The Highland Dynasty: The Complete Series

by Amy Jarecki

  The king reached for his goblet. “Now tell me, what is the name of the unfortunate bastard to whom you are referring?”

  26

  In the courtyard, Duncan sparred with Eoin, thrusting his sword in short jabs. Wearing his partner down, he advanced with each strike. Duncan’s chest still tight with remorse, he drew on the inner demons. It was as if his father’s soul had taken over Duncan’s body, driving him to fight like never before.

  He spun with a sideways strike. Eoin’s blade clattered to the cobblestones. Panting, the MacGregor man gaped in disbelief. “Are you possessed by the devil?”

  Duncan lowered his weapon and waited for Eoin to pick up his sword. “You’re growing soft.”

  Eoin stooped for his blade. “Bloody hell.”

  “The king’s riders,” hollered a sentry from atop the guard tower.

  Duncan looked at Eoin and then his other men. They all shrugged. “Open the gate.” After sheathing his sword, he removed his helm and wiped his face with a drying cloth. It wasn’t unusual to receive messengers from the king, though it didn’t happen often. Duncan figured it was merely a formal proclamation until twenty mounted sentries all wearing royal tunics emblazoned with the lion rampant, rode into the Kilchurn outer bailey.

  The man-at-arms dismounted and strode to him with purpose, followed by a half-dozen other guards.

  Duncan planted his fists on his hips. “What is the meaning of this?”

  The guards surrounded him while the leader unrolled a piece of vellum. “By order of his majesty, King James of Scotland, you are hereby accused of murdering the Earl of Mar and Lord Colin Campbell of Glenorchy.

  Duncan’s insides turned to ice. All six men latched on to his arms. “This is preposterous.”

  The man-at-arms made quick work of removing Duncan’s weapons.

  Eoin sidled up to the soldier. “You know these charges are contrived. Even the king saw Duncan leave for Kilchurn after he’d delivered the earl to Craigmillar.”

  The king’s man shrugged. “That is not for me to determine.”

  Eoin drew his sword. “I’ll not stand to see my lord wrongly accused.”

  “No!” Duncan struggled beneath the sentries’ grasp. “We fight for Scotland, and uphold the laws of this land. Fear not. I will stand absolved of these false charges.”

  The man-at-arms whipped a hemp rope around Duncan’s wrists.

  Lady Margaret rushed out from the keep. “Remove your hands from my son!”

  The worry on his stepmother’s face hit Duncan in the gut. Regardless that the charges were contrived, it tore him apart to see Lady Margaret so visibly upset. He tried to reach for her, but the guards wrestled him away.

  She took the missive from the man-at-arms and read whilst the guards led Duncan to a mule. She crumpled the vellum and glared at the king’s man. “These charges are completely false. My son has been by my side since he delivered the earl into Sir Preston’s hands.”

  “Aye?” said the man-at-arms. “Of course the accused’s mother would perjure herself to see her son released.”

  “Mother, go back inside and tend to the girls. There has been a misunderstanding, which should be easily resolved.”

  Lady Margaret stood stoically. Eoin moved to her side and placed a protective arm around her shoulders. “We shall follow and come to your aid, m’lord.”

  Forced to mount a mule, hands bound, and being led like a common criminal, Duncan gazed at his closest friend. Their brief eye contact communicated more than a thousand words. Eoin would not only follow, he would use their Edinburgh resources to delve to the bottom of this charade.

  True, the Campbells of Glenorchy had a great many enemies. That happened when tasked with the unsavory mission of bringing order to a land as rugged as the Highlands.

  Who has the king’s ear? Or does the king himself need a scapegoat? On the charge of killing my father, I would gladly plead guilty if it would bring him back to the family…but the charges of murdering the Earl of Mar? I smell a rat bigger than Kilchurn Castle itself.

  Isaac stood on the Edinburgh Castle battlements beside Lord Percy while the king’s procession made its way up the winding cobbled road to the gaol. A cold wind blew in off the firth and cut to the bone. It didn’t seem to matter how many layers he piled on—in Scotland, Isaac always felt cold.

  Percy pointed. “There he is. He’s not looking so cocky now his hands are bound.” He smirked. “They chose a fine ass for him to ride, as well.”

  Isaac watched the figure of Lord Glenorchy ride a mule—not an ass—along the path to the taunts and jibes of the crowd. The large man wore no cloak and clutched his elbows to his sides, hunched over against the gale.

  “Burn him!” screeched a woman across the path.

  The Lord of Glenorchy’s jaw hardened. Looking straight ahead, he raised his chin and straightened in the saddle, as if he were carrying the pennant for the once great king, Robert the Bruce. Then the baronet turned his head. Isaac’s heart slammed against his chest. At first he thought Duncan Campbell looked directly at him, but it was the man standing beside him who was the recipient of a glare filled with alarm. While the horse neared, the man didn’t avert his gaze—rather, he narrowed his eyes and set his jaw. By the time the mule walked past, Lord Glenorchy’s stare had darkened to unmistakable hatred.

  Lord Percy examined his fingernails. “I daresay, that man is capable of anything, undoubtedly murder. We’re doing Scotland a service by delivering him to her gallows.”

  Heat rushed up the back of Isaac’s neck in concert with the tightening in his chest. “You mean to tell me you feel no sense of guilt?”

  “Why ever should I?”

  Isaac clenched his fists at his sides. “The man is innocent.”

  “That same man stole into my home, kidnapped my prisoner and killed three of my guards. He may not be hanged for his crimes against me, but he will receive his just punishment.”

  Isaac fidgeted with his sword belt. The damned thing seemed to have become ill-fitting overnight. When he closed his eyes, he saw the back of the Earl of Mar’s head. The man had been peaceful, ladling water over himself in the bath, and then Isaac had run the blade across his neck—killing in the name of the Earl of Northumberland. Would he meet a similar end?

  “Come,” Lord Percy said. “I’ve important emissary work to attend.”

  Isaac watched the rear of the procession disappear behind St. Margaret’s Chapel. The thickness in his throat refused to ease. “I shall be along shortly.”

  He had no place to go, but presently the thought of following the Earl of Northumberland anywhere sickened him. Needing to think, to clear his mind and seek absolution for committing murder, Isaac strode along the battlements that overlooked the firth. If only he could leave this hellacious place and return to his family, one day he might forget his wretched past and the abominable deeds he’d committed in the name of the Lord of Northumberland.

  Duncan had been chained to the wall for three days. He only knew this because a ray of light shone through a crack in the mortar near the ceiling of the dungeon. Aside from a filthy scrapper bringing around a cup of water once a day, he’d had no sustenance.

  His arms hung from manacles, and two days ago his hands had gone numb. At first he tried to move his fingers to revive the feeling, but now he no longer cared. His mind was a blur, unable to focus on anything except his raging hunger. Even his vision blurred. Worse, he’d heard naught except the moans from the prisoner alongside him. None of his men had made contact.

  Duncan shifted his weight, and the trembling resumed in his thighs. If he hadn’t been chained to the wall, his legs would have given out by now. He moved every now and again to redistribute his weight, but he’d lost control of his muscles. He’d even tried to hang from his arms, but that only served to worsen the pins and needles driving through his fingertips.

  When the iron door creaked open, Duncan opened his eyes and forced himself to raise his head. A man dressed in the bl
ack robes of a headsman, ushered in two guards. The executioner sucked in his gaunt cheeks, making his cadaverous face appear even more skeletal.

  The man sauntered forward. “I’m surprised you’re still conscious.”

  Duncan’s arid tongue tapped the roof of his mouth, but he said nothing.

  “You must know why I’m here.” The man’s breath stank of rotting teeth.

  Duncan met his sallow gaze. “I do not suppose the king has seen fit to grant me a pardon.” He coughed, barely recognizing his own voice due to the grating rasp. “The last time he asked me to dine, I couldn’t stay.”

  “Oh?” The man’s putrid breath hit Duncan in the back of the throat and made him gag. “Why?”

  “I had a funeral to attend.”

  “Ah.” The bastard chuckled. “Not unlike the one you’ll be attending soon. Except you’ll be the guest of honor.”

  “I am innocent of the charges. Dozens of people can vouch for me.”

  “Hmm.” The man stroked his pointed beard. “That should not be necessary. My duty is to make you confess.”

  Duncan’s gut dropped to his toes. “I’ll die first.”

  “That has been known to happen. Confess and I’ll see to it you meet a swift end. Surely you’d prefer a beheading over sennights in irons.”

  Duncan met the man’s black stare. “I prefer justice.”

  The executioner’s sickening laughter swelled throughout the chamber. “Tell me you murdered your father because you couldn’t wait for his riches to pass to you.”

  “Never.”

  “Tell me you murdered the Earl of Mar whilst he lingered in a bath, and you staged it to cast a dark shadow over the king.”

  “How could I kill someone in Edinburgh when I was in Glen Orchy?”

  “Do you deny your brutish handling of the earl whilst he was in your custody?”

  Duncan hissed. Christ.

  The villain jabbed a finger into Duncan’s sternum. “Why, Sir Preston reported Mar had a black eye when you delivered him to Craigmillar.”

  Duncan would admit truths only. “The earl laughed at my father when he was hunched over a horse, close to death—any man would have done the same.”

  The man drew back his fist and slammed it into Duncan’s jaw before he had a chance to flinch. Shoving his tongue to the corner of his mouth, the iron taste of blood turned his empty stomach. Still, this was only the beginning.

  The black-robed scoundrel gestured to the guards. “Take him to my chamber.”

  Duncan tried to rub his arms when they released them from the manacles, but his relief was short-lived. Shoved into a chamber equipped with every torture device he’d ever seen, and a few Duncan didn’t recognize, he wished they’d left him chained to the wall.

  They stripped away his doublet and shirt, and cast them to the damp, earthen floor. They tied his arms to an iron loop protruding from the wall. With all the contraptions in the room, they planned to whip him?

  The vile man stepped so close, his black woolen mantle scratched Duncan’s flesh. He flinched when the maniac ran his fingernail across an old knife scar at his flank. “You’re not a stranger to pain, I see.”

  The bastard dug into another scar, slowly drawing his jagged nail across it. The deliberate, deep scratch brought the memory of every wound to the forefront of Duncan’s mind. Each scar stung and throbbed as if it had been sliced open.

  Duncan closed his eyes and conjured a picture of Meg. Those blue eyes that captivated his heart. When they’d first met, all she need do was raise her lids and his heart belonged to Meg Douglas. The porcelain face framed by curls of fire—curls that wouldn’t stop, wild like a lion’s mane.

  Rustling came from behind. Duncan didn’t turn his head, but ground his teeth, every muscle clenched taut. He’d been whipped before. He could take it.

  Something hissed through the air. Duncan steeled himself for the impact—but it didn’t come. Excruciating pain seared across all his exposed flesh. His gaze shot to his shoulder. Burning droplets of molten lead sizzled on his skin, filling the room with the stench of burning flesh.

  His head shuddered against the unbearable pain. His eyes watered. Grinding his teeth, he growled and held in his urge to bellow.

  “The whip would have been too kind for the likes of you,” the executioner said, holding the handle of a metal sprinkler in his palm. It looked like the one the priest used to scatter holy water, yet this instrument served a far more sinister purpose.

  The man then pushed his dirty fingernail under a droplet of the cooling lead and levered it up. “Confess.”

  Duncan arched his spine as the blood trickled from his shoulder and down his back. With each blistering tear of the skin, the bastard demanded a confession. Duncan lost track of time, his mind overcome with pain and exhaustion, his extremities trembling out of control. The only things keeping him sane were the moments when he’d close his eyes and focus on Lady Meg.

  When they brought in a beast of a man holding a whip with three thick tongues, Duncan’s insides gave way. He retched as thick yellow bile burned his throat and spewed to the ground.

  “Confess!” roared the black-robed villain.

  A strike of the lash hit Duncan with such force, his head slammed into the post. Stars crossed his vision, and his eyes rolled back while freshly carved welts stung as though his entire back had just been branded.

  “Confess!”

  Duncan tried to picture Meg, but saw only flashes of light. “I…”

  Everything faded into blackness.

  27

  “A gentleman has come to call, m’lady,” Cassie said from the doorway. The early-morning sun shone through the window, illuminating the lassie’s face.

  Meg’s heart skipped more than a beat. She tried to steady her breathing whilst she set her quill in the holder. “Who is this gentleman?”

  “He’s an Englishman. He asked to speak to Arthur, but when the guard said he was out, the man demanded to speak to you—said it was a matter of grave importance.”

  Meg’s heart went from fluttering with elation to a tremulous palpitation. “Englishman? Is he armed? Did he come with a contingent of soldiers?”

  “He’s alone, m’lady. Shall I send him away?”

  “Nay.” Meg stood, cradling her hands against her stomach. “Call my guard. See to it this man bears no arms and have him escorted to Arthur’s solar. I shall meet with him there.”

  “Yes, m’lady.”

  Meg adjusted her wimple. An Englishman calling to see Arthur, and then asks to see me? The man must be completely daft walking through the gates of Tantallon alone.

  She met Tormond outside the solar. “Is he within?”

  The guard wore a hauberk with a sword strapped to his back and another at his hip, in addition to dirks and daggers lashed to his every extremity. “Aye, m’lady.”

  She rubbed the outside of her shoulder. “He is disarmed?”

  “Aye, and I shall be beside you the whole time.”

  “Very well.”

  She reached for the latch, but the guard’s hand grasped it first. “You do not have to meet with him.”

  “He said he had a message of dire importance, did he not?”

  “Aye.”

  “Then I shall hear what he has to say.” She nodded for him to open the door.

  She stood in the doorway and gasped. That same scar. “You?”

  Isaac shoved back his chair and stood. “My lady, forgive my intrusion, but I have grave news.”

  She crossed her arms and stepped inside. “It had best be grave indeed, or you’ll see yourself thrown in the dungeon and left to rot.”

  He held up his hands. “Understood, but I must speak to you in private.”

  Tormond moved forward, hand on the hilt of his claymore. “You shall never have a private audience with her ladyship.”

  Isaac looked to Meg, his brows slanted outward. “I beg of you, Lord Campbell is in dire need of assistance from your house.”

>   “Lord Campbell? Has he recovered from the arrow wound?”

  “Arrow wound?” Isaac’s scar stretched with his confounded stare. “Ah…I was referring to Lord Duncan Campbell.”

  Meg gaped at him. “The Black Knight has perished?”

  “Sennights ago.”

  She stumbled forward, grasping the back of a chair for support.

  Duncan is in trouble? His father dead? Meg nearly swooned.

  Tormond advanced and seized Isaac. Her mind raced—this could be a plot to spirit her back to Alnwick. Isaac’s gaze did not waver. Something in his stricken expression made her trust the man. “Release him.”

  “M’lady?”

  “Do it, I say, and leave us.”

  Tormond’s brows drew together. “I cannot.”

  “Remain outside the door. If Sir Isaac should raise a finger, I shall call you in.”

  “But—”

  “Leave us.” She pointed. “Now.”

  The guard stepped away from Isaac. “If you do anything improper, anything at all, you will not leave this chamber alive.”

  Meg watched Tormond take his leave, and then turned to Isaac. “Sit.”

  He obliged, and folded his hands atop the table in a gesture demonstrating his surrender.

  Meg chose to remain standing. “Sir Duncan, I mean Lord Campbell is in peril?”

  “Yes. Lord Percy has conspired with King James to accuse him of murdering the Earl of Mar.” Isaac repeated the late earl’s name, as if the man’s ghost sent a cold shiver across his back.

  Meg again clutched the back of the chair. “My God.”

  “It gets worse.” Isaac pushed the heels of his hands against his eyes and shook his head. “They’re also accusing Lord Campbell of murdering his father.”

  Meg’s stomach turned over with a sickening squelch. “He would never raise a hand against his da. He respected him as much as the king—more so.” Clutching her arms across her stomach, she paced. What could she do…and why was Isaac at Tantallon bearing witness against his lord? “Why did you come here, of all places?”