Knight in Highland Armor

by Amy Jarecki

  Alana ordered the candles lit. Effie, at eight and seventy, excused herself and retired. Night filled the chamber, dimly lit with candles. The pains were coming frequently. Margaret’s hair stuck to her face. Alana held a cool cloth to her forehead, but that didn’t help.

  With each contraction, she pushed with every shred of remaining strength. Her eyes strained in their sockets as she clenched her teeth and bore down. Her arms shook of their own volition.

  Alana held up the linens. “I can see his head. It won’t be long now.”

  “It better not be.” The entire bed shook with Margaret’s effort. She hissed through her teeth. “Why isn’t Colin here? He did this to me then left me alone—curses to the Pope as well.”

  “Aye, m’lady.” Alana’s voice was ridiculously soothing.

  Margaret didn’t want to be soothed. She pushed the midwife’s hand away from her forehead. “Take that cloth from me and make this insufferable pain stop.”

  Alana stepped back. “Breathe.”

  How could that woman be so placid at a time like this? “I can’t take it anymore!” Margaret screamed. Her insides felt like they were being ripped out.

  “He’s coming, m’lady. Push…push…push!”

  Margaret bore down with everything she had, exhaustion making her lose control. Her fingers shook as she splayed them beside her on the bed. Pushing, her body stretching, she thought it would never end. Then suddenly, the pain subsided, the stretching eased. Margaret’s eyes blinked open, blurred through her sweat.

  A tiny voice cried. It sounded more holy than church bells.

  Alana walked to her, holding a beautiful bundle. “’Tis a boy.”

  Margaret laughed out loud, her heart soaring to her throat. He was the most beautiful tomato-red bairn she’d ever gazed upon. “John.” Margaret reached out her arms. “Colin asked me to name him John.” The babe yawned adorably. He had a smattering of brown fuzz pasted atop his damp head. He smelled as fresh as apple blossoms.

  “’Tis a fine name.” Alana untied the bow on Margaret’s shift. “You must make the bond. It burns a wee bit when the babe starts to suckle, but the pain doesn’t last.”

  Margaret held the tiny bundle to her breast. John turned his head as if he could smell her milk. Latching on to her nipple, he suckled. It did sting a little at first, but watching the angelic face of her son feeding from her body made her heart swell. “Dear boy, you will remind me of your father until the day I take my last breath.”

  ***

  The third day after John’s birth, Margaret felt well enough to take a brief stroll through the cottage gardens. A messenger approached with a parcel. Margaret could scarcely breathe. Had Colin’s letters finally arrived?

  The man hopped down from his mount and bowed. “M’lady. I’ve a gift from my esteemed chieftain, Ewen MacCorkodale of Loch Tromlee.”

  Margaret’s spirits sank to her toes. How desperately she wanted news of her husband. She forced a polite smile. “It was kind of your laird to think of us.”

  She read the missive congratulating her on the birth of her son, though it mentioned nothing about Colin, not even well wishes for his safe return. Inside the parcel was a lovely tatted woolen receiving blanket. Margaret smiled at the messenger. “Please offer my deepest thanks to your laird. His gift was very thoughtful indeed.”

  Margaret carried the blanket into the cottage and held it to her nose. It smelled fresh, like newly fallen rain. Though she was disappointed she’d not received news from Colin, the neighboring laird had been quite considerate. Most likely, Ewen MacCorkodale was nothing like his cousin, Walter. Mayhap it was time to put Walter’s dishonesty behind them. They should become allies. If Margaret developed good relations with the MacCorkodales, together with the MacGregors, the Campbells of Glen Orchy would be an unstoppable and formidable Scottish force.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The Mediterranean Sea, August, 1457

  Colin dispatched another packet of letters to Margaret before sailing from Rhodes. Last August, they’d been successful in driving the Turks out of the isles of Imbros and Limni, but now reports flooded in with news of Mehmed’s decimation of the Holy Land. The sultan’s fleet of Ottoman ships was again on the advance.

  Colin’s galley wasn’t the smallest of the Hospitallers’ ships, but it was far from the largest. The order had acquired a newly designed Portuguese carrack with nine gun ports on each side. Its impressive design and immense size changed sea battle strategy for good.

  It was with pride Colin stood at the helm of his Scottish Birlinn, flying the pennant of the Order of St. John. His cannon had fired the blast that sank two Ottoman ships at Imbros, a significant win for his men, earning them respect among the French faction to which the Scots had been annexed.

  Only a fool wore armor when fighting at sea. It bore too great a risk for death by drowning. Colin and his men wore reinforced quilted doublets under their red Hospitaller tunics, adorned with white crosses and edged with gold fringe.

  He squinted into the mid-morning sun. “Where are the bastards?”

  Now one and twenty, Maxwell attained his majority a month ago. The breadth of the young man’s chest had filled out considerably. “Spies reported plans to sail at dawn. It should be any moment now, m’lord.” He stood on a rowing bench, shaded his eyes and pointed. “There.”

  Colin strained in the direction of Maxwell’s finger. He didn’t see anything at first, but gradually enemy ships dotted the horizon like chess pieces. His stomach churned, as it always did in anticipation of a battle. He watched the fleet near, its numbers of oared longboats continuing to grow. “Holy bloody hell. We must be outnumbered five to one.”

  The galley slowed in the water as rowing men stood to gape at the approaching fleet.

  Colin snapped around. “Man your oars. Full speed ahead. Ramming tempo.”

  “Ramming, m’lord?” Maxwell had not yet mastered the art of hiding his emotions. A grimace of terror stretched his features.

  No one must doubt him. Colin needed to bolster his men’s confidence and focus on winning the battle. “Man the cannon. We’ll blast the first ship in range out of the water.” He clapped his hands in rapid succession. “Send the infidel to hell in the name of St. John!”

  “Deus vult!” the men bellowed, the Hospitallers’ war cry.

  Closer and closer the enemy ships sailed. “Archers, at the ready,” Colin commanded as he raised his arm to signal the cannon. If he timed it right, the big gun would blast a lead ball precisely when they passed the first longboat.

  “Fire!”

  With a touch of the torch, the cannon boomed and recoiled. The shot whistled through the air. With no time to watch, Colin addressed the archers. “Fire at will and hit your mark. I want not an arrow wasted.”

  The cannon ball slammed into the enemy ship’s hull. A crash of splintering wood sailed across the open sea. “Pull the rudder hard starboard!”

  Boom.

  A cannon from the enemy ship blasted so loudly, Colin could hear only a high-pitched tone. William’s mouth moved, but Colin couldn’t make out a word. He waved his arms and pointed ahead. “Fire another round and sink that ship.”

  Sink it they did, and the next, but as far as the eye could see, an endless mass of Ottoman ships bore down on them. The air bit the back of his throat, thick with smoke and the pungent odor of sulfur. Colin’s eyes watered with the sting. Surrounding cannons blasted an endless barrage of lead balls. In the mayhem, Colin’s cannon shot depleted—his cache of arrows would be next.

  “Ramming straight ahead,” Colin commanded, and his men set a course for the next approaching ship.

  Flames raged on the vessels around them. Colin could no longer spot the carrack or the other allied ships. They were heading into the bowels of hell, and he would fight to the death to keep the Turks from the Isle of Limni. By God, I drove them away once. I’ll do it again.

  When he regained a fraction of hearing, a familiar high-pitched whistle
sailed overhead. Colin held his breath and waited for the splash. But the lead ball crashed into the center of his galley’s hull. Something sharp sliced open his cheek. Oarsmen flew over the side. Another fell with a lance-sized splinter spearing his gut.

  The galley immediately took on water. Colin swiped the blood from his face as the sea rose to his knees. He gave the only order that might save the lives of his remaining men. “Abandon ship!”

  Ignoring the gash on his cheek, Colin worked frantically to help his men plunge into the sea. He didn’t see the boom when it broke from the mast, but he heard it snap…right before it crashed into his skull.

  ***

  The unbearable pressure encroaching inside Colin’s head was so intense, his teeth throbbed. His eyes wouldn’t open. He tried to swallow, but only stringy goo clung to his gums. His throat grated as if someone had plunged a rasp down it.

  Trying to move, he inhaled. A weak cough produced sickly phlegm, but no fouler than the pungent surrounding odor. Stale piss stung his nose—filth like rats, too. He moved his fingers. Damp straw, musty. Something hard jutted into his back.

  Am I in hell?

  Colin forced himself to open his eyes. Dim light surrounded him. It must be night. But a ray of brilliant light shone in from an opening in the wall above. Groaning, he squeezed his eyes shut against the excruciating pressure. He turned his face away from the unforgiving light.

  “Colin? Are you awake, m’lord?”

  He recognized the voice, but couldn’t place the name. Colin tried to open his eyes again. A young face was bent over him. Maxwell? He wasn’t sure. “Water,” he croaked.

  “Aye, m’lord. I’ll fetch it straight away.”

  Colin closed his lids, tapping his swollen tongue to the roof of his mouth.

  A hand slipped to the back of his neck. “I’ll raise you up a wee bit.”

  Colin hissed at the driving pain. A cup touched his lips. He swallowed greedily until he tasted. Coughing, he spewed the foul water across his chest.

  Maxwell kept him up. “Come, m’lord. You need to drink some more.”

  “K…killing…me?”

  “’Tis all we have. I drink it myself.”

  Colin gazed at Maxwell’s face, and his vision cleared. He raised his chin for the squire to tip the cup again. This time he drank down the sulfur-smelling liquid. After Maxwell pulled the cup away, he tried his voice again. “Where are we?”

  “In a Turkish pit.”

  Someone moved behind him. “Left to rot I’d wager.” Colin didn’t recognize the voice.

  He tried to remember—they were in a sea battle. All seemed lost. “What happened?”

  Maxwell sat on the musty hay beside him. “The boom snapped—knocked you unconscious. The ship went down so fast, there wasn’t time to think. I slung my arm around you and grabbed the nearest floating piece of timber.”

  Colin tried to concentrate on the lad’s words, but his head throbbed. “The crew?”

  “Who knows? Some dead for certain. Willy’s here. Don’t know what happened to the others.”

  “Are we on an island?”

  “No one knows. They pulled us out of the water and stuck us in the bilges. Before we went ashore, they blindfolded us and shoved us down those stairs.” Maxwell pointed to a narrow case of steps leading to a black door.

  “How long?”

  “Two days.”

  No wonder Colin’s tongue had turned to scored leather. “Why didn’t they let us drown?”

  Maxwell scratched his arm, black dirt beneath his fingernails. “Wish we knew—planning something hideous, no doubt.”

  “Bargaining chips, I’d wager.” William’s deep voice came from behind.

  Colin blinked. “So they just dumped us down here to rot?”

  “Aye, with a few other brethren.” Maxwell lowered his voice and leaned closer. “Italian, French, even a bloody Englishman.”

  The agonizing pain in Colin’s head made it difficult for him to think. He found the lad’s hand and gave it a feeble squeeze. “Thank you.”

  Everything mercifully faded into blackness.

  ***

  Enjoying an afternoon in the cottage garden, Margaret balanced John on her lap and watched Duncan use a child-size barrow and shovel to move dirt from one heap to another. Effie was able to spend less time in the nursery due to worsening rheumatism, and Margaret had naturally taken on more of the daily supervision after John’s birth a year and one month ago.

  Thus far, John looked more like his father than Duncan did. The babe had dun-colored hair and brown, soulful eyes. Every time Margaret looked at him, her heart squeezed. Nearly two years had passed with no word from Colin. She closed her eyes. Dear God in heaven, protect your servant, Colin, and bring him home to his family soon… Words she repeated countless times.

  Hammering came from the tower. The roof would be finished soon. That lifted her spirits. She’d already had the carpenters build the tables for the great hall, and the tapestries had arrived from Edinburgh. Soon she’d have wagons bring their beds and furniture from Dunstaffnage. It was all so exciting. If only Colin were here to be a part of it.

  Margaret had acquired more cattle and sheep—even invested in Galloway ponies. Since she’d taken the helm, the Campbell wealth had grown exponentially. Things were almost perfect…aside from a wee problem with missing cattle. It didn’t happen often, but had occurred enough for Margaret to realize someone was thieving a beast now and again. The culprit was smart about it, too. Only one cow would disappear. The shepherds would search the Glen Orchy lands without so much as a trace, not even a carcass.

  Margaret suspected the thief was of the two-legged variety, possibly building his own herd, pinching but a cow per month. Mevan had the guard on it, however. She had every faith he would eventually uncover the guilty party.

  Effie appeared from around the corner and took a seat on the garden bench beside Margaret. “Are you still planning to go to the Michaelmas Feast at Tromlee Castle?”

  “Aye. Robert and Alana have agreed to accompany me, with Sir Mevan as our guard.”

  Effie harrumphed.

  What did she expect Margaret to do? Lock herself in the cottage and refrain from showing graciousness toward their neighbors? Surely not.

  As Lady Glenorchy, she had a responsibility to encourage kindly relations between neighboring clans. Laird MacCorkodale had been ever so kind in the past year, sending several gifts. It was past time to thank him properly.

  The following day, the early autumn ride to Tromlee was invigorating. It was the first time she’d ventured away from John, but it would only be for one night. Soon she’d be back at the cottage with the boys, listening to the construction efforts, debating the final touches with Tom Elliot.

  But today she would enjoy herself. They’d only been riding for two quarters of a sun’s traverse when Tromlee Castle came into view. It was a tall, narrow tower, surrounded by a curtain wall—almost a miniature of the castle Margaret and Colin were building in Glen Orchy.

  She tapped her heels against her mount. “I do hope there will be plenty of dancing, and some charitable soul takes pity on a lonely matron.”

  “I’ll dance with you, m’lady,” Robert said.

  “Then I shall hold you to it.” Margaret cued her mare to a fast trot. “Come along. I can hear the pipers filling their hide bags already.”

  ***

  Ewen MacCorkodale could scarcely contain his excitement when Margaret Campbell walked through his door. Ever so subtly he’d been keeping an eye on her, plying her with gifts, planning each move with the careful stealth of a landowning laird who got what he wanted.

  With her husband off fighting in his third crusade, there was little chance of Glenorchy’s return to Scotland…and if he did, Ewen would know about it long before the man reached Kilchurn. As laird, he may not be as powerful a baron as Lord Glenorchy or his nephew, now titled the wretched Earl of Argyll, but Ewen was more cunning. An alliance built between neighbor
ing clans would build his family’s wealth and augment his standing at court. But he must tread very carefully, bide his time. One wrong move would not only incite a feud he couldn’t win, it would lose him the grand prize.

  Lady Margaret only need glance his way to stir the fire in his loins. He wanted her almost as much as he wanted Colin Campbell’s land. Almost.

  He held out his hands. “M’lady. How kind of you to come to my humble gathering.”

  Her sad face blossomed into a beautiful smile. “Thank you, m’laird. You have been most generous by inviting us.”

  “Please. Call me Ewen.”

  Watching the cautious arch of her brow, he admonished himself. Do not push her. He gestured toward the high table. “Please, do dine beside me.”

  Margaret turned to her guests—the milk-livered chieftain Robert MacGregor and his wench. “Thank you for your generosity, but I must keep company with my escort.”

  Blast her damned propriety. He forced his most genuine smile. “Yes, of course. I shall make room for all three.”

  “Splendid.” Margaret clapped. “You are truly a most accommodating host.”

  Her smile did something to his insides. He wasn’t quite certain what it was, but being close to her, smelling the light bouquet of her perfume, instilled a lightheartedness he couldn’t recall experiencing in the past.

  He must guard against her charms. Allowing himself to be smitten was most certainly not a part of his plan. He was in charge. Not she.

  He held the chair for her. “Have you news of Lord Glenorchy?”

  She sighed deeply. “Alas, no.”

  “How dreadful.” Ewen had difficulty keeping sarcasm out of his voice. He motioned toward two vacant seats at far end of the table, where Robert MacGregor and his wife could sit out of earshot.

  He reached for the ewer of his best wine—a costly vintage reserved for the most special occasions. “May I?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He poured for her and then himself, and raised his glass. “Cheers for a pleasant evening where we can forget our trials, if only for a brief interval.”