by Amy Jarecki
“I had a bad dream. Can I sleep with you?”
“Of course you can, darling.” Thank God for little angels.
Ewen grasped her arm. “But we…”
Steeling her resolve, she shoved her finger in Ewen’s sternum. “You shan’t tempt me like that again. Either you wait until we are wed or you can head back to Tromlee and remain there.”
***
The next morning, Margaret awoke to John’s tiny fingers playing with her hair. Toasty warm beneath the coverlet, she smiled at her youngest son, and the chasm in her heart stretched. The image of Colin brought tears to her eyes.
He clasped her face between his tiny palms. “Are you all right?”
She dabbed her eyes with the linens. “Och aye. Just missing your father, is all. Your bonny face reminds me of him.”
“It does?”
“Aye.” She mussed his hair. “And we’d best rise afore the master-at-arms comes and breaks down the door.”
John squirmed. “And skewer me with his dirk.”
Margaret took pause. “Where did you learn that?”
“Duncan always says it.”
Margaret sighed. She’d have to have a word with Mevan to ensure the boys weren’t learning to be heathens. But first she had something more pressing to attend. After breaking her fast with the lads, she set out across the courtyard and surveyed the construction of the chapel.
“M’lady. You’re up early,” said Tom Elliot. He gestured to the foundation. “The mortar’s nearly set. We can start on the walls in a sennight.”
“No.” She tapped the foundation with her toe. “I want you to take your time on this project. Think on it as your masterpiece. Leave nothing for granted, spare no expense.”
His face lit up. “Honestly?”
“Yes.” She flung her arms wide. “I want this chapel to be your legacy, your greatest feat of architecture.”
He rubbed his hands. “Yes, m’lady. I’ll need to revise the drawings.”
“Then I suggest you set to it, Master Elliot. Make the nave as grand as Melrose Abbey.”
Smiling, Margaret proceeded to the solitude of the gardens. This would be a very long engagement indeed.
Please, Colin. If you are alive, I anxiously await your sign.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Dunstaffnage Castle, March, 1462
Lord Argyll, now titled the venerated Earl of Argyll, stopped at Dunstaffnage on the king’s business. His life had been a whirlwind of madness since the death of King James II, followed by the crowning of his son, a child, now James III. The king’s mother, Mary de Guelders, had assumed the position of regent. The posturing and feuding throughout Scotland gave Argyll not a moment’s rest. This particular morning, he broke his fast in the solar and reviewed the ledgers of accounts on behalf of the king.
His groom stepped inside and bowed. “Lord Argyll, the matron Effie wishes an audience with you.”
“Colin’s old nursemaid?” He pinched his brows. “Whatever would she want with me?”
“She didn’t say, m’lord. Shall I send her away?”
“No, ask her in. I’m sure it will be a trivial matter—one easy to appease.”
Effie, bent over a cane, hobbled through the door. “Thank you for seeing me, m’lord.”
“’Tis my pleasure.” Argyll hopped up and pulled out a chair. “Mistress Effie, what news?”
She shook her head sorrowfully. “’Tis very grave indeed.”
He took the seat beside her. “Tell me.”
“You are aware Lady Margaret has agreed to marry Ewen MacCorkodale after the Kilchurn chapel is built?”
Argyll swiped his hand over his chin. He wasn’t aware. What else had changed while he’d been at court? “I’m sorry, I’ve been away so long, I’m afraid that information has slipped past me.” He leaned forward. “When is the chapel scheduled to be completed?”
“Midsummer.” She grasped his hands and squeezed. “I know in my heart Colin is still alive. But he’s written not a word. Lady Margaret has put Laird Ewen off for years, and now time has run its course.”
“This is serious indeed.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “I’ve received no word of Uncle’s death. Yet it’s been…seven years with no word?” My, how time had slipped away. But it wasn’t like Colin Campbell to abandon his affairs. The lead in Argyll’s gut did not mirror Effie’s feelings. Has Glenorchy been killed?
“Aye. What is Lady Margaret to do with two boys and no husband? They’re now approaching critical years.”
Argyll sat back in the chair. “And what makes you think he still lives?”
Though her skin was wrinkled, her blue eyes sparkled with an intelligent flicker. “First of all, he gave my lady a token and vowed if she received it, she would know he was dead. She has not received a single thing. Secondly, I know Colin as well as you do, m’lord. He’s alive. I can feel it in these old bones.” She pushed a gnarled finger into his sternum. “You must fetch him and bring him back before that onion-eyed varlet sneaks his way into Lady Margaret’s bed. Once Ewen MacCorkodale gets his hands on Campbell lands, you can bet the boys will be booted out and new deeds drawn.”
“Dear God.” His mind raced. What were the options? Whom else could he send? The body should be retrieved. Above all, family lands and titles must be protected.
Effie boldly poked him again. “You must leave at once.”
Argyll blinked. “I cannot just pick up and sail across the high seas.” He was an earl, for God’s sake.
“You’re Colin’s only able kin. You’ve been to Rome. You know where to look. Who else could find him as fast as you?” She stood and fingered the bold medal of the Earl of Argyll, which hung on a heavy chain across his chest. “You must surely ken you owe all your success to him. Dunna be an arse and pretend he didn’t foster you and turn you into the great earl you’ve become today.” She spat on the floor. “You’d be a sniveling, bull-witted measle if it weren’t for Colin Campbell.”
Effie dropped to her chair, panting and fanning herself from her exuberant discourse. Argyll ran his palm over his mouth. The old nursemaid was always one to speak her mind—no matter whom she addressed.
Argyll didn’t care to be ordered about by a bent old woman who looked not a day younger than eighty, but she was right. Blood ran thick between the Campbells, and the Lord of Glenorchy had had more to do with making Argyll an earl than his own father. He could not sit idle while another man claimed Colin’s wife and lands—and Effie spoke true. Argyll had been to Christendom as his uncle’s squire. He probably knew more about the Order of St. John than any man in Scotland.
Could he afford the time?
Who else can I trust?
***
Another year’s Mayday festival behind them, Margaret walked through the garden with Ewen. He held her hand firmly. She tolerated his affection. After all, it had been nearly seven years since Colin left. She had no other marriage prospects, no other suitors.
Margaret studied her betrothed. His face wasn’t spectacular. He had a noble hook to his nose, his chin bold, not effeminate in the least. But there was something about his eyes she couldn’t quite put her finger on. A dark shade of blue, they shifted—never really focused on her for long. She really shouldn’t let that bother her. He was a laird with many responsibilities, and a myriad of thoughts must course through his mind at any given time. Even his conversation hopped from one topic to the next—except when he pressured her.
Today he appeared to be in good humor. “When we are wed, you shall not have to worry about anything except the latest fashions and dances.”
She chuckled. “I do love to dance, but I rather enjoy keeping a finger on the pulse of the castle.”
“’Tis a man’s job.” He gestured toward the roofless chapel. “That building should have been completed last summer. I’m surprised you haven’t fired Tom Elliot by now.”
If he only knew she’d been the one to slow the mason’s progress. “Not to worr
y. The chapel will be complete soon.”
“Yes it will, and you shall not be faced with such daunting tasks ever again.” He stopped and pulled her around to face him. “The chapel’s completion is why I asked you to walk with me. We must set the date.”
Margaret chewed her lip, a weight pressing on her chest. She could put it off no longer. She must face the fact Colin was gone for good. The boys needed a father. Keeping Ewen at bay only hurt their future prospects. She wasn’t about to petition the queen and marry someone unknown to her. Ewen was a laird and had been kind and patient. “I’ve given it a great deal of thought.”
His eyes brightened. “Oh?”
“We’ll have a big gathering for the Lammas Day Feast.”
“Aye, the harvest looks promising already. The day of the feast, then?”
“I was thinking the morning after—August third. It has a nice ring to it.”
Ewen held his fists in the air as if he’d just won the grand prize in the Highland games. “At last we will be wed. We shall be the talk of Argyllshire the entire summer.”
Margaret tried to smile. So she was his conquest? A prize he’d won? She didn’t honestly want a tender, earth-shattering communion of emotion. Did she?
He grasped her shoulders and planted a slobbery kiss on her lips. “You’ll not regret this.”
She took in a deep breath and smiled broadly. That did feel better. After all, what did she expect? She was now nine and twenty. Her days of fluttering hearts and breasts swelling with desire were long gone. She must now make decisions for the good of her children and her kin.
Ewen stepped back, holding Margaret’s hand out at arm’s length. “I must away to court. The regent has summoned me to parliament.”
“Very well.” Margaret dipped in a curtsey. “Haste ye back, my…friend.” She could think of nothing more endearing. She certainly would not refer to him as dear, love or sweetheart. Those worlds refused to form upon her lips. She would never utter those words again.
Margaret watched Ewen’s bold stride as he left her standing in the midst of her herb garden. Basil and rosemary scented the air. She sighed. She’d finally agreed to a date. At least Ewen was happy and would stop pressuring her.
She proceeded down the path to the daffodils in full bloom. She kneeled and examined the brilliant yellow petals. Rubbing a finger across one, the wonder of God’s creation flowed through her like living breath. A soft breeze caressed the back of her neck and her skin grew alive, tingling.
Dear God in heaven. I am begging you for answers. Was Colin lost at sea? Did he even reach Rome? Was he upset with me? Did I misinterpret his love? Help me to understand what went wrong. Above all my questions and all my desires, if there is the slightest chance he lives, I beg of you, please, please, please show me a sign.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Edinburgh Castle, 17th June, 1462
Aside from Mevan, Margaret told not a soul the real reason for her trip to Edinburgh, where Queen Mary had moved court for midsummer. As far as anyone knew, she’d journeyed out to find the perfect fabric for her wedding dress, and as such could not be accompanied by her future groom. Ewen had traveled north to attend Highland games in Inverness, and thus hadn’t objected to her departure. He didn’t even know of it. Thank the stars for small mercies.
Though she’d written countless letters and given them to her faithful courier, Ewen’s youngest brother, she’d never received a word from Colin or His Holiness. Her last hope was to gain an audience with the queen. The regent should always be the first to receive word if one of their nobles was killed abroad.
Margaret’s skin twitched while she waited in the queen’s hot outer hall. A large wooden table sat in the center of the big room, filled with smelly courtiers waiting for an opportunity to present their petitions to the queen.
Margaret had a good chance of being seen today, the second day spent sitting on one of the hard wooden benches lining the wall. She’d slipped the queen’s page a silver sovereign and stressed the importance of her business.
Two days of nervously drumming her fingers did nothing to bolster confidence. Yes, she was nobility, a wife of one of the most powerful barons in Scotland…though he hadn’t set foot there in seven years. A fact that would quickly see his good deeds forgotten, especially after the death of James II.
Hundreds of errant thoughts whirred through her head. Why had there been no news of the Crusade? Would the queen think her a fool or ask her to be a lady in waiting, God forbid? Surely with two boys at home, she could plead a case against that.
The door opened. The smug page stuck his nose in the air. “Lady Margaret Campbell of Glen Orchy.”
Her hammering heart flew to her throat. Swallowing, Margaret stood as quickly as proper decorum would allow and pressed her hand to her chest to quash her rapid heart. “Thank you,” she whispered, carefully planting each foot as she entered the queen’s inner chamber.
The room exuded wealth. Oozed it. From the richly painted friezes on the ceilings to the purple and gold tapestries on the walls, no expense had been spared. The queen sat in a well-padded throne, covered in red velvet. She wore a velvet gown with a black skirt and red bodice, lined with ermine. Adorning her head was a matching hennin, which only revealed a hint of her auburn hair.
The queen placed her palms together and inclined her fingers toward Margaret. “Well, come forward, Lady Glenorchy. I haven’t all day.”
Cheeks burning, Margaret briskly walked ahead and performed a deep curtsey—the same one she’d dipped into on her wedding day.
“Rise,” Queen Mary said, sounding like she’d rather be someplace else entirely.
Margaret wiped her sweaty palms on her skirts. “I’ve a matter of utmost urgency and am in grave need of your assistance, your highness.”
The queen nodded impatiently. Margaret clutched her palms together and launched into a quick explanation of Colin’s disappearance. “You see, Lord Glenorchy did not send me his token. I’ve received no formal word of his death, only rumors.”
The queen gestured to the dignitary, who continuously scrawled with his quill. “Lord Chancellor, have you record of Colin Campbell’s death?”
“None, your highness.”
The queen frowned. “Seven years and no word, you say?”
“Aye, your highness.”
“It does rather sound as if he’s met his end. Have you word from anyone else in his retinue?”
“No, your highness.”
“Then the evidence most certainly speaks of dread.” The queen’s gaze darted to her clerk then back to Margaret. “Shall we record his death? He has issue, no?”
“No…I mean, yes, Colin has two sons, but I’d prefer to wait to declare him dead.” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Not yet, anyway.”
“Very well.” The queen dismissed Margaret with a flick of her wrist.
“Please…have you news of the Crusade?” Margaret stammered. She still had so many questions to ask. “Any word from the Pope?”
Shaking her head, the queen looked away with disinterested eyes.
“Come.” In a blur, the page grasped Margaret’s elbow and ushered her to the outer chamber.
The hum of voices buzzed around her, eyes slanted her way, the room spinning. So that was it? A few words with the queen only to walk away with no news whatsoever?
Her trip to Edinburgh had been a complete and utter waste of time. She stumbled toward the door, pushing people out of her path. She couldn’t breathe. Not a soul had heard from Colin or his men.
He’d vanished.
Staggering to the courtyard, she found Mevan. “I must purchase some fabric and we’ll be on our way.”
He knitted his bushy brows. “Did you see the queen?”
She nodded, casting her eyes downward. “No news.”
“I’m sorry, m’lady.”
Pressing her hands to her face, she choked back tears. “It was worth a try.”
She could no longer hope.<
br />
After the noon meal, Margaret rode out with her cohort of twelve men, including Mevan. The path from Edinburgh to Kilchurn was long and arduous, but she didn’t regret her decision to go. At least now she had her own proof and wasn’t relying on anyone else’s word. Colin and his men disappeared somewhere between Dunstaffnage and Rome, never to be heard from again.
***
The third day after leaving Edinburgh, Margaret and her guard rode into the dense forest along Loch na Bi. She’d traveled this trail several times in the past, even camped here once. Surrounded by steep sloping hills, there was only one narrow path in and out.
A chill rippled across her skin, almost like a warning. She couldn’t put her finger on it. She wanted to stop and listen, but that would be silly. There was no place to gather. Force them all to pull up single file while she listened? For what? Definitely inane and pointless. The sooner they passed through the thick wood, the closer they’d be to Loch Awe. They’d reach Kilchurn before nightfall.
Halfway, her skin again prickled. The hair on her nape stood on end. Eyes scanning the dense forest, she fingered the dagger in her pocket.
Bellowing shrieks echoed from behind the trees. Before Margaret could blink, a man raced toward her, a thick iron hammer in his hand. His eyes were wide and wild. Roaring like a madman, he bared his teeth and groped for her arm.
No time to think. Margaret pitched to the side and swiped her knife across his face.
Blood streamed down his cheek. Snarling, he tried to yank her from her mount. “Ye bitch, ye cut me.”
She held tight to the pommel. In a lightning-fast move, he clutched his fingers around her throat. She tried to wrench away, but his hands clamped like a vise. She couldn’t breathe. Her voice box croaked with choking sounds. The world spun.
Margaret clawed at his hands, gasping for life-giving air.
Blood running cold, she thrashed, trying to free herself from the man’s brutal grasp. Her fingers tightened around her dagger. Clenching her teeth, she drew upon her remaining strength and plunged the blade into his shoulder. Wailing, he released his hold, brutally swinging his weapon. The weighty hammer slammed into her arm.