Knight in Highland Armor

by Amy Jarecki

  Blinking, she realized tears had been streaming down her face. Her throat raw, Margaret hung her head and made her way back to the castle. How in God’s name will I cope without him?

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Dunstaffnage, 25th December, 1455

  Colin had been gone twenty days—nearly three sennights of emptiness. She’d locked his chamber and slept alone in her drafty room, bundled beneath the comforter, shivering in the winter cold. Margaret had forced herself to green the castle in preparation for Yule, but her longing for Colin hung around her neck with the weight of an anchor.

  After spending the morning vomiting her porridge, she’d dropped to her knees and prayed her misery would be short-lived. On Christmas day, Margaret would usually attend mass with her parents in Dunalasdair’s chapel, but the snow on the ground was impassable. She couldn’t even ride to chapel beyond the Dunstaffnage gates, let alone travel to Loch Rannoch with a four-month-old infant.

  Afternoons were always easier on her insides, and she sat on the floor in the nursery beside Duncan. He could now hold his head up and roll over. Margaret strummed her lute and the bairn smiled. “You’re fond of music, are you, little fella?”

  Margaret strummed again—a minor chord. Closing her eyes, she sang a woeful ballad. Duncan didn’t seem to mind. He kicked his feet and grabbed them with his little fingers, cooing all the while.

  A tear streamed down her face. This Yule, the babe was the only family she could share the holiday with. Given the snow, she couldn’t expect her parents to show up at the castle gates—or even Argyll. He was at court celebrating with the king and queen. Christmas at court must be an extravagant affair, with mysteries and plays each of the twelve days.

  This was so different from every other Yule she’d experienced with her parents, brothers and cousins. One could never feel lonely at Loch Rannoch.

  Alas, Colin was gone. Only God knew when he’d return to her.

  Margaret shuddered and pulled the plaid tighter around her shoulders. No matter how much wood she piled on the fire, the cold north wind blew in from every window and crevice in this drafty old castle. With winter came the dregs of an icy and dead season.

  Effie stepped inside, her arms filled with wood. She dropped the pile beside the hearth. “Thank you for allowing me to spend the morning with my son, m’lady.”

  Margaret set her lute aside. “Of course. Is he well?”

  “Aye. Looking forward to the feast this eve.”

  Margaret glanced to the fire. “Mevan and his men assured me we’d have pheasant to spare.”

  “’Tis grand you are so generous, m’lady.”

  “’Tis my duty as matron of the keep.” She forced herself to smile. “I want every soul in my care to be well fed and in good cheer.”

  Effie sat on a stool beside Duncan and pulled him onto her lap. “’Tis time you indulged in some cheer of your own.”

  “Colin said no one could fool you.” Margaret sniffed. “But I’m afraid a bout of melancholy has consumed my heart. Yule without Colin or family…”

  “What say you? Your family is the entire clan.” Effie gave her a sideways look. “And ye’d best raise that chin of yours if you want your bairn to be healthy.”

  Margaret reached for a stick of wood and tossed it on the fire. “I cannot pretend all is well. My heart cannot bear to have Colin away, fighting in the Crusades, not knowing whether…”

  Effie arched a brow. “Would Colin want you to pine for him as you do?”

  “Nay,” Margaret said, staring into the rising flames.

  “Then I suggest you go to your chamber, don a festive gown, go down to the great hall and dance.”

  Margaret glared at the old woman. Effie smiled like a child caught pinching a piece of apple tart. Queen’s knees, she could not chastise the nursemaid—especially when she was right.

  Effie smoothed her hand over Margaret’s shoulder. “Ye’ve arranged for minstrels, have you not?”

  “Aye.”

  “Then you should dance.”

  Margaret tapped her hand to her chest. “Without Colin?”

  “Yes, without Lord Glenorchy. The entire clan now looks to you for leadership—you said yourself you want them in good cheer.” The nursemaid shook her finger. “You alone set the tone for their peace of mind. Do you think for a minute the entire castle hasn’t been in mourning with you these past sennights?”

  Margaret clapped her hands to her cheeks. “It has been that obvious?”

  “Aye. It has.” Effie regarded Duncan in her arms. “Even this wee bairn senses your sadness, as does the one you’re carrying.”

  Margaret rubbed her palm over her stomach. If anything, she’d lost a quarter-stone with the sickness, and she knew that wasn’t good. “Do you honestly believe the bairn inside me feels unhappiness as I do?”

  “I have no doubt. And you’d best listen to the likes of me. I’ve been nursemaid to over a dozen babes. I ken what I say.”

  Margaret had no idea how much her mood had been affecting others. Neither Duncan nor her unborn child could suffer because of her selfishness. “Well then, I shall begin today. ’Tis the birthday of our Lord—what better time to start anew?”

  “Aye, m’lady. I can think of no better time than now.” Effie flicked her fingers through the air. “Now off with ye.”

  With a renewed sense of purpose, Margaret dressed in a green velvet gown, trimmed with ermine. Aside from the dress she’d worn at her wedding, it was the finest gown she owned. Everyone stood when she arrived in the great hall.

  She clapped and called for silence, smiling broadly. “I thank you for sharing my table for this, our Yule feast. Though the wind whistles outside, we will be warm within. Eat and make merry, dance and laugh, for I ever so want to share joy with each one of you. Happy Yule.”

  “Happy Yule!” every voice boomed in unison.

  The resounding and cheerful noise made the bairn inside her flutter with excitement. It may be the dead of winter, but to Margaret’s heart, spring had come early. There was much to do, and Margaret would prove to the world she could manage in Colin’s stead. She would ensure the Campbell Clan thrived and prospered.

  Her husband would return home to flourishing and wealthy lands. She vowed it.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The Vatican, January, 1456

  A cardinal ushered Colin into the starkly decorated papal apartment’s anteroom. Pope Callixtus III sat in a high-backed mahogany chair upholstered in red velvet. Dressed in white robes, the old man’s skin withered beneath his coif.

  Hearing his name announced, Colin strode up to His Holiness and knelt, swallowing his grimace at the pain of kneeling in his battle armor. Though he had jointed knee-guards, the metal cut against bone. The Pope held out his hand. Colin took it and kissed the ruby ring he had once kissed when it adorned the hand of the late Pope Nicholas. “It grieves me to attend you under such dire circumstances, Your Holiness.”

  “Rise, sir knight.” Callixtus pulled his gnarled hand away. “How was your journey?”

  “Difficult. Three men perished. Winter seas always take their toll. My small galley was forced to cross at the channel and hug the shore all the way from Northern France.”

  “It is a tragedy to lose those who fight for right. But their deaths will not be in vain.”

  “I pray not.” Colin bowed. “I have a sound ship armed with the latest six-foot Portuguese cannon. I am yours to command.”

  The Pope clapped, and a Cardinal stepped forward. “You will take Peter, the Archbishop of Tarragona, to Rhodes. With him you will command a fleet of sixteen ships and drive the Turks from our stronghold islands.”

  Colin nodded to the cardinal. There was always a holy man assigned to every crusade—monks in the order also fought, though Colin could not take an oath of celibacy because he was married.

  Peter bowed politely. “How many man your galley?”

  “Twenty well-trained fighting Highlanders.”

&nb
sp; “We sail at dawn.”

  “Very well. That should give me time to gather provisions.” Colin deeply bowed to the Pope. “With your blessing, we shall prevail.”

  After His Holiness made the sign of the cross, Colin took his leave and headed to the pier. From experience, he anticipated many months of fighting ahead. The sooner he sailed into hell with his men, the sooner he could return to his beloved Scotland and Margaret.

  He’d written several letters during the journey to Rome, all of which he dispatched before climbing the hill to meet the Pope. Margaret would receive all at once. He’d numbered them so she would open each in the order written. If only he could watch her face when she did.

  ***

  During winter, Margaret met with tailors and weavers, selecting patterns for tapestries and bedding for the new castle. She’d ordered a fabulous landscape tapestry of Loch Awe for Colin, with Ben Chruachan in the background. His canopy and comforter would be a rich emerald-green silk. She’d spent more coin on his chamber than any other. But her husband’s rooms should be the grandest of them all.

  March arrived at Dunstaffnage with blustery wind and driving rain. That didn’t slow Margaret. She ushered grooms bearing trunks into the nursery. “Effie, we’re moving to the cottage at Kilchurn as soon as weather permits. I want everything packed and ready to be loaded onto the wagons.”

  The old woman planted fists on her hips. “You’re serious? ’Tis miserable out there. We should wait until spring has taken root.”

  “In no way will I sit in this drafty castle for another two months.”

  Gurgling, Duncan rolled over and rocked on his hands and knees. He’d be crawling soon. Margaret swooped the bairn into her arms. “I’ve sent for Tom Elliot. Last November, he promised me work would begin in March.”

  “Och, the men can start without ye getting in their way.”

  “Perish the thought. What they need is leadership.” Margaret set Duncan on the blanket. “Now set to packing, and I shall do the same.”

  “But what of your condition?” Effie wrung her hands. “The cottage will be cramped with the three of us.”

  Margaret rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “I’ve already planned to build on a nursery. That will be Tom’s first task.” She smoothed her hand over the small bump in her belly. “This bairn won’t be cosseted. Besides, Alana is the best midwife in all of Argyll. ’Tis better for the bairn to be born in Glen Orchy than here.”

  Effie frowned at the trunks. Margaret patted the old nursemaid’s shoulder. “It will be fine. You’ll see. The three of us will be cozy in the cottage.”

  “Soon there’ll be four.”

  Margaret grinned. “Aye, so start your packing.”

  Margaret had the household necessities stowed in trunks within two days. By a stroke of luck, the weather cleared. With Mevan in the lead, she set out with a handful of servants and a dozen Campbell guards.

  When she arrived at the building site, Tom Elliot was there to greet her. He already had the laborers working with shovels and barrowing away the mud and thresh. Margaret grasped his hand warmly. “How fared your winter, Master Elliot?”

  “Well. Glad to be back on the job. My coffers are wearing a bit thin.”

  “We shall see what can be done about that. I want this keep thriving before Lord Glenorchy returns.” She glanced toward the cottage. “But first you must build on a nursery to the cottage.”

  His beetle brows pinched together. “Is that necessary? It will slow our progress.”

  “I’ve brought healthy guardsmen from Dunstaffnage to help. It should take no additional time. Put them to work forthwith. I want it done in a fortnight.”

  “A fortnight, m’lady?”

  “Aye.” She spread her arms wide. “Complete with hearth.”

  “But—”

  “You’d best make haste, else your purse will remain empty.” Margaret inhaled the fresh air as she strode away. It enlivened her to be back at Kilchurn. The dead of winter gone, she could face the coming months with renewed purpose.

  ***

  It was early August when Margaret waddled through the portcullis of her tower house with Tom Elliot. She was proud of her belly, now so large, no amount of fabric could hide it. Her only sorrow was that Colin would not be there to share in the birth. He’d promised to send a missive once he reached Rome, yet it had been almost eight months since he set sail and she’d received not a word.

  “The first floor is complete, and the great hall above will be finished before winter sets in.”

  “You’ve done a fine job.” She pulled a torch off the wall and walked to the dungeon. Droplets of water splashed on the stone floor. “This room is aptly dank.”

  “Aye, but necessary for keeping the peace.” He reached for the torch and led her through the guardhouse into a sturdy passageway. “The cellars are dry and will keep the food cool. I’ve fashioned a grand hearth for the kitchen.”

  Margaret stood inside the immense fireplace, which had been started last autumn. “Many a feast will be prepared here.” To her right, the bread oven recessed into the now completed thick stone walls. “I can practically smell the loaves baking already.”

  “And it’s only a few paces from the great hall for easy access.”

  The baby kicked with Margaret’s excitement. A bit lightheaded, she leaned against the wall. “This child is ever so anxious to come out and see the progress on the new keep.”

  Tom grasped her arm. “Are you all right, m’lady?”

  “Aye, just a passing pang.”

  “Your time will be upon us soon. A building site is no place for a woman in your condition.”

  “So repeats Mistress Effie. Do not fear. I shall be confined soon enough.” Margaret smoothed her hands over her wimple. “I detest the thought of it.”

  “Can I escort you back to the cottage, m’lady?”

  “No, you have much more important work to do, Tom. I’m pleased with your progress. Give the men an extra ration of bread and ale for their efforts, and after the babe is born, we shall kill a steer and have a grand feast.”

  “I’ll look forward to that, m’lady.”

  Alone, Margaret walked the short path through the trees to the cottage. Though Colin had insisted she remain at Dunstaffnage for her confinement, she would hear none of it. The nursery had been completed on schedule, Effie and Duncan had settled into the cottage, and Alana was on hand as her midwife. Margaret trusted the MacGregor woman far more than Master Hume, the old physician. Besides, birthing a bairn was women’s work.

  A pain clamped around her womb so hard she fell to her knees. Her head spun. She gritted her teeth to bear it. A rush of hot liquid flushed down her legs. ’Tis time. Panting, Margaret waited until the pain subsided. She could see the cottage through the trees ahead. Surely she’d make it before the next pain came.

  She rushed as quickly as she could, trying not to jostle the baby. Pregnancy was alien to her. Being the youngest, she’d never seen a woman actually give birth, though Alana and Effie did their best to explain what to expect. At first the pains would come far apart and grow closer and closer until the baby was ready to slide out.

  Breathing heavily, she pushed through the door. “Effie! Fetch Alana. I’ve lost my water and the pains have begun.”

  Effie blanched. “Your water has shown already?”

  Nodding, Margaret supported herself on the chair with one hand and held her swollen abdomen with the other.

  “Haste ye to the bed.” Effie signaled to the serving maid to run for Alana and tugged on Margaret’s elbow. “Come, m’lady.”

  Another pain hit her like someone had wrapped a noose around her belly and tied it to a team of oxen, drawing the rope tighter with every breath. Margaret clamped her hands around her stomach and panted. “Merciful heavens, it hurts.”

  Effie rubbed the small of her back. “Breathe through it. Do not rush. We’ll move to the bed soon enough.”

  “If I can manage to stay on my feet.�
� As the gripping pain began to ease, Margaret took a step. “I think I can make it.”

  Effie supported Margaret’s elbow and aided her into the chamber. “Hold on to the bedpost while I layer the old linens atop the mattress.”

  The old matron worked quickly and helped Margaret change into a clean shift. “Rest against the pillows. Try not to push. ’Tis too early in your labor.”

  Margaret nestled her shoulders into the pillows. “Thank you.” She swiped a hand across her brow, moist with sweat.

  “I’m here, m’lady.” Alana strode into the room attended by three other women. “Where is Duncan?”

  Effie pointed. “He’s napping.”

  “Mistress Lorna will care for the bairn.” She eyed Margaret. “You lost your water?”

  “Aye.”

  “How far apart are your contractions?”

  Margaret convulsed with another.

  Effie smoothed a hand over her hair. “Far enough apart to walk to the bed and allow me to spread the linens.”

  Margaret panted through the blinding pain. She clenched her teeth and started to bear down.

  “Boil a cauldron of water,” Alana ordered. “Where are the swaddling cloths? Is the ewer full? Come on, ladies, we have a bairn on the way.”

  She grasped Margaret’s hand and rubbed it gently. “’Tis not time to push yet. Try to ease yourself.”

  Margaret could have strangled her. “Are you completely mad?” She gasped for air, a bead of sweat rolling into her eye. “My entire being is screaming for me to push.”

  Alana’s gaze softened. “I know. But I’ve birthed five of me own and assisted at least twenty other women. I ken what I’m saying. Listen to me and you might survive to hold your bairn in your arms.”

  An icy shudder coursed over Margaret’s skin. Not once had she allowed herself to consider she might die giving birth to her first babe, but now the reality of her potential death struck her with a crashing wave of trembling and nausea.

  The afternoon turned into dusk. Margaret writhed in a pool of her own sweat, struggling to hang on, completely at her wits end.