by Amy Jarecki
Margaret stood to help serve the wooden bowls filled with spiced fruit and meat. “Spending so much time at court, I was hoping he may have heard something about Colin or the Crusades.”
The old woman eyed her. “Still no word?” She glanced at the boys, concern etching her brow. “Four years, is it?”
“Aye.” Margaret hated to admit it had been that long. Colin had never even set eyes on John.
Effie sat across the table and covered Margaret’s hand with a warm palm. “The boys will need a father soon.”
Margaret’s gaze shifted to the angelic faces of her sons. Eating like starved cats, they paid no notice to Effie’s remark, though Margaret’s worry grew each day. “I do not even want to think about it.” She shrugged. “Ewen has been showing some interest in their welfare.” He’d made remarks at the least, though hadn’t become endeared to the boys yet.
“Ewen?”
“MacCorkodale,” Mevan said, reaching for his tankard with a snort.
Margaret clapped her hands to her cheeks. Why on earth should the mention of the neighboring laird make her blush? Her feelings for the man ran no deeper than friendship.
Nonetheless, Effie gave her a concerned glare. “You cannot be serious.”
Margaret stirred her potage. Effie had a knack for overstepping her bounds, but then her eyes would sparkle with an apologetic smile. Margaret rarely chastised her. “I believe I mentioned I was hoping to run into Lord Argyll, did I not? Aside from that, the laird has been nothing but kind and very concerned for my welfare.”
“I’m certain he is.” The old woman made no attempt to hide her sarcasm.
“He stopped the cattle thieves when I was building the herd.”
Effie rolled her eyes. “Did he, now?”
Lady Margaret sipped her cider. Warmth slid all the way through the tips of her fingers. “Will you please attend Eastertide with us? I’d love you to join us at the high table with the lads.”
Effie placed her palm on her chest. “Me? To be an honored guest?” She winked at the boys. “How could I resist?”
Margaret sighed. It would be a good holiday. Still, disappointment settled heavily upon her shoulders. If only she could meet with Argyll, the earl might help her garner news of Colin. Presently, she clung to hope. His token hadn’t come back to her. She turned the matching ring on her finger. A small treasure, it bore witness to their undying love.
29
The Isle of Rhodes, April, 1460
The monk ushered Colin into Jacques de Milly’s private rooms. Behind the grand master’s embroidered chair, a rich tapestry of blue and gold hung down from a canopy suspended from the ceiling. This was where the great man received supplications. Having aligned himself and Scotland with the French sector of the Rhodes fortress, Colin had dined with the grand master many times, but rarely had he been to his private rooms. These were mostly frequented by knighted priests and monks—pure men who had taken up the oath of chastity.
Colin wore a long black tunic with a white cross of St. John embroidered on his chest, and a black skullcap, similar to that of the monks—a nice reprieve from roasting in his armor. He strode up the aisle and kneeled, bowing his head.
“Rise, Sir Colin.” Jacques rubbed his thumb over a brass disc in his rosary. “You look troubled.”
“Aye, ’tis with a heavy conscience I come to you.”
“Have out with it.” Jacques sat forward. “A knight cannot do battle with a troubled mind.”
“My lord, I have been on crusade for five long years. A fact reflected in my beard.” He gestured to the neatly groomed facial hair, which now touched mid-chest. “I left my wife great with child, my son only a babe in arms. My affairs have been without my governance, and I fear what will happen to my lands should I not return soon.”
The grand master stroked his own beard thoughtfully. “These are the problems of married men and those who maintain property. I took the oath of chastity to avoid such conflicts.”
Lead sank to the bottom of Colin’s gut. With the endless fighting, he feared he’d never be released.
Jacques held his hands up and addressed the monks who lined the room. “Jesus told Peter to leave all behind and follow him. Peter left his lands, his wife and his family to be a disciple.”
“As did I, my lord. But Peter returned to his kin.”
“Eventually, though God was always his first concern.”
Colin’s throat tightened. Was he wrong to covet Margaret’s arms? “As it should be,” he forced out.
The grand master stood and stepped down from his chair, placing his hand on Colin’s shoulder. “Help me take back the city of Archangelos. You were bred for battle, Black Colin. I cannot lose you until Rhodes is once again completely under the order’s rule.”
It was with a heavy heart that Margaret rode beside Ewen. In a few days, her entire world had crumbled. She’d clad herself in a stoic front for so long, but the things most dear continued to be stripped away. How much longer could she go on without the world falling apart around her feet?
Three days past, the king’s guard rode into Kilchurn announcing the death of James II, killed by an exploding cannon called the Lion. The king unwittingly stood beside the cannon during a demonstration. Hells bells, Scotland was at relative peace—aside from the Crusades. Fought on foreign soil, it wasn’t a war against the homeland, but one waged for all of Christendom.
Margaret hated war.
In the courtyard, they’d shouted long live the king. James III, at the age of nine, was still only a lad. The king’s mother, Mary of Guelders, had already been appointed regent to reign in his stead. The same woman who’d suggested Margaret be matched with Colin.
It seemed nothing was right in Scotland. Two days later, another sentry rode through Kilchurn’s gate. This one announced the death of Lord Struan. Margaret hadn’t seen her father since her wedding day.
Remorse clamped her gut.
Though the Campbell guard accompanied her, the MacCorkodale laird insisted on providing escort to her father’s funeral. They departed early that August morning to make the long journey to Loch Rannoch in one day.
The sun hung low in the western sky, and Margaret’s behind ached from hours of relentless riding. At last, Dunalasdair Castle came into view, intensifying her yoke of sorrow.
All seemed surreal, as if she were in a dream. Numbed by the news of two great men dead, she drove her horse forward, yet tears refused to come. Had the years hardened her, surviving without Colin, putting her fears behind, feigning good humor?
She’d been away from Dunalasdair for so long, wound up in her own affairs, taking care of the children, building the castle, dealing with the supplications from crofters and everyone else who traded with the vast Campbell estates. She’d lost any chance to see Da again.
The chains of the portcullis creaked under the gate’s weight as it rose to allow her into the old familiar bailey. A groom helped her dismount. She rushed into the castle and straight to her mother’s chamber.
In the past five years, Lady Robinson’s hair had taken on a silver hue. She sat staring into the fire and paid no mind to the sound of the door. Margaret dashed to her mother’s side. “I came as quickly as I could.”
“Margaret?” Mother’s tear-streaked face brightened. “You came.”
“Of course I did. We left as soon as the messenger arrived.”
Mother pulled her into a tight embrace. The fragrance of pure Highland air and lavender swept through her being. Home. Too much time had passed since Margaret had held Ma in her arms. The stress of the past five years constricted her throat and threatened to burst in a flood of tears—but now was the time to be strong. She clenched her fists to regain her strength. “How are you holding together?”
Mother wiped her eyes with a kerchief. “Well enough, I suppose.” She grasped Margaret’s hand. “He didn’t suffer long.”
She clutched her fingers around her constricting throat. “The fever took him in the n
ight?”
“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.
30
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 fighting easier.
Colin spun the ring on his finger. Then he pulled it off for the first time since he’d put it on whilst Marga
ret 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.
