by Amy Jarecki
The guard grumbled in a threatening tone. Colin planted his feet and wedged his bum against the stone wall. The Turk jerked the door open and lunged in to shove him away. Colin snatched the dagger and plunged it into the guard’s gut while yanking the sword from his scabbard. He pushed the stunned sentry over the steps to the dungeon floor below. The men crowded behind him.
Colin slipped the dagger to Maxwell and swiftly led the charge through the passageway. Chairs scraped across the stone floor as Colin rushed into the chamber. The first man wasn’t fast enough to grasp his blade before Colin slashed his throat. The second didn’t make it either. Maxwell upended the table, knocking four off balance, while Colin engaged the remaining pair. God help him, it felt good to wield a sword.
His muscles taut from hour upon hour of relentless toning, he quickly regained his fighting edge against the enemy guards. He lunged and drove his blade into the man on his right. The battleaxe from the left came with ferocious speed. Colin hopped aside. Not far enough. The blade sliced across his unprotected chest. With a raging bellow, Colin spun and lopped the head off the man who’d cut him.
Roaring their battle cry, another wave of guards flooded through the narrow passage. Single file, Colin faced each one, the sword in his hand becoming an extension of his arm. He fought with the fury and hatred that had built up after two years of wallowing with rats in the dank pit of hell.
“Freedom or die!” he roared.
With no time to check his wound, he fought like a raging madman until they were all dead. Colin turned to assess the carnage. One Hospitaller down, twelve Turks dead. The crusaders armed themselves with swords, daggers and battleaxes. Colin motioned to Pierre. “Lead the way.”
The Frenchman crept ahead, keeping to the shadows. They were only about one hundred paces from the water. Mooring rings gaped at them, with not a single boat in sight.
Colin could have killed another hundred Turks. “God on the cross, give us strength.”
“What do we do now?” Maxwell asked, his eyes dipping to Colin’s blood-soaked shirt. “Bloody hell, you’re cut.”
“’Tisn’t bad. You can stitch me up in Rhodes.” Colin eyed a stack of wooden pilings. “Two men to a pole. If we can’t row home, we’ll float. Quickly.”
A bellow came from the direction of the gaol. Colin yanked Maxwell’s arm and raced to the stack of wood. He’d be damned if he was going to spend another night in the dungeon.
Arrows flew overhead. Hit through the chest, the Englishman screamed as he plunged into the white-capped sea below.
“Hurry!” Colin shouted.
Together the men pushed an entire heap of pilings into the water.
Another round of arrows hissed above them.
The shouting grew closer. Footsteps clapped the cobblestones.
An arrow skimmed Colin’s ear.
“Jump!”
His voice was silenced by a rush of seawater flooding his mouth.
***
It was a snowy March day. Ewen had a gut-full of winter, and this late storm brewed up a foul mood. His henchman pushed into the solar with muddy boots. Ewen was about to launch into a tirade when Ragnar tossed a satchel onto the table. “A batch of missives from Glenorchy.”
“You’re serious?” Ewen untied the drawstring and pulled out a folded piece of vellum. “I’ll be the son of a toothless whore.”
“Too right.” Ragnar sauntered to the sideboard, helped himself to a cup of Ewen’s best whisky and tossed it back. “’Tis grizzly cold out there. The flakes are coming down in sloppy wet drops.”
Ewen ignored him and filed through the missives. Would the bastard not die? Even Ewen had thought Glenorchy had met his end. Sure enough, the blasted things bore Campbell’s seal. “We’ve been so long without word, I was sure the rutting rat was dead.” He glared at Ragnar. “Did you kill the messenger?”
The henchman sniggered and poured himself another tot. “Of course. Tied a rock around his belly and dumped him in the loch. Just like all the others.”
Ewen stood, shoving the table into the rogue’s backside. “If you’re going to be so freehanded with my whisky, you’d best pour me a cup, else I’ll slice off your cods, ye insolent lout.”
Ragnar turned as red as the tapestry on the wall. “Apologies, m’laird. I didn’t think you’d mind given the cold.” He ran his fingers across his dirk. “And me confidence.”
Ewen narrowed his eyes. He didn’t like Ragnar’s tone, even if he was kin. Mayhap he’d need a stone in his belly and a permanent dip in an icy loch—if he didn’t curb his arrogance.
Ewen would have killed a lesser man for helping himself to his best whisky. God’s damnation, Colin Campbell was back to sending missives to his poor, forlorn wife. Ewen sank into his seat. At least Ragnar had been vigilant. Two years without a missive and he’d caught the courier before he handed the satchel of vomitous love letters to Margaret. The henchman was good for something.
Ewen ran his thumb under each seal and read every wretched missive, hoping there’d be mention of that damned token Margaret insisted she’d receive. If he could replicate it, she’d be his for certain. The past year had taken quite a toll on her and her little brats. Ewen was wearing her down. If it weren’t for that blasted token, she would have agreed to a swift marriage by now.
***
Margaret took the boys to Dunstaffnage for Eastertide. Met with sloppy snow and mud, she hesitated when they passed the turn for Effie’s cottage. “Mevan, we shall stop here with the lads. Send the guard ahead and come inside. We’ll wait out the storm with Mistress Effie.”
They were so near the fortress, the guardsman, clad in a cold and uncomfortable hauberk, nodded his helmeted head.
Besides, Margaret had intended to invite the boy’s old nursemaid to the feast. A detour would serve two purposes.
John and Duncan huddled together under a woolen plaid on a nag that was too old to spook. At five and four, both lads had started riding lessons, but Margaret didn’t care for the idea of them handling a mount for such a long distance. Though Duncan had complained the loudest, Mevan tugged them beside him on a short lead. Duncan only stopped complaining after the guardsman attached a set of reins to the horse’s halter and handed it to the lad. Content he had some semblance of control, Duncan rode, pretending he was a knight, while John shivered behind him.
“Come, lads—I’ll bet Mistress Effie has a warm drink and something tasty to eat,” Margaret said, following Mevan at the turn.
“Och aye, I’m freezing.” Duncan had dropped the knight play several miles back, and now shivered as much as his younger brother.
When she spotted smoke puffing from the chimney, Margaret breathed a sigh of relief. Once they dismounted, she grasped the boy’s mitten-covered hands and led them up the path to the stone cottage. With a thatched roof, it wasn’t much different than the cottage at Glen Orchy—quaint, homey.
Mevan knocked on the door and stepped aside.
“Who is it?” a frail voice called from within.
“Lady Margaret.” She grinned down at the boys, their noses red as apples.
“My heavens.” Footsteps shuffled and the door opened. “What on earth are you doing out in this miserable weather?”
Margaret looked up, only to be splattered by sloppy flakes. “The sky didn’t appear half as bad when we left Kilchurn.”
Effie stepped aside. “Well, what are you standing there for? Slip yourselves inside and shrug out of those wet woolens.” Ever the nursemaid, she started removing caps, mittens and damp surcoats. “My, both of you boys have grown a hand’s-breadth since I last saw you. And Lady Margaret, you’ve been away for too long.”
Margaret unfastened her cloak and hung it on a peg. “I’ve been away? I wish you’d take my offer and move into Kilchurn. We’d love to have you.”
“Aye, but my son needs me now he’s lost his wife.”
Dry enough, Margaret pulled Effie into an embrace. “And how have you been?”
&nbs
p; “Well, aside from my aching back. No one ever said growing old was easy.” Effie bundled up the boys’ woolens. “Have a seat at the table and I’ll spread these things over the hearth.”
The room was warm, smelled of delicious spices, and Margaret rubbed her hands to bring back the feeling. “Thank you ever so much, Mistress Effie.”
John climbed onto the bench. “Do you have any oatcakes?”
“And Mummy said you’d have something warm to drink,” Duncan said.
Margaret shook a finger. “You must wait until Mistress Effie offers. ’Tis impolite to ask.”
Effie turned with her hands on her hips. “Excuse my impertinence, the lot of you must be chilled to the bone. Would you lads like some hot mulled cider and a bowl of plum pottage?”
Duncan licked his lips. “Aye.”
“Please,” Margaret corrected.
John rubbed his belly. “That sounds delicious, please.”
She sat on the bench beside Mevan and sighed. “Thank you ever so much. We stopped not only for refuge from the snow, but to invite you to the Eastertide celebration. Players are coming from Edinburgh to perform the mystery plays for the Crucifixion and Resurrection—feasts both on Good Friday and Easter Monday.”
Effie set five tankards on the table. “Sounds like a grand celebration. I’m surprised you’re not having it at Kilchurn.” She passed a kettle of warm cider to Mevan.
Margaret watched the guard fill her cup, the tart whiff making her mouth water. “Thought about Kilchurn, but I haven’t been to Dunstaffnage in so long, I owe a grand feast to our subjects here and I hoped Argyll might pass through for the holiday.”
“Argyll?” Effie picked up the ladle. “Since he was granted the title of earl, word is he’s become indispensable to the king. I doubt we’ll see him in these parts for a year or more.”
Margaret’s shoulders drooped and she heaved a sigh. “Unfortunate.”
Effie stopped ladling pottage from the cast iron kettle on the hearth. “And what business have you with the earl?”
Margaret stood to help serve the wooden bowls filled with spiced fruit and meat. “Spending so much time at court, I was hoping he may have heard something about Colin or the Crusades.”
The old woman eyed her. “Still no word?” She glanced at the boys, concern etching her brow. “Four years, is it?”
“Aye.” Margaret hated to admit it had been that long. Colin had never even set eyes on John.
Effie sat across the table and covered Margaret’s hand with a warm palm. “The boys will need a father soon.”
Margaret’s gaze shifted to the angelic faces of her sons. Eating like starved cats, they paid no notice to Effie’s remark, though Margaret’s worry grew each day. “I do not even want to think about it.” She shrugged. “Ewen has been showing some interest in their welfare.” He’d made remarks at the least, though hadn’t become endeared to the boys yet.
“Ewen?”
“MacCorkodale,” Mevan said, reaching for his tankard with a snort.
Margaret clapped her hands to her cheeks. Why on earth should the mention of the neighboring laird make her blush? Her feelings for the man ran no deeper than friendship.
Nonetheless, Effie gave her a concerned glare. “You cannot be serious.”
Margaret stirred her potage. Effie had a knack for overstepping her bounds, but then her eyes would sparkle with an apologetic smile. Margaret rarely chastised her. “I believe I mentioned I was hoping to run into Lord Argyll, did I not? Aside from that, the laird has been nothing but kind and very concerned for my welfare.”
“I’m certain he is.” The old woman made no attempt to hide her sarcasm.
“He stopped the cattle thieves when I was building the herd.”
Effie rolled her eyes. “Did he, now?”
Lady Margaret sipped her cider. Warmth slid all the way through the tips of her fingers. “Will you please attend Eastertide with us? I’d love you to join us at the high table with the lads.”
Effie placed her palm on her chest. “Me? To be an honored guest?” She winked at the boys. “How could I resist?”
Margaret sighed. It would be a good holiday. Still, disappointment settled heavily upon her shoulders. If only she could meet with Argyll, the earl might help her garner news of Colin. Presently, she clung to hope. His token hadn’t come back to her. She turned the matching ring on her finger. A small treasure, it bore witness to their undying love.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The Isle of Rhodes, April, 1460
The monk ushered Colin into Jacques de Milly’s private rooms. Behind the grand master’s embroidered chair, a rich tapestry of blue and gold hung down from a canopy suspended from the ceiling. This was where the great man received supplications. Having aligned himself and Scotland with the French sector of the Rhodes fortress, Colin had dined with the grand master many times, but rarely had he been to his private rooms. These were mostly frequented by knighted priests and monks—pure men who had taken up the oath of chastity.
Colin wore a long black tunic with a white cross of St. John embroidered on his chest, and a black skullcap, similar to that of the monks—a nice reprieve from roasting in his armor. He strode up the aisle and kneeled, bowing his head.
“Rise, Sir Colin.” Jacques rubbed his thumb over a brass disc in his rosary. “You look troubled.”
“Aye, ’tis with a heavy conscience I come to you.”
“Have out with it.” Jacques sat forward. “A knight cannot do battle with a troubled mind.”
“My lord, I have been on crusade for five long years. A fact reflected in my beard.” He gestured to the neatly groomed facial hair, which now touched mid-chest. “I left my wife great with child, my son only a babe in arms. My affairs have been without my governance, and I fear what will happen to my lands should I not return soon.”
The grand master stroked his own beard thoughtfully. “These are the problems of married men and those who maintain property. I took the oath of chastity to avoid such conflicts.”
Lead sank to the bottom of Colin’s gut. With the endless fighting, he feared he’d never be released.
Jacques held his hands up and addressed the monks who lined the room. “Jesus told Peter to leave all behind and follow him. Peter left his lands, his wife and his family to be a disciple.”
“As did I, my lord. But Peter returned to his kin.”
“Eventually, though God was always his first concern.”
Colin’s throat tightened. Was he wrong to covet Margaret’s arms? “As it should be,” he forced out.
The grand master stood and stepped down from his chair, placing his hand on Colin’s shoulder. “Help me take back the city of Archangelos. You were bred for battle, Black Colin. I cannot lose you until Rhodes is once again completely under the order’s rule.”
***
It was with a heavy heart that Margaret rode beside Ewen. In a few days, her entire world had crumbled. She’d clad herself in a stoic front for so long, but the things most dear continued to be stripped away. How much longer could she go on without the world falling apart around her feet?
Three days past, the king’s guard rode into Kilchurn announcing the death of James II, killed by an exploding cannon called the Lion. The king unwittingly stood beside the cannon during a demonstration. Hells bells, Scotland was at relative peace—aside from the Crusades. Fought on foreign soil, it wasn’t a war against the homeland, but one waged for all of Christendom.
Margaret hated war.
In the courtyard, they’d shouted long live the king. James III, at the age of nine, was still only a lad. The king’s mother, Mary of Guelders, had already been appointed regent to reign in his stead. The same woman who’d suggested Margaret be matched with Colin.
It seemed nothing was right in Scotland. Two days later, another sentry rode through Kilchurn’s gate. This one announced the death of Lord Struan. Margaret hadn’t seen her father since her wedding day.
Remorse cl
amped her gut.
Though the Campbell guard accompanied her, the MacCorkodale laird insisted on providing escort to her father’s funeral. They departed early that August morning to make the long journey to Loch Rannoch in one day.
The sun hung low in the western sky, and Margaret’s behind ached from hours of relentless riding. At last, Dunalasdair Castle came into view, intensifying her yoke of sorrow.
All seemed surreal, as if she were in a dream. Numbed by the news of two great men dead, she drove her horse forward, yet tears refused to come. Had the years hardened her, surviving without Colin, putting her fears behind, feigning good humor?
She’d been away from Dunalasdair for so long, wound up in her own affairs, taking care of the children, building the castle, dealing with the supplications from crofters and everyone else who traded with the vast Campbell estates. She’d lost any chance to see Da again.
The chains of the portcullis creaked under the gate’s weight as it rose to allow her into the old familiar bailey. A groom helped her dismount. She rushed into the castle and straight to her mother’s chamber.
In the past five years, Lady Robinson’s hair had taken on a silver hue. She sat staring into the fire and paid no mind to the sound of the door. Margaret dashed to her mother’s side. “I came as quickly as I could.”
“Margaret?” Mother’s tear-streaked face brightened. “You came.”
“Of course I did. We left as soon as the messenger arrived.”
Mother pulled her into a tight embrace. The fragrance of pure Highland air and lavender swept through her being. Home. Too much time had passed since Margaret had held Ma in her arms. The stress of the past five years constricted her throat and threatened to burst in a flood of tears—but now was the time to be strong. She clenched her fists to regain her strength. “How are you holding together?”
Mother wiped her eyes with a kerchief. “Well enough, I suppose.” She grasped Margaret’s hand. “He didn’t suffer long.”