by Amy Jarecki
Ewen’s bellows echoed down the passage. Colin sat in a chair and rested his head on his hand.
“What shall we do with the others?” Maxwell asked, stepping inside.
“They’re all murderers and backstabbers. Hang them.” Colin stood and opened the cupboard. Had a single letter survived?
“Pardon, m’lord.” A serving maid stepped in, holding a leather satchel. “Are ye looking for your missives?”
Colin snapped up his head. “You know about them?”
“Aye. I couldn’t save them all, but I hid those he didn’t burn straight away.”
Colin strode forward and took the satchel from her hands. “Why did you not spirit these to Lady Margaret?”
“I hoped I could one day.” She lowered her gaze. “He’s my laird. I didn’t know all he’d done until now.” She hid her eyes with her hand. “I cannot read. I’m ever so sorry.”
Colin placed a hand on her shoulder. “’Tis nay you who needs to be punished. It was brave to come to me. I thank you.”
Sitting on the floor in Colin’s chamber, Margaret held a kerchief to her face as she read Colin’s letters. She could not make it through a whole missive without shedding tears, each passage more impassioned than the next. If she had but received one of these, she never would have allowed Ewen MacCorkodale to become so close.
She steadied her breath and read aloud. “…Every night when I return to my cot, I think of you. Memories of your winsome smile, your tenacious spirit and the way our love grew deep roots during our short time together gives me solace. Without you, I would not be able to withstand the misery that surrounds my every waking moment…”
Taking a deep breath, she fanned herself with her hand. “I cannot believe not one messenger made it to Kilchurn.”
Colin sat beside her, twirling a lock of her hair around his finger. “Ewen intended to claim our lands and sell you out. Duncan and John would have ended up with no inheritance. He’d already had the deeds drawn. He only needed to marry you.”
Margaret wanted to scream. “He promised he would recognize the boys’ birthright.” She wailed into her kerchief. “I cannot believe I was thus deceived.”
Colin rested his hand on her shoulder. “At last ’tis over, and our boys are well protected.”
With these missing letters combined with her horror of finding the annulment papers, Margaret could withhold her questions no longer. Through bleary eyes, she stared at the missive in her hand, the penmanship declaring undying love. “When I thought you dead, I unlocked your document box and found annulment papers.” She dared glance at his face, his eyes expressing shock and the horror similar to how she’d felt on that day. He truly does love me.
Shaking his head, Colin held up his palms. “I must explain—”
She placed her hand in his. “There is no need.”
“But you must know. I thought I’d destroyed those documents. I-I drew them up in haste shortly after we’d arrived in Dunstaffnage.” He pulled her onto his lap and smoothed his hand over her hair. “Oh, Margaret, my love, I was so confused. Once I’d learned what a loving soul you are, and the enormous talents you possess, you would have had to move heaven and hell to make me sign them.”
Margaret blinked, and a tear slid down her cheek. “After reading these letters you wrote, with all my heart I believe you.”
He nuzzled into her hair. “Ah, lass. You are so fine to me.”
She dabbed her eyes and reached for the next missive, filled with a tale of woeful pain and suffering. “Will the Turks never stop?”
“They are an evil force and war with each other as much as they do with the Christians.” He shook his head. “Their beliefs are as strong as ours.”
“Will Christendom prevail?”
“The infidel may march into Jerusalem, and they may crush the Hospitallers, but no one can take down the power of Rome.”
She folded the vellum in her hands. “Are you certain?”
“All of Europe will be at war if they try.”
Margaret placed her hand on Colin’s arm. “Please promise you will never go back.”
“War is for a younger man.” He kissed her cheek ever so tenderly. “Besides, I could nay again leave your side.”
She returned his kiss. “Thank you.”
The door opened and she scooted aside, beckoning the lads. Giggling, Duncan ran to Colin and John to Margaret.
“’Tis time for the evening meal,” Duncan said.
John wiggled onto Margaret’s lap. “I’m famished.”
“What shall we eat?” Colin arched his brows with a devious glint in his eye. He pretended to bite Duncan’s foot. “Laddie toes?”
Duncan squealed. “No!”
Laughing, John darted toward them. “We’ll eat Da’s nose.”
“My nose?” Colin grasped both boys and wrestled them to the ground, gnashing his teeth with a huge grin. “I’d much prefer younger meat…bwahahahaha.”
Margaret laughed, watching Colin roll on the plaid rug with his sons. This is how it should be. Finally a family again, their boys would grow into great men in the shadow of the honorable and powerful Black Knight of Rome.
The End
Author’s Note
This work of fiction is loosely based on the legend of Colin Campbell, the First Lord of Glenorchy. I found a few different accounts of this legend during my research and tried to pull the most important facts from each. Per the Black Book of Taymouth, Colin Campbell, First of Glenorchy, was also known as the Black Knight of Rome (or Black Colin of Rome), and it is believed that he participated in three tours in the Crusades. Though he was married four times, I only mentioned three wives in this story. His last two wives were Margaret Robinson and Margaret Stirling, respectively, and I could not discern for certain which one was responsible for the building of Kilchurn Castle, thus I took literary license and chose Margaret Robinson.
After they were married, Colin was called away by the Pope for this third and final crusade. It is believed he spent most of the seven years away with the Knights Hospitallers (The Order of St. John) on the Isle of Rhodes fighting the Ottoman Empire. As legend has it, Ewen MacCorkodale did try to woo Margaret during the seven years Colin was on crusade. Ewen intercepted every missive from Colin to Margaret and killed the messengers. Margaret was unaware of Ewen’s treachery and only agreed to marry him when it appeared there was no hope for Colin’s return.
The tokens were mentioned in every version of the legend (though one represented a broken ring, and the other, two rings). The charmstone still exists today and is housed at the family estate at Taymouth.
When Colin was called away shortly after their marriage, Margaret was left to build the keep and raise Duncan. The genealogy charts I used aren’t clear on the date of John’s birth, but the lad did grow up to become the Bishop of the Isles.
Also, for those who might wonder, Glen Orchy is a glen in Argyllshire, and is two words. The title, Lord of Glenorchy is one word, thus the different spellings in this book.
A Highland Knight’s Desire
Highland Dynasty Series—Book Two
1
Melrose Abbey, January, 1478
Before she knelt, Meg stole a glance behind her. A silent sigh slipped through pursed lips. As he’d promised, her tenacious guard wasn’t standing at the rear of the nave watching. She had several things she wanted to accomplish on this pilgrimage—most importantly, gaining an audience with the abbot. After pleading nearly the entire two-day journey from Tantallon Castle, she’d convinced the guard to allow her a modicum of freedom—at least within the walls of Melrose Abbey.
Out of the corner of her eye, a bronze cross flickered. It sat atop an altar in a quiet aisle chapel. Meg tiptoed over. She’d have complete solitude there.
Kneeling, she folded her hands and gazed at the cross. She’d prayed endlessly for guidance, but presently her mind blanked. She closed her eyes. Ah, yes…
Firstly, thank you for our safe passage, and tha
nk you for all my blessings…aside from my unruly red hair and my claw of a hand, but we’ve discussed that hundreds of times. I’m well aware Arthur will be unable to find me a suitable husband. I must take matters into my own hands…and give them over to you, God. That’s where I belong—serving you. Please help me gain an audience with his holiness, the abbot, that I may make my wishes clear and take up the veil…
Someone tapped her shoulder. She glanced up. A pair of white-robed monks stood behind her.
“Come,” one said.
Meg’s heart fluttered. Had her prayers been answered so quickly? “Are you taking me to the abbot?”
They exchanged glances. “Aye,” the tallest one clipped. A jagged scar etched the side of his cheek.
Meg eagerly stood and gestured for them to proceed. The corner of the shorter one’s mouth smirked. They were an odd pair, indeed.
Single file, she walked between the two men. The tallest led her straight to the rood screen concealing the choir. Abruptly she stopped and clapped her hand to her chest.
The shorter one waved her forward with a flick of his wrist.
“I cannot.” She kept her voice low. “I’ve not yet taken the veil.”
The taller monk frowned, stretching his scar downward. He clamped his fingers around Meg’s elbow, his grip a bit forceful for a monk. “You must pass this way to meet the abbot,” he whispered, so softly Meg could hardly discern his words.
She withdrew her arm from his grasp and inclined her head toward the entry. If this was what God intended, then she’d proceed. Surely she would commit no sin by entering restricted holy ground for the purpose of declaring her wishes to become a novice.
Crossing through the ornately carved rood screen, Meg walked into the dim choir where only monks who had taken the vows of chastity, poverty and obedience were allowed to worship. The walls were lined with two tiers of choir stalls, where each monk would pray from lauds to compline. Their footfalls loudly echoed up to the vaulted ceiling.
A poke in the back caught her attention. The leader had already moved through and held open a thick wooden door. Meg understood the impatient look on the man’s face. She’d seen the same expression from her brother a hundred times before. She hastened her pace. Why was there never enough time to stop and admire her surroundings?
Stepping outside into the frigid air, she used her hand to shield her eyes from the sun shining through the clouds. “I’m surprised the abbot is aware I’m here. I hadn’t yet made a request to meet with him.”
Neither man said a word. They’d just spoken to her, so they mustn’t have taken a vow of silence. Was this an area of the abbey where no one was allowed to speak? Were they near the sacred tomb where Robert the Bruce’s heart had been laid to rest—yet another relic to which Meg wanted to pay homage on this, her first pilgrimage.
She quickly scanned the surrounding garden. There were no graves at all. The monks sped their pace yet again. Arriving at a doorway leading through the cloister wall, the shorter monk stepped beside Meg and grasped her arm. “We’ll be taking a detour, miss.” This was the first time the stout monk had spoken.
Miss? The daughter of a Scottish earl, Meg’s respectful courtesy was “my lady.”
Something was awry.
Meg’s mind clicked.
Her blood turned to ice. English. No mistaking it, this man had an English accent.
“Release me.” Meg dug in her heels and yanked her arm away. Her heart flying to her throat, she shuffled backward and raised her skirts with trembling hands as she prepared to flee.
“Help!”
Gasping in short bursts, Meg sprinted toward the abbey.
Footsteps slapped the mud behind her. “Bloody hell, Isaac… ”
A hand clapped over her mouth and another around her waist. Meg struggled, kicked, scratched—anything to break free. In the blink of an eye, the stocky monk hauled her outside the abbey curtain walls. With not a soul in sight, three horses stood tethered at the tree-line edge.
Screaming through the brutal palm clamped over her lips, she kicked and thrashed her entire body until the imposter brutally slapped her across the face. Recoiling, Meg’s feet touched the ground. She shrieked and tried to run. Fingers of iron held her in place. A gag filled her mouth while unforgiving hands bound her wrists.
The scarred monk grabbed Meg by the waist and hefted her onto the horse’s back, belly first. Before she could right herself, the short one lashed another rope around her wrists and tied her hands to her legs under the horse’s barrel.
Margaret cried out through the coarse cloth biting into her mouth. She jerked her arms, only to pull her legs under the horse. Her body slid sideways awkwardly. God in heaven, why are they doing this? Her gaze darted from side to side as she tried to scream louder, only to be muted by the foul-tasting gag.
The men mounted. One tugged her horse’s lead and raced away at a gallop. Meg clamped onto the horse’s short hair while her gut thumped into the unyielding gelding’s back. Her heart raced faster than the hoofbeats. Her chin slammed into the steed’s barrel repeatedly—until stars crossed her vision.
2
Duncan Campbell followed the servant through the passageway of Tantallon Castle, his brother John at his elbow. The missive from Lord Arthur Douglas, the Earl of Angus, had been vague to say the least, but on one thing he’d been clear: Arthur’s sister, Lady Meg Douglas, had been kidnapped by the English.
The servant held up his hand. “Please wait here and I’ll announce your arrival.” He opened the door and slipped inside a solar. “Sir Duncan Campbell and Sir John Campbell, m’lord.”
Silence.
Duncan could picture the earl’s frowning face, and he stood a little straighter. He’d come in his father’s stead. Few men knew he’d taken up the Lord of Glenorchy’s mantle—yet.
“Well, don’t just stand there, show the Highlanders in.” The earl’s gruff voice filled the corridor, adding a deprecating inflection to “Highlanders,” as if the Lowland earl believed himself superior.
The steward led them inside and made the requisite introductions. Sitting at a thick walnut table, the Earl of Angus appeared every bit as disagreeable as Duncan had envisioned. Arthur Douglas was only two years his senior. Duncan tipped up his chin. As heir to the Campbell dynasty, they were peers. There was no cause to bow. John, however, bowed deeply. Blast him. Duncan swallowed his Highland pride and offered a courteous dip of his head. “We came as soon as we received word, m’lord.”
“I expected the Black Knight, not a pair of wet-eared lads who’ve recently attained their majority.”
“At three and twenty, my father had already returned from his first crusade.” Duncan rested his palm on the pommel of his sword. If only he could draw it and slice that smirk off the earl’s face. “I assure you, my men and I were trained under his critical eye. You’ll not find another team better.”
Licking his lips, the earl’s gaze drifted to Duncan’s hilt. “This matter is delicate. One wrong move and it could incite war between our borders and crush the truce the king has worked so hard to maintain.” The earl swiped fingers, bejeweled with rings, across his mouth. “God forbid a Douglas is blamed for that.”
“Your missive said your sister’s been abducted,” John said.
Duncan shot him a stern glare. They’d agreed he’d do the talking. He led his band of stealthy warriors, and Duncan would not have his authority undermined, not even by his younger brother, and especially not in front of a peer—one in possession of a vast sum of coin, at that.
The earl nodded and pulled a folded missive from beneath his surcoat. “Addressed to me, this was found at Melrose Abbey—in the pew where Lady Meg was praying. The bastards took her in broad daylight with no one the wiser. ’Tis almost as if she vanished into thin air.”
Duncan grasped the note and read. “What rift have you with the Earl of Northumberland?”
Arthur spread his palms. “Me? None, but my father sacked Alnwick Castle in
’62. Da’s the reason the Percy’s lost the Northumberland earldom.”
Duncan knitted his brows. “But Henry claimed it back.”
“Aye.” Arthur pointed at the vellum. “Now he’s set his house to rights, it appears he’s out for vengeance.”
Duncan placed the missive on the table. The pieces of the puzzle were coming together. “And if you march an army across the border, you’ll risk destroying the truce between England and Scotland.”
“Exactly. Can you ferret her out quietly?”
“If anyone can, ’tis me brother,” John said.
Duncan again glared at his younger sibling. “Sounds easy enough—spirit inside under disguise, find a weakness and slip her out.”
“Do not underestimate Lord Percy. He’s a slithering snake, that one—nothing about this mission is easy, else I’d have done it myself.” Arthur leaned forward. “You’ve been to England?”
“Aye, let’s say I’ve had my dealings with Queen Margaret and the Lancasters. I was there long enough to develop a foul taste for the Yorkists as well.”
Arthur leaned back and drummed his fingers on his armrests, as if he were considering his options. “You’re awfully confident, but then I’d expect that from a Campbell.”
Duncan had no time for a pompous Lowlander or any slights against his kin. He crossed his arms. “Do you want your sister returned to Tantallon or nay?”
Arthur stood and moved to the sideboard. “She’s a feisty one, Meg.” He poured three tots of whisky. “She thinks she wants to take up the veil, but I’ve an alliance to make with her hand.”
Duncan’s gut twisted. “Do you believe Lord Percy would ruin her?” He could not abide any man who defiled a woman. The thought of it made the blood run hot beneath his skin.
Arthur paled. “If the bastard does, he’ll break the truce for certain.”
