However, Argyll was occupied with his own thoughts and cursed with only half his usual vehemence when the farmer finally trailed the last cow into the trees.
The Earl urged his restive mount forward. Although his gaze swept over the woody islands and glittering stillness of Loch Awe, he was unimpressed by the calm, unchanging beauty. His thoughts were at Duart Castle, where he had left his daughter, Elizabeth, and Lachlan Maclean. Argyll shook his head, remembering with foreboding that Maclean was too clever by half. The Earl had thought at one time if the man could ever bring himself to side with the King rather than against him, Maclean would be a good soldier to fight beside.
But Argyll had never fully trusted him since the rebellion in 1504 that had threatened to restore the Lordship of the Isles to Donald Dubh. Maclean had been declared a traitor, and although he had since sworn allegiance to the crown, the Earl was aware that the man still cast his gaze hungrily over the lands of others. He remembered all too clearly Maclean's flushed face and clenched fist when he asserted, "I’ll no’ rest so long as the Camerons hold the lands of Lochiel. They took them from me, and they shall no' sit peacefully there while I live!"
Argyll had grimaced as he put his hands on his son-in-law's shoulders. "Ye must try to forget. Ye must let the King settle yer quarrels without bloodshed."
"Ha!" Maclean had just restrained himself from spitting in the Earl's face. He pulled free of Argyll's grip, laughing bitterly.
"Ye're just the man to speak of peace and to claim yer rights without bloodshed—ye who have betrayed us more than once! We’re no' so foolish as ye might think, my lord."
The Earl reached instinctively for his sword but did not draw it. Instead he stared into Maclean's mocking gaze and tried to conquer his anger.
"Ye play with human lives to achieve yer own ends," his son-in-law continued. "We're aware that Donald Dubh was yer prisoner and ye set him free, knowing we would follow him into a revolt. Then ye turned yer energy to smashing the rebellion ye had created. Ye're a devious man, Father-in-law, but we’re no’ blind. My only comfort is that ye follow a king who will destroy ye, just as ye have destroyed us."
Argyll was suddenly aware of Elizabeth, who hovered in the background, watching. She looked up, gasping at her husband's audacity, and her glance went to her father's sword. Her expression was full of pleading.
The Earl loosened his grip on the handle of his broadsword.
Maclean was, after all, his daughter's husband. What was worse, he had chosen the man himself. The marriage had been meant to solidify the new bond between King James and his rebellious Highland chiefs. Argyll, as the King's representative, had given up his only daughter. At the time, he had believed it to be an unfortunate necessity, but it had won him the King's favor.
Partly because of the peace he had preserved in the Highlands, James IV had appointed the Earl Lord High Chancellor of Scotland as well as Master of the Royal Household. Surely his one small sacrifice had been worth the result.
Elizabeth moved toward Maclean protectively. "Leave him be, Father. Ye know he only speaks the truth."
The Earl stood quite still for a moment, frozen with shock. His daughter's loyalty obviously belonged to Maclean now. His hands trembled with outrage, but he clasped them roughly behind his back. As Elizabeth took her husband's arm, the Earl controlled his voice with an effort. "We won't discuss my business with the King further. If it weren't for my daughter, ye know I'd kill ye."
Shaking away his wife's hand, Maclean stepped forward.
"Ye could try, my lord. But ye're an old man and I’m no’. I beg ye, don't think of Elizabeth. Come, try yer hand against me."
It was too much to bear, even for Elizabeth's sake. The Earl went once more for his sword. The metal gleamed as he brought it up and faced Maclean. "As ye wish," he said.
"Father!" Elizabeth threw herself between the two men. Maclean lunged forward to push her away, but she stood firm. "Lachlan," she gasped, "how long do ye think ye’d live if 'twas known ye'd killed the Earl of Argyll? The Campbells would hunt ye for the rest of yer days, and there would no' be many. Ye must wait."
Elizabeth looked beseechingly at her father. At the expression in her eyes, he took a deep breath, then shoved his sword back into its sheath. He was not conscious that he did so.
Ye must wait, his daughter had said. Did she actually wish for his death, then? He looked at the pale oval of her face and for an instant forgot to hide his pain.
"Father, don't make me choose," Elizabeth cried, reaching out to take his hand. "I have loved ye dearly, but Lachlan is my husband. It was ye who bid me marry him. Leave us in peace, please."
Argyll gently withdrew his hand from hers. By now he had reconstructed the mask that covered his weakness and he managed a stiff smile. "I will leave ye in peace," he said. "Take care, Elizabeth."
As he turned to go, the Earl saw Maclean drop his sword to the floor in disgust. Argyll looked back once when he reached the doorway, then, sickened by the scene before him, quickly left the room. Elizabeth knelt at her husband's feet, her hands outstretched toward him. Maclean turned his back on her.
The Earl felt ill, remembering. His fingers closed convulsively on the handle of his sword.
The silent groom who had met the Laird of the Clan Campbell at Oban, watched Argyll secretly, wondering what was troubling the Earl. Although his expression was calm, the man could see his agitation in his whitened knuckles. The young groom was careful to avoid the Earl's gaze. Everyone knew his anger was terrible.
"The girl!" Argyll boomed unexpectedly. "Did they take the girl?" Now that he had put Duart behind him, he remembered Muriella Calder. He had left word that his brother and son should take her from Hugh Rose of Kilravok.
The Earl trembled with fury. The man had given his word and broken it without a thought. Rose had gladly taken the Campbell's aid and friendship over the years, but in the end, it had meant nothing. The glitter of Muriella Calder's gold had blinded the Laird of the Clan Rose to honor and loyalty, even wisdom.
Argyll should never have trusted him. Indeed, he never really had. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he had always known this moment would come. Enemies once more. It was all he could expect, it seemed. Hugh Rose, Lachlan Maclean—they were all the same. With narrowed eyes, the Earl regarded his companion, who kept his gaze fixed between his horse's ears. "Did they bring the girl safely to Kilchurn?"
"The lass is at Kilchurn, aye," the young man muttered. "Been there a week. And many's the man who won't look upon her for fear o' the evil eye."
Argyll frowned. "They think she's a witch, do they? Well then, I must remember to tell them to keep their thoughts to themselves. But the girl is safe?"
The groom nodded. "Aye, she is safe enough."
Pressing his knees into the warm, heaving sides of his horse, the Earl urged the animal to hurry. It sounded as if there had been trouble. He hoped there had been. It would give him something to occupy his mind—anything to destroy the memory of Elizabeth kneeling with her arms outstretched toward Lachlan Maclean.
~ * ~
Richard Campbell leaned against the wall outside Muriella's door, which was slightly ajar. He shook his head when the regular crunch of rushes inside told him the girl was pacing again.
"Och, does the lass never stay still? She'll drive herself daft at this rate," Andrew said. He crouched a few feet away from his brother, elbows resting on his knees.
"I wouldn't be surprised if she's already daft. Wouldn't ye be if ye were pinned up in a single room for eight days together?"
"Aye, that I would. It doesn't seem like Sir John to keep her locked up this way. Or was it Sir Colin?"
"'Twas Sir Colin right enough." Richard leaned forward and lowered his voice. "And I don't think 'tis either wise or kind."
"Well, ye don't expect him to let her get away, do ye?
Seems to me he's bein' most wise."
Richard regarded his brother with troubled eyes. "Aye, mayhap if she was someo
ne else. But no' with that lass. I wouldn't cross her the way Sir Colin has, and I wish Sir John hadn't chosen me to guard her."
Andrew could not restrain a shout of laughter. "Ye're a fool, sure enough! Don't ye tell me ye believe the stories the men are whisperin' in the kitchens?" Sitting back on his heels, Andrew chuckled to himself.
With rare patience, Richard waited until his brother was quiet. "Didn't ye hear she warned Sir John about Rob Campbell?"
"Aye, and so what? Tis more likely she knew the Calders' plans than that she's a witch. Have ye never guessed a friend would fall in battle? Come, man, don't let the lass fool ye." "She didn't tell me, but I believe it just the same."
Andrew shook his head in disbelief. He knew his brother to be courageous in battle, yet here he was trembling for fear of a young, helpless girl. "Tell me, brother, if she has the power, why hasn't she turned ye to stone? Surely she knows ye to be her jailer."
"Because"—Richard crouched to join his brother on the floor—"I haven't given her the chance. However, I don't think she wishes us all ill. Megan seems to like her well enough, and to tell ye the truth, I pity the lass, witch or no'. She's trapped."
"Aye." The laughter retreated from Andrew's blue eyes.
"That she is. But I'll wager Sir Colin hasn't come near her yet, has he?"
"No. And there's a question for ye. Do ye think a normal girl would've had the courage to stand up to him that way?"
"Mayhap." Andrew drummed his fingers on the stone. "But I confess, I’ve no’ seen another do it. 'Twas a marvelous sight, wasn't it? Callen Maellach—old lump-in-brow—with nothin' to say in the face of a lassie's anger. Och! 'twas grand."
"No doubt she stopped his tongue."
"There ye go again with yer witches and yer spells. Ye're daft, ye fool."
"Mayhap," Richard said, ignoring his brothers skepticism, "but I'll wager ye’ve no’ looked into the lassie's eyes. If ye had, ye’d no’ laugh anymore."
~ * ~
As the Earl stalked into the Great Hall, his two sons rose to meet him. His face wore an ugly scowl and, seeing his expression, the servants hurried to fetch him ale while trying to avoid catching his attention.
"They tell me there was a battle," he called across the tables to John. "Did the Roses come after the girl?"
"No. 'Twas the Calders, and by God, Colin would keep me tied here instead of letting me go after them. The bastards!"
The Earl shook his head at his son's outburst. "Sit down and be calm, boy." Then he turned to Colin. "How many dead?"
"Twenty-seven. Among them were Rob and eight of his sons," he announced baldly.
"Dear God!" Argyll closed his eyes against the too-bright afternoon light.
"I was for going out the next day to even the score," John declared, "but Colin said no, we must wait for ye." He sat up, leaning toward his father. "Will ye let me go now?"
The Earl barely heard. His head was spinning and he did not like the feeling. He had wondered briefly, so many years ago, if leaving Muriella with the Roses was a mistake. Now he knew. He had been wrong, and the error in judgment had cost his brother's life, and his nephews'—too many. He felt physically ill at the thought. Rob and his sons were dead because of Argyll's momentary weakness, because he had seen a mother's love in Isabel Calder's eyes and had not been able to break her heart.
He felt as if a claymore had struck him across the shoulder, as if his knees might buckle at the shaking inside. He took several deep breaths and, through sheer force of will, remained standing upright, though his eyes burned and his throat felt raw. But none of that showed on his face when he met his son's accusing eyes. "We must think this out before we do aught. The Calders will be ready and waiting, I guarantee." Argyll sat back in silence.
Here was Johnnie, ready to wipe out the Calders this very afternoon if only he could get his hands on them. The boy—was he twenty already?—would have to learn about diplomacy: one subject on which the Earl was an expert. He had learned a great deal from James IV.
Opening his eyes, he motioned to a servant, who bent to unlace his boots and remove them. He ignored his sons while he downed half the ale he found sitting before him; he would not be hurried. At last he said, "Johnnie, ye'll have to wait for yer revenge, I'm afraid. 'Tis too dangerous just now. If we're lucky, the two families will kill each other off and we won't have to lift a finger. But were ye to attack now, I've a suspicion the Roses would side with the Calders against ye. We can't give ye enough men for that kind of battle. No, ye'll just have to wait."
John swept his tankard out of the way, sending it crashing to the floor in the process. "Damn ye and Colin and yer waiting. If he'd let me go at first, they’d no’ have been ready. I might have done some damage then. Anyway, the Calders have always hated the Roses, as well ye know. They’d no’ ever fight side by side."
"Men will do many uncommon things for the wealth that girl has. But that's hardly the point. Do ye realize that if ye killed a man each time ye'd a wish to, there’d no’ be a single one left to fight beside ye? Ye're to be twenty-one soon. Can't ye sit back awhile and allow us the pleasure of seeing ye reach it unharmed? There'll be plenty to do soon enough."
Colin smiled and sat back, propping his booted feet on the edge of the table. "Ye see, little brother, I know my father's wishes better than ye."
John raised his foot to the bench Colin occupied and started to push. With a restraining hand on his arm, Argyll stopped him from tipping it backwards.
"Johnnie, I have troubles enough without ye fighting with yer brother. Ye remind me of Maclean sometimes, and 'tis no' a comparison I like to make. Sit down now and listen. Protecting the girl is most important." John started to interrupt but the Earl shook his head warningly. "Aye, the girl is more important than yer revenge. If ye were to go off to fight the Calders, they'd be just wise enough to send someone to make certain she never reached fourteen. If ye want Cawdor, ye have to wait."
"Can ye wait to get Uncle Rob's murderers? Or don't ye care that he died in yer cause? It seems to me ye're more concerned with securing Cawdor for the power it'll bring ye than mourning yer brother!"
Argyll rose, placed his hands wide apart on the table, leaning menacingly toward his younger son. "Ye don't care then what securing Cawdor will bring ye? I rather thought ye were looking forward to being a rich man."
His son's eyes widened in surprise at the caustic sting in the Earl's voice. Usually the Laird of Clan Campbell reserved that biting tone for others.
Sighing, Argyll shook his head. This was getting them nowhere. "As for my brother," he said, "I haven't forgotten him. I won't forget. But neither will I fume and fight and destroy the very thing he died for. Open yer eyes for once, Johnnie, and recognize the truth. I do care about power. 'Tis the only thing that really matters, and ye're a fool if ye believe otherwise. If ye think me hard for speaking this way, then so ye must. I can do naught else."
John shivered at the cold light of determination in his father's eyes.
"I hear the girl speaks of Uncle Rob reverently," Colin interjected.
"Mayhap he deserves our reverence, but he doesn't deserve—and I'll tell ye this just once more, Johnnie—he does not deserve for us to lose the girl now, just because ye have neither the strength nor the wisdom to wait." He paused and added, "I've had enough talk and I can see ye don't wish to hear. I'm weary and need a hot bath and fresh clothes. Then I want ye to bring the girl to me. But just now, let me be."
Chapter 6
Muriella stared out the window at the sweep of garden below, as she had done every day for the past week. From where she sat, she could see Loch Awe and the far, curving shore where the water lapped at the bank and swirled among the dappled rocks. Although she had never set foot on the fine- grained earth, she felt she knew the bank intimately. Each morning she rose and went to the window to catch her first glimpse of the water that changed with the passage of the hours from green to gray to shimmering blue. She had come to know all the permutations o
f those shifting colors, created by bright sunlight as it crossed the sky, whimsical white clouds, and darkly thunderous ones. Daily, she waited with anticipation for the eddies of leaves that fell from the branches above to dance in golden patterns over the water. She could not hear the rippled movement of the waves from where she sat, but she could imagine the soft, pulsing sound, and it gave her comfort. "The loch is no' pleased today," she said to Megan, who sat sewing on a stool nearby. "Come see."
The servant willingly left the gown she was stitching for
Muriella's wardrobe and knelt beside the window. "What do ye mean?" she asked, perplexed, as she often was, by her mistress's strange affinity with the world beyond her window.
Muriella drew Megan forward with a hand on her shoulder, pointing to the spot where the woods retreated from the shore of the loch. "See how the water is tipped with white and how the waves come up so violently against the rocks? Not long ago the surface was clear green, but now 'tis faded to dull gray, as if the joy had left it."
Megan squinted into the afternoon light—dimmed now by cloudy shadows—and saw the water had indeed begun to roil and spit as if possessed by some unpleasant demon. The loch was usually so calm—a mirror reflecting the swift changes of the sky. She had never thought of a loch or a garden having moods as people did, but her mistress had taught her a great deal in the long hours of her confinement. She looked at Muriella and thought she saw the restless, gray green movement of the water in the other girl's eyes.
Muriella leaned out to breathe deeply as the scent of damp heather rose on the wind, intertwined with other fragrances from the garden below. "There's a touch of rosemary in the breeze, I think," she murmured, "and mayhap a little lavender. Can ye tell?"
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