by Amy Jarecki
Margaret watched Ewen’s bold stride as he left her standing in the midst of her herb garden. Basil and rosemary scented the air. She sighed. She’d finally agreed to a date. At least Ewen was happy and would stop pressuring her.
She proceeded down the path to the daffodils in full bloom. She kneeled and examined the brilliant yellow petals. Rubbing a finger across one, the wonder of God’s creation flowed through her like living breath. A soft breeze caressed the back of her neck and her skin grew alive, tingling.
Dear God in heaven. I am begging you for answers. Was Colin lost at sea? Did he even reach Rome? Was he upset with me? Did I misinterpret his love? Help me to understand what went wrong. Above all my questions and all my desires, if there is the slightest chance he lives, I beg of you, please, please, please show me a sign.
33
Edinburgh Castle, 17th June, 1462
Aside from Mevan, Margaret told not a soul the real reason for her trip to Edinburgh, where Queen Mary had moved court for midsummer. As far as anyone knew, she’d journeyed out to find the perfect fabric for her wedding dress, and as such could not be accompanied by her future groom. Ewen had traveled north to attend Highland games in Inverness, and thus hadn’t objected to her departure. He didn’t even know of it. Thank the stars for small mercies.
Though she’d written countless letters and given them to her faithful courier, Ewen’s youngest brother, she’d never received a word from Colin or His Holiness. Her last hope was to gain an audience with the queen. The regent should always be the first to receive word if one of their nobles was killed abroad.
Margaret’s skin twitched while she waited in the queen’s hot outer hall. A large wooden table sat in the center of the big room, filled with smelly courtiers waiting for an opportunity to present their petitions to the queen.
Margaret had a good chance of being seen today, the second day spent sitting on one of the hard wooden benches lining the wall. She’d slipped the queen’s page a silver sovereign and stressed the importance of her business.
Two days of nervously drumming her fingers did nothing to bolster confidence. Yes, she was nobility, a wife of one of the most powerful barons in Scotland…though he hadn’t set foot there in seven years. A fact that would quickly see his good deeds forgotten, especially after the death of James II.
Hundreds of errant thoughts whirred through her head. Why had there been no news of the Crusade? Would the queen think her a fool or ask her to be a lady in waiting, God forbid? Surely with two boys at home, she could plead a case against that.
The door opened. The smug page stuck his nose in the air. “Lady Margaret Campbell of Glen Orchy.”
Her hammering heart flew to her throat. Swallowing, Margaret stood as quickly as proper decorum would allow and pressed her hand to her chest to quash her rapid heart. “Thank you,” she whispered, carefully planting each foot as she entered the queen’s inner chamber.
The room exuded wealth. Oozed it. From the richly painted friezes on the ceilings to the purple and gold tapestries on the walls, no expense had been spared. The queen sat in a well-padded throne, covered in red velvet. She wore a velvet gown with a black skirt and red bodice, lined with ermine. Adorning her head was a matching hennin, which only revealed a hint of her auburn hair.
The queen placed her palms together and inclined her fingers toward Margaret. “Well, come forward, Lady Glenorchy. I haven’t all day.”
Cheeks burning, Margaret briskly walked ahead and performed a deep curtsey—the same one she’d dipped into on her wedding day.
“Rise,” Queen Mary said, sounding like she’d rather be someplace else entirely.
Margaret wiped her sweaty palms on her skirts. “I’ve a matter of utmost urgency and am in grave need of your assistance, your highness.”
The queen nodded impatiently. Margaret clutched her palms together and launched into a quick explanation of Colin’s disappearance. “You see, Lord Glenorchy did not send me his token. I’ve received no formal word of his death, only rumors.”
The queen gestured to the dignitary, who continuously scrawled with his quill. “Lord Chancellor, have you record of Colin Campbell’s death?”
“None, your highness.”
The queen frowned. “Seven years and no word, you say?”
“Aye, your highness.”
“It does rather sound as if he’s met his end. Have you word from anyone else in his retinue?”
“No, your highness.”
“Then the evidence most certainly speaks of dread.” The queen’s gaze darted to her clerk then back to Margaret. “Shall we record his death? He has issue, no?”
“No…I mean, yes, Colin has two sons, but I’d prefer to wait to declare him dead.” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Not yet, anyway.”
“Very well.” The queen dismissed Margaret with a flick of her wrist.
“Please…have you news of the Crusade?” Margaret stammered. She still had so many questions to ask. “Any word from the Pope?”
Shaking her head, the queen looked away with disinterested eyes.
“Come.” In a blur, the page grasped Margaret’s elbow and ushered her to the outer chamber.
The hum of voices buzzed around her, eyes slanted her way, the room spinning. So that was it? A few words with the queen only to walk away with no news whatsoever?
Her trip to Edinburgh had been a complete and utter waste of time. She stumbled toward the door, pushing people out of her path. She couldn’t breathe. Not a soul had heard from Colin or his men.
He’d vanished.
Staggering to the courtyard, she found Mevan. “I must purchase some fabric and we’ll be on our way.”
He knitted his bushy brows. “Did you see the queen?”
She nodded, casting her eyes downward. “No news.”
“I’m sorry, m’lady.”
Pressing her hands to her face, she choked back tears. “It was worth a try.”
She could no longer hope.
After the noon meal, Margaret rode out with her cohort of twelve men, including Mevan. The path from Edinburgh to Kilchurn was long and arduous, but she didn’t regret her decision to go. At least now she had her own proof and wasn’t relying on anyone else’s word. Colin and his men disappeared somewhere between Dunstaffnage and Rome, never to be heard from again.
The third day after leaving Edinburgh, Margaret and her guard rode into the dense forest along Loch na Bi. She’d traveled this trail several times in the past, even camped here once. Surrounded by steep sloping hills, there was only one narrow path in and out.
A chill rippled across her skin, almost like a warning. She couldn’t put her finger on it. She wanted to stop and listen, but that would be silly. There was no place to gather. Force them all to pull up single file while she listened? For what? Definitely inane and pointless. The sooner they passed through the thick wood, the closer they’d be to Loch Awe. They’d reach Kilchurn before nightfall.
Halfway, her skin again prickled. The hair on her nape stood on end. Eyes scanning the dense forest, she fingered the dagger in her pocket.
Bellowing shrieks echoed from behind the trees. Before Margaret could blink, a man raced toward her, a thick iron hammer in his hand. His eyes were wide and wild. Roaring like a madman, he bared his teeth and groped for her arm.
No time to think. Margaret pitched to the side and swiped her knife across his face.
Blood streamed down his cheek. Snarling, he tried to yank her from her mount. “Ye bitch, ye cut me.”
She held tight to the pommel. In a lightning-fast move, he clutched his fingers around her throat. She tried to wrench away, but his hands clamped like a vise. She couldn’t breathe. Her voice box croaked with choking sounds. The world spun.
Margaret clawed at his hands, gasping for life-giving air.
Blood running cold, she thrashed, trying to free herself from the man’s brutal grasp. Her fingers tightened around her dagger. Clenching her teeth, she drew upon her rema
ining strength and plunged the blade into his shoulder. Wailing, he released his hold, brutally swinging his weapon. The weighty hammer slammed into her arm.
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.
34
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 be
fore 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.”
