she wanted news of her husband. She forced a polite smile. “It was kind of your laird to think of us.”
She read the missive congratulating her on the birth of her son, though it mentioned nothing about Colin, not even well wishes for his safe return. Inside the parcel was a lovely tatted woolen receiving blanket. Margaret smiled at the messenger. “Please offer my deepest thanks to your laird. His gift was very thoughtful indeed.”
Margaret carried the blanket into the cottage and held it to her nose. It smelled fresh, like newly fallen rain. Though she was disappointed she’d not received news from Colin, the neighboring laird had been quite considerate. Most likely, Ewen MacCorkodale was nothing like his cousin, Walter. Mayhap it was time to put Walter’s dishonesty behind them. They should become allies. If Margaret developed good relations with the MacCorkodales, together with the MacGregors, the Campbells of Glen Orchy would be an unstoppable and formidable Scottish force.
26
The Mediterranean Sea, August, 1457
Colin dispatched another packet of letters to Margaret before sailing from Rhodes. Last August, they’d been successful in driving the Turks out of the isles of Imbros and Limni, but now reports flooded in with news of Mehmed’s decimation of the Holy Land. The sultan’s fleet of Ottoman ships was again on the advance.
Colin’s galley wasn’t the smallest of the Hospitallers’ ships, but it was far from the largest. The order had acquired a newly designed Portuguese carrack with nine gun ports on each side. Its impressive design and immense size changed sea battle strategy for good.
It was with pride Colin stood at the helm of his Scottish Birlinn, flying the pennant of the Order of St. John. His cannon had fired the blast that sank two Ottoman ships at Imbros, a significant win for his men, earning them respect among the French faction to which the Scots had been annexed.
Only a fool wore armor when fighting at sea. It bore too great a risk for death by drowning. Colin and his men wore reinforced quilted doublets under their red Hospitaller tunics, adorned with white crosses and edged with gold fringe.
He squinted into the mid-morning sun. “Where are the bastards?”
Now one and twenty, Maxwell attained his majority a month ago. The breadth of the young man’s chest had filled out considerably. “Spies reported plans to sail at dawn. It should be any moment now, m’lord.” He stood on a rowing bench, shaded his eyes and pointed. “There.”
Colin strained in the direction of Maxwell’s finger. He didn’t see anything at first, but gradually enemy ships dotted the horizon like chess pieces. His stomach churned, as it always did in anticipation of a battle. He watched the fleet near, its numbers of oared longboats continuing to grow. “Holy bloody hell. We must be outnumbered five to one.”
The galley slowed in the water as rowing men stood to gape at the approaching fleet.
Colin snapped around. “Man your oars. Full speed ahead. Ramming tempo.”
“Ramming, m’lord?” Maxwell had not yet mastered the art of hiding his emotions. A grimace of terror stretched his features.
No one must doubt him. Colin needed to bolster his men’s confidence and focus on winning the battle. “Man the cannon. We’ll blast the first ship in range out of the water.” He clapped his hands in rapid succession. “Send the infidel to hell in the name of St. John!”
“Deus vult!” the men bellowed, the Hospitallers’ war cry.
Closer and closer the enemy ships sailed. “Archers, at the ready,” Colin commanded as he raised his arm to signal the cannon. If he timed it right, the big gun would blast a lead ball precisely when they passed the first longboat.
“Fire!”
With a touch of the torch, the cannon boomed and recoiled. The shot whistled through the air. With no time to watch, Colin addressed the archers. “Fire at will and hit your mark. I want not an arrow wasted.”
The cannon ball slammed into the enemy ship’s hull. A crash of splintering wood sailed across the open sea. “Pull the rudder hard starboard!”
Boom.
A cannon from the enemy ship blasted so loudly, Colin could hear only a high-pitched tone. William’s mouth moved, but Colin couldn’t make out a word. He waved his arms and pointed ahead. “Fire another round and sink that ship.”
Sink it they did, and the next, but as far as the eye could see, an endless mass of Ottoman ships bore down on them. The air bit the back of his throat, thick with smoke and the pungent odor of sulfur. Colin’s eyes watered with the sting. Surrounding cannons blasted an endless barrage of lead balls. In the mayhem, Colin’s cannon shot depleted—his cache of arrows would be next.
“Ramming straight ahead,” Colin commanded, and his men set a course for the next approaching ship.
Flames raged on the vessels around them. Colin could no longer spot the carrack or the other allied ships. They were heading into the bowels of hell, and he would fight to the death to keep the Turks from the Isle of Limni. By God, I drove them away once. I’ll do it again.
When he regained a fraction of hearing, a familiar high-pitched whistle sailed overhead. Colin held his breath and waited for the splash. But the lead ball crashed into the center of his galley’s hull. Something sharp sliced open his cheek. Oarsmen flew over the side. Another fell with a lance-sized splinter spearing his gut.
The galley immediately took on water. Colin swiped the blood from his face as the sea rose to his knees. He gave the only order that might save the lives of his re
maining men. “Abandon ship!”
Ignoring the gash on his cheek, Colin worked frantically to help his men plunge into the sea. He didn’t see the boom when it broke from the mast, but he heard it snap…right before it crashed into his skull.
The unbearable pressure encroaching inside Colin’s head was so intense, his teeth throbbed. His eyes wouldn’t open. He tried to swallow, but only stringy goo clung to his gums. His throat grated as if someone had plunged a rasp down it.
Trying to move, he inhaled. A weak cough produced sickly phlegm, but no fouler than the pungent surrounding odor. Stale piss stung his nose—filth like rats, too. He moved his fingers. Damp straw, musty. Something hard jutted into his back.
Am I in hell?
Colin forced himself to open his eyes. Dim light surrounded him. It must be night. But a ray of brilliant light shone in from an opening in the wall above. Groaning, he squeezed his eyes shut against the excruciating pressure. He turned his face away from the unforgiving light.
“Colin? Are you awake, m’lord?”
He recognized the voice, but couldn’t place the name. Colin tried to open his eyes again. A young face was bent over him. Maxwell? He wasn’t sure. “Water,” he croaked.
“Aye, m’lord. I’ll fetch it straight away.”
Colin closed his lids, tapping his swollen tongue to the roof of his mouth.
A hand slipped to the back of his neck. “I’ll raise you up a wee bit.”
Colin hissed at the driving pain. A cup touched his lips. He swallowed greedily until he tasted. Coughing, he spewed the foul water across his chest.
Maxwell kept him up. “Come, m’lord. You need to drink some more.”
“K…killing…me?”
