The Highland Dynasty: The Complete Series

by Amy Jarecki

  A few laughed. “As if there’s a remote possibility of that,” said the Englishman. “We’ll all rot if they don’t hang us first.”

  “You’re right,” Colin agreed. “If we do nothing, eventually the Turks will tire of feeding us and we’ll be led to the gallows or the stake.”

  Every single man shuddered at the thought of being burned like their brothers, the Templars, over a century before.

  “I pose a challenge.” Colin stood erect and strode across the line of bedraggled prisoners. “We tone our bodies day and night—become fit beyond anything we’ve ever imagined.”

  “Then what? Muscle our way out of here?”

  “Exactly.” Colin eyed the narrow flight of stone steps. “When they open the gate to toss our bread, we push forward and overtake them. The strongest man first.”

  They all brayed like bleating sheep and dismissed his idea with waves of their hands. All except the big Scot on the end—his man, William. Willy’s eyes blazed. He shoved himself to his feet and stood beside Colin. “I’d rather die fighting for freedom than let them put my neck in a noose.”

  Colin eyed the others. “Who else is with me?”

  A Frenchman stood. “Death or freedom.”

  Colin jammed his fists into his hips. “That’s right. We’re close enough to Rhodes to swim.”

  “I’m in,” said the Englishman.

  “We start tonight.” The miserable Turks would keep him from Margaret’s side no more.

  Another year passed. Fortunately, as Laird Ewen had promised, he’d caught the cattle thief straight away. Though he didn’t say exactly how the culprit met his end, he assured Lady Margaret the problem had been snuffed for good. No more cattle had gone missing and her herd prospered. She owed the neighboring laird a debt of gratitude.

  John was now two and Duncan, three. Margaret watched the boys trot across the nursery with hobby horses between their legs. John’s legs were stubby like a toddler, though Duncan had become leaner and longer. He led his younger brother in a circle. “To Rome, to Rome.”

  John shook his fist in the air. “To Woam!”

  Margaret laughed and clapped her hands. “Good knights, save me.”

  They both dropped their toy horses and barreled to their mother’s side.

  “Story,” John said.

  Duncan pushed for a place on Mama’s lap. As far as the lad was aware, Margaret was his flesh-and-blood mother. “Tell us about Da.”

  He asked about his father several times per day. She only wished she’d had years of happiness with Colin rather than a few short months. Margaret tugged John up so each child shared a knee.

  “Of course you know he’s a fierce knight.”

  “Black Colin.” Duncan thumped his chest proudly.

  John threw his head back and squealed.

  Margaret sat straight with pride. “Aye, and he puts fear in the hearts of all who face him. No one can wield a fiercer sword than he.”

  “How tall is he, Mummy?”

  “So tall you have to stack two Duncans and two Johns right on top of each other.” They were growing so fast, the measurement was probably off, but she didn’t want to favor one lad over the other. In Margaret’s mind they were both her boys. Goodness, she was the only parent either lad knew.

  “When will he come home?” Duncan asked for the ten thousandth time.

  “Home,” John echoed.

  Margaret’s heart twisted into a knot. “Soon. We must pray every night that he returns to us soon.”

  The door opened and a serving maid popped her head inside. “Lord MacCorkodale has come to call, m’lady.”

  Margaret sighed. True, Ewen’s company was better than spending the afternoon alone, but the neighboring laird had been calling a bit too frequently for her taste. However, she would never forget his kindness. She kissed her boys. “Be good for Miss Lena.” Effie had retired to her son’s cottage a few months back. Margaret missed the old nursemaid.

  “Och, but we want to hear more about Da,” Duncan complained.

  Margaret tapped his nose. “I’ll tell you about the day we met when I come to tuck you in tonight.”

  John clapped. “Da, come home.” He was cute as a button, and still looked so much like Colin.

  Margaret straightened her wimple and headed to the stables. She and Ewen had planned to go riding to check on her cattle. Now that her herd had grown, she needed to ensure the shepherds weren’t overgrazing. Business was prospering. At least when Colin returns, he’ll not have to worry about the family coffers.

  Ewen had her mare saddled. “Looking lovely as always, m’lady.”

  She took the reins and allowed him to give her a leg-up. “Thank you. I do appreciate your taking the time to ride with me, though I could have had Mevan do it. ’Tis his duty, after all.”

  “Aye, but I couldn’t resist riding on such a lovely day, and with such pleasant company.”

  Margaret chuckled. “As of late, you’ve wasted far too much time frittering away your afternoons with me.”

  He mounted his steed. “’Tis no bother.”

  “It should be. You ought to be at court looking for a woman to marry and bear your heirs.”

  “Alas, I have no interest in court.”

  “Oh? And to whom do you plan to pass your estate if you die without issue?”

  He shrugged and looked her way. Margaret had seen that look in his eye more than once, and it gave her pause. If she weren’t a married woman, she’d think he wanted to court her.

  “Margaret.”

  She laced her reins through her fingers. “Hmm?”

  “I’ve stopped asking if you’ve received word.”

  Three years. She was grateful he hadn’t asked in some time. She cued her horse to a fast trot.

  Ewen pulled beside her. “Have you considered that perhaps he hasn’t written because—”

  A fire ignited in the pit of her stomach. “No.” She shook her finger. “And I pray you would not think it.” Margaret leaned forward and thrashed her mare with her crop, spurring her to a fast gallop. What in God’s name was Ewen alluding to? How on earth could he make assumptions? Until she received Colin’s token, she would never believe him dead.

  28

  Simi, the Mediterranean, March, 1459

  Colin watched the sun pass through the gap above. He used it as a sundial. One more quarter and the sun would set. A quarter after that, food would come. The prisoners got the slops, which contained very little meat. But at last, after months of training and watching, the men were ready to mount their escape.

  “What is the first thing you’ll do when we arrive back on Rhodes?” Maxwell whispered.

  “I shall pen a missive to Margaret. God’s teeth. The poor woman probably thinks me dead after living in this hell for the greater part of two years.” Colin glanced at the young man’s filthy face. “And you?”

  “I shall eat an entire steer all by myself.”

  “Meat?” Colin rested his head against the stone wall and swallowed. “The word makes my mouth water.”

  Darkness slowly cast a shadow across the cell. Colin climbed the stairs and took his position. If his plan didn’t work, they’d never be free. The men crept into the shadows below, out of sight of the gate. The hinges of a heavy door screeched in the distance. Colin recognized the guards’ greeting, giving praise to Allah—the same one the Turks bellowed when they attacked.

  Footsteps echoed down the passage. His heart thundered in his ears. He wiped his sweaty palms on his ragged tunic and sucked in a deep breath. When the guard rounded the corner, Colin hunched over and grabbed his gut. “H-help me,” he groaned, watching the enemy from beneath his stringy hair.

  The guard stared at him and growled something in his foreign tongue.

  “Oh, oh, oh, oh…my innards.” Colin curled down a little further, eyeing the placement of the man’s sword and the dagger bound to his ankle.

  The guard grumbled in a threatening tone. Colin planted his feet and
wedged his bum against the stone wall. The Turk jerked the door open and lunged in to shove him away. Colin snatched the dagger and plunged it into the guard’s gut while yanking the sword from his scabbard. He pushed the stunned sentry over the steps to the dungeon floor below. The men crowded behind him.

  Colin slipped the dagger to Maxwell and swiftly led the charge through the passageway. Chairs scraped across the stone floor as Colin rushed into the chamber. The first man wasn’t fast enough to grasp his blade before Colin slashed his throat. The second didn’t make it either. Maxwell upended the table, knocking four off balance, while Colin engaged the remaining pair. God help him, it felt good to wield a sword.

  His muscles taut from hour upon hour of relentless toning, he quickly regained his fighting edge against the enemy guards. He lunged and drove his blade into the man on his right. The battleaxe from the left came with ferocious speed. Colin hopped aside. Not far enough. The blade sliced across his unprotected chest. With a raging bellow, Colin spun and lopped the head off the man who’d cut him.

  Roaring their battle cry, another wave of guards flooded through the narrow passage. Single file, Colin faced each one, the sword in his hand becoming an extension of his arm. He fought with the fury and hatred that had built up after two years of wallowing with rats in the dank pit of hell.

  “Freedom or die!” he roared.

  With no time to check his wound, he fought like a raging madman until they were all dead. Colin turned to assess the carnage. One Hospitaller down, twelve Turks dead. The crusaders armed themselves with swords, daggers and battleaxes. Colin motioned to Pierre. “Lead the way.”

  The Frenchman crept ahead, keeping to the shadows. They were only about one hundred paces from the water. Mooring rings gaped at them, with not a single boat in sight.

  Colin could have killed another hundred Turks. “God on the cross, give us strength.”

  “What do we do now?” Maxwell asked, his eyes dipping to Colin’s blood-soaked shirt. “Bloody hell, you’re cut.”

  “’Tisn’t bad. You can stitch me up in Rhodes.” Colin eyed a stack of wooden pilings. “Two men to a pole. If we can’t row home, we’ll float. Quickly.”

  A bellow came from the direction of the gaol. Colin yanked Maxwell’s arm and raced to the stack of wood. He’d be damned if he was going to spend another night in the dungeon.

  Arrows flew overhead. Hit through the chest, the Englishman screamed as he plunged into the white-capped sea below.

  “Hurry!” Colin shouted.

  Together the men pushed an entire heap of pilings into the water.

  Another round of arrows hissed above them.

  The shouting grew closer. Footsteps clapped the cobblestones.

  An arrow skimmed Colin’s ear.

  “Jump!”

  His voice was silenced by a rush of seawater flooding his mouth.

  It was a snowy March day. Ewen had a gut-full of winter, and this late storm brewed up a foul mood. His henchman pushed into the solar with muddy boots. Ewen was about to launch into a tirade when Ragnar tossed a satchel onto the table. “A batch of missives from Glenorchy.”

  “You’re serious?” Ewen untied the drawstring and pulled out a folded piece of vellum. “I’ll be the son of a toothless whore.”

  “Too right.” Ragnar sauntered to the sideboard, helped himself to a cup of Ewen’s best whisky and tossed it back. “’Tis grizzly cold out there. The flakes are coming down in sloppy wet drops.”

  Ewen ignored him and filed through the missives. Would the bastard not die? Even Ewen had thought Glenorchy had met his end. Sure enough, the blasted things bore Campbell’s seal. “We’ve been so long without word, I was sure the rutting rat was dead.” He glared at Ragnar. “Did you kill the messenger?”

  The henchman sniggered and poured himself another tot. “Of course. Tied a rock around his belly and dumped him in the loch. Just like all the others.”

  Ewen stood, shoving the table into the rogue’s backside. “If you’re going to be so freehanded with my whisky, you’d best pour me a cup, else I’ll slice off your cods, ye insolent lout.”

  Ragnar turned as red as the tapestry on the wall. “Apologies, m’laird. I didn’t think you’d mind given the cold.” He ran his fingers across his dirk. “And me confidence.”

  Ewen narrowed his eyes. He didn’t like Ragnar’s tone, even if he was kin. Mayhap he’d need a stone in his belly and a permanent dip in an icy loch—if he didn’t curb his arrogance.

  Ewen would have killed a lesser man for helping himself to his best whisky. God’s damnation, Colin Campbell was back to sending missives to his poor, forlorn wife. Ewen sank into his seat. At least Ragnar had been vigilant. Two years without a missive and he’d caught the courier before he handed the satchel of vomitous love letters to Margaret. The henchman was good for something.

  Ewen ran his thumb under each seal and read every wretched missive, hoping there’d be mention of that damned token Margaret insisted she’d receive. If he could replicate it, she’d be his for certain. The past year had taken quite a toll on her and her little brats. Ewen was wearing her down. If it weren’t for that blasted token, she would have agreed to a swift marriage by now.

  Margaret took the boys to Dunstaffnage for Eastertide. Met with sloppy snow and mud, she hesitated when they passed the turn for Effie’s cottage. “Mevan, we shall stop here with the lads. Send the guard ahead and come inside. We’ll wait out the storm with Mistress Effie.”

  They were so near the fortress, the guardsman, clad in a cold and uncomfortable hauberk, nodded his helmeted head.

  Besides, Margaret had intended to invite the boy’s old nursemaid to the feast. A detour would serve two purposes.

  John and Duncan huddled together under a woolen plaid on a nag that was too old to spook. At five and four, both lads had started riding lessons, but Margaret didn’t care for the idea of them handling a mount for such a long distance. Though Duncan had complained the loudest, Mevan tugged them beside him on a short lead. Duncan only stopped complaining after the guardsman attached a set of reins to the horse’s halter and handed it to the lad. Content he had some semblance of control, Duncan rode, pretending he was a knight, while John shivered behind him.

  “Come, lads—I’ll bet Mistress Effie has a warm drink and something tasty to eat,” Margaret said, following Mevan at the turn.

  “Och aye, I’m freezing.” Duncan had dropped the knight play several miles back, and now shivered as much as his younger brother.

  When she spotted smoke puffing from the chimney, Margaret breathed a sigh of relief. Once they dismounted, she grasped the boy’s mitten-covered hands and led them up the path to the stone cottage. With a thatched roof, it wasn’t much different than the cottage at Glen Orchy—quaint, homey.

  Mevan knocked on the door and stepped aside.

  “Who is it?” a frail voice called from within.

  “Lady Margaret.” She grinned down at the boys, their noses red as apples.

  “My heavens.” Footsteps shuffled and the door opened. “What on earth are you doing out in this miserable weather?”

  Margaret looked up, only to be splattered by sloppy flakes. “The sky didn’t appear half as bad when we left Kilchurn.”

  Effie stepped aside. “Well, what are you standing there for? Slip yourselves inside and shrug out of those wet woolens.” Ever the nursemaid, she started removing caps, mittens and damp surcoats. “My, both of you boys have grown a hand’s-breadth since I last saw you. And Lady Margaret, you’ve been away for too long.”

  Margaret unfastened her cloak and hung it on a peg. “I’ve been away? I wish you’d take my offer and move into Kilchurn. We’d love to have you.”

  “Aye, but my son needs me now he’s lost his wife.”

  Dry enough, Margaret pulled Effie into an embrace. “And how have you been?”

  “Well, aside from my aching back. No one ever said growing old was easy.” Effie bundled up the boys’ woolens. “Have a seat a
t the table and I’ll spread these things over the hearth.”

  The room was warm, smelled of delicious spices, and Margaret rubbed her hands to bring back the feeling. “Thank you ever so much, Mistress Effie.”

  John climbed onto the bench. “Do you have any oatcakes?”

  “And Mummy said you’d have something warm to drink,” Duncan said.

  Margaret shook a finger. “You must wait until Mistress Effie offers. ’Tis impolite to ask.”

  Effie turned with her hands on her hips. “Excuse my impertinence, the lot of you must be chilled to the bone. Would you lads like some hot mulled cider and a bowl of plum pottage?”

  Duncan licked his lips. “Aye.”

  “Please,” Margaret corrected.

  John rubbed his belly. “That sounds delicious, please.”

  She sat on the bench beside Mevan and sighed. “Thank you ever so much. We stopped not only for refuge from the snow, but to invite you to the Eastertide celebration. Players are coming from Edinburgh to perform the mystery plays for the Crucifixion and Resurrection—feasts both on Good Friday and Easter Monday.”

  Effie set five tankards on the table. “Sounds like a grand celebration. I’m surprised you’re not having it at Kilchurn.” She passed a kettle of warm cider to Mevan.

  Margaret watched the guard fill her cup, the tart whiff making her mouth water. “Thought about Kilchurn, but I haven’t been to Dunstaffnage in so long, I owe a grand feast to our subjects here and I hoped Argyll might pass through for the holiday.”

  “Argyll?” Effie picked up the ladle. “Since he was granted the title of earl, word is he’s become indispensable to the king. I doubt we’ll see him in these parts for a year or more.”

  Margaret’s shoulders drooped and she heaved a sigh. “Unfortunate.”

  Effie stopped ladling pottage from the cast iron kettle on the hearth. “And what business have you with the earl?”