by Amy Jarecki
“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?
35
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.
She glanced up from her bench in the garden. “’Tis coming good. I’ll be happy when I can remove this sling. The wretched thing drives me mad.”
“Throw down your sword, we have you surrounded,” Duncan hollered, pointing his wooden weapon at John.
The younger boy whipped around with a challenging stance. “I’m protecting her ladyship. I will die defending her honor.”
Where did he learn such chivalry? Margaret chuckled and mussed John’s hair. “My knight in shining armor, come to rescue me.”
Duncan lowered his sword. “I want to be the good knight.”
Margaret beckoned him to sit beside her. “You can both be good knights, for a man is not truly a knight unless there is goodness in his heart.”
She looked at their angelic faces—both reminding her so much of Colin. But their father had been a fantasy to them, a knight in blackened armor who existed only in bedtime stories. “Three days hence, you shall have a new stepfather.” Her insides cringed.
John scrunched up his face. “You mean Laird Mac…Cor…dale?”
“Aye. He’ll see to your training as you become men.” She’d made the right choice for her boys.
Duncan pushed out his bottom lip. “But Laird Ewen’s always so serious.”
“I don’t think he likes us,” John said.
Margaret tapped John’s nose. “Why?”
“He frowns a lot and tells us to be quiet.” John affected a scowl. “‘Wheesht,’ he says all the time.”
“He never plays with us.” Duncan rapped his wooden sword on the bench.
True, Ewen was serious, and he didn’t have children of his own. But he’d promised to become more involved with the boys after he moved to Kilchurn. “He’ll love you as his own once he resides in the lord’s chamber.”
Duncan planted his feet with a look of defiance. “But that’s Father’s chamber.”
Margaret’s heart wanted to burst. She still hadn’t recovered from finding the annulment papers. It was as if she and the boys had been living a lie. “Do you even remember your father?”
His lips quivered. Margaret reached out and pulled the boy to her breast. “Laird Ewen will help you lads become knights and teach you the rules of court.”
John rested his head against her shoulder. “I don’t want to fight or go on a crusade and be killed.”
“You can become whatever you want, John.”
Duncan pushed away. “But I want my real father to come home. I don’t need a stepfather who looks at me like he hates me. He won’t be nice. I know it.” He turned and ran.
“Duncan!” Margaret watched him race through the garden path and into the castle. She wasn’t the only person who needed to become accustomed to the changes. And change things would…in three days, to be exact.
36
The Firth of Lorn, 2nd August, 1462
Early morning, Colin alighted from the galley with Argyll and his men. Without his ship, the journey took far too long, changing transports in port cities until they chartered a galley in London. Colin touched Maxwell’s shoulder. “Take the men and ready the horses. Arrange for a wagon to haul our gear. Meet us at Effie’s cottage. We’ll ride from there.”
Though he could use a bath, Colin took Argyll and headed toward Effie’s home. They walked past the chapel where Duncan was christened, and also where Jonet and Mariot were buried. So much time had passed. Everything looked the same, yet different, almost odd.
Argyll stood behind Colin while he rapped on the wooden door.
“A moment,” Effie’s brittle voice came from within.
The door creaked open. Colin gasped. She’d aged so much, bent over a cane, her hair completely white.
She gaped at him. “Lord Jesus almighty, you look like you fought with the devil and lost. If it weren’t for your eyes, I never would have recognized you.” She had uncouth spirit. Some things hadn’t changed.
Colin ran his hand down the beard that now reached his navel. “We stepped off the ship and came straight here.”
She gaped at him. “With not a moment to spare. Where have you been? Why were you gone so long? You’re a stranger to your children.” Yes, this was the outspoken Effie he’d always known.
Colin glanced at Argyll and sighed. If only she knew he’d been fighting against Satan for seven long years. “May we come in?”
She stepped aside and held the door wide. “Yes, apologies. I must be losing my manners in me old age. Sit at the table and I’ll fetch some bread and cheese.”
Though Colin was starving, there wasn’t time. “No need, mistress.” He pulled out the bench for her. “I bid you sit.”
Effie hobbled over, a puff of flatulence tooting from her backside. She ignored her impropriety and lowered herself onto the seat. “You are aware today is the Lammas Day Feast?”
“Is it?”
Her black gaze darted to Argyll. “He doesn’t know?”
Argyll straddled the bench across from her. “What?”
She rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “Lady Margaret told Laird Ewen she would marry him the day after Lammas Feast unless she received word Colin lived.” She shook a gnarled finger. “How could you be away such a long time without nary a word?”
He plopped on the bench beside her and cradled his head in his hand. “I sent parcels of letters near every sennight. Argyll said not a one reached her.”
Effie slammed her cane into the floor. “That milk-livered swine. I smell a rat as large as Dunstaffnage Castle.”
“MacCorkodale?” The name flowed bitter on his tongue.
“Aye, who else?”
“Does she…” Colin wanted to be sick, but he had to ask. “Is she in love with him?”
The old woman’s face pruned when she pursed her lips, but her eyes were fierce. “Would she have put him off all this time?”
Colin grasped her hand. “I must know.”
“I’ve been retired for ages—all is hearsay brought from Kilchurn. I’ve not seen Lady Margaret since Eastertide three years ago.”
He slumped. How ridiculous he would look if she shunned him.
A tattered surcoat by the door caught his eye. “May I borrow that?”
Her face twisted in question. “The old coat my son wears to tend the pigs?”
“Aye, you said I look like shite. I may as well dress like it too.”
“What the devil?” Argyll said.
Colin grinned for the first time in—well, probably in seven years. “I have a plan.”
They drove the horses hard the twenty miles to the mouth of Loch Awe, the site of Kilchurn Castle—Colin’s castle. Before the trees gave way to grassy lea, Colin signaled for the men to stop. In the distance, the keep grandly towered above the loch. Kilchurn stood paramount, ruling over the pomp and beauty of the scene. Verdant mountains, torrents, lakes and wood united to pay it homage. Indeed, his castle had become a magnificent and formidable fortress—more modern and grander than Dunstaffnage, and peaceful in its mighty setting. Ah, Lady Margaret. How much she has accomplished.
“Colin?” Argyll said. “What is this plan of yours?”
Colin waffled between drawing his sword and leading his men on a charge to take the castle, and his original scheme. He ground his back molars and pointed. “Take the men to the old stable and wait. I do not want anyone to recognize us.”
He dismounted and handed his reins to Maxwell. He removed his cloak and claymore as well, passing them to the young knight who still acted as squire. After hiding his dirk in his belt, beneath the peasant’s surcoat, Colin pushed a tarnished helm over his head and traipsed through the mud. Kilchurn’s gates were open wide, welcoming all to the feast. Passing through the portcullis, he stopped and stared at the capstone above the heavy wooden gate. His initials were carved into the sandstone beside the Campbell crest. Next to that were etched M
argaret’s initials. How long ago had she commissioned this work?
Laughing, people pushed past, paying him no mind. He recognized one. Mevan, Margaret’s guard.
With gooseflesh rising on his arms and along his nape, he walked inside the gatehouse—a vaulted ceiling of stone—a dungeon on his left—unoccupied. Smells from the kitchen wafted—freshly baked bread for the Lammas Feast, roasted pork and something sweet. Apple tart. He salivated.
A stranger in his own castle, stepping into the busy courtyard, Colin drifted as if he were not inside his body. Music filled the air. Children laughed and played a game of tag. A boy ploughed straight into him. Craning his neck, the lad’s brown eyes looked stunned. “Sorry, sir. I…I wasn’t looking.”
The corner of Colin’s mouth ticked up, and he placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder. It was almost as if he were looking into a mirror that took him back in time. “Are you John?” His voice quavered.
The boy stepped away, his eyes wary. “Yes, sir.”
A young lass skipped up to John and slapped him on the back. “You’re tagged.”
Colin’s son turned and ran toward the mob of scattering children.
His heart in his throat, Colin’s gaze darted from one young face to the next. Which one was Duncan? Darker hair, slightly taller than John—it had to be his eldest son using a smaller boy to shield himself from getting tagged. Colin laughed aloud.
No one spoke to him. No one even looked his way.
The ram’s horn blared, announcing the feast. Everyone headed into the tower. The Great Hall. Colin knew exactly where it was—at least on the drawings. He waited for the guests to pass, watching John and Duncan shove each other through the door. It was all he could do not to pull them into his embrace and tell them who he was.
Ascending the stairs, his breath stuttered. Everything was exactly as he’d planned it and more. Lined with richly embroidered and colorful tapestries, the hall could rival any other in the kingdom. Tables filled with people circumvented the walls. Immediately, his gaze snapped to the dais at the far end. His breath whooshed from his lungs. Far more beautiful than his memory, Margaret sat at the head table, wearing a crimson gown, her hair held back by a conical hennin. The styles had changed a bit. Lord have mercy, she was a vision.
