The Campbell Trilogy

by Monica McCarty

  With a fierce battle cry, Duncan arrived at full gallop, cutting down two more. His father’s guardsmen rallied behind him, and with a burst of renewed ferocity, fought back the charge.

  When it was done, and the Gordons had retreated to prepare for the next volley, Duncan jumped off his horse and plowed through the circle of men who’d surrounded his father and Argyll.

  His path was blocked by his cousin. His relief at seeing Archie alive was replaced by anger. Now maybe he would listen. “Damn it, Archie, you need to move back. You could have been killed.”

  “Duncan, I’m sorry …” Archie’s expression filled Duncan’s veins with ice.

  He held his cousin’s stare for a long heartbeat and then pushed passed him, knowing what he would see.

  No. His chest clamped down so tightly that he couldn’t breathe.

  His father lay prone on the ground. One of his guardsmen knelt beside him, holding a cloth to staunch the blood gushing from his side. The ball had avoided the plate mail, instead finding a narrow gap of unprotected flesh.

  “Father.” Duncan fell to his knees.

  “I’m fine,” his father said, his voice clenched as if even breathing added too much pain.

  Duncan’s throat tightened. They both knew he lied.

  Another cannonball exploded nearby, sending a spray of dirt, rock, and smoke in all directions. He needed to do something before they were all killed. He wanted to go with his father and see him to safety, but as long as men were fighting his duty lay on the battlefield.

  “We need to get you back to the castle.” He stood and quickly issued instructions to a few nearby men.

  “Colin?” his father gasped.

  The heir. Something twisted in his chest.

  “Safe,” Duncan assured him, ignoring the hurt. “I sent him back to get more ammunition. I’ll send him to you when he returns.”

  “Watch … over … will … need … you.”

  Duncan wanted to argue against the implication, refusing to accept that his father was dying, but nodded instead. His father needed all his strength to battle his injury.

  Panic suddenly widened his father’s gaze. “Must … tell … you … sorry …” Another explosion cut off what he’d been trying to say, and the effort proved too much for him as he fell unconscious.

  The men hustled his father away and Duncan turned to Argyll, steel in his eyes. “Go with them.”

  This time the earl didn’t argue, but his cousin’s face was twisted with hatred. One day Archie would be a great leader, but he did not yet possess the age or maturity to weather a blow of this magnitude to his pride with grace. His face flushed red and his eyes bulged with rage. “It’s not fair. Were it not for treachery this would be my moment of triumph.” Tears of humiliation streamed down his cousin’s cheeks. “This is all Grant’s fault. I’ll destroy him.”

  Duncan nodded grimly, but he wasn’t thinking about Grant—he had no doubt the Laird of Freuchie would get what he deserved. He was thinking about Grant’s daughter. Jeannie’s father’s betrayal had cut off any possibility of a match sanctioned by their families.

  But it might have done more than that. His chest tightened. She knew. It was the only explanation for why she’d come for him last night.

  And now his father lay dying.

  His jaw clenched. He didn’t have time to think about the ramifications. Huntly’s clansmen from the next charge were just breaking over the rise in front of them.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glint of brass and silver. His father’s sword was right where he’d left it, staked like a cross impaled through the chest of the man who’d shot him. The enormous two-handed great sword—almost six feet in length—had been handed down to the Chiefs of Campbells of Auchinbreck since the time of the Bruce. Engraved on the blade was one word: steadfast.

  Clasping the horn grip with one hand, he slowly pulled it from the dead Gordon and, brandishing it before him, turned to face his attackers. They were almost upon him.

  He fought like a man possessed. Perhaps he was. Bastard or no, his father’s blood ran through him, and he could feel the strength of his ancestors behind him as he wielded blow after deadly blow, crushing all who came in his path.

  They repelled the attack with ease and were waiting for the next when he noticed one of the MacLean’s guardsmen riding hell-bent toward them. The guardsman looked around, obviously searching for a leader. Duncan stepped forward. With his father gone from the field, as captain he was in charge of what was left of his clansmen.

  “What is it, Fergus?”

  If the MacLean clansman was surprised by Duncan’s assertion of command he didn’t show it. “It’s the Mackintosh. He and his men are surrounded. My laird is doing all he can to hold off the Earl or Erroll.” Erroll was Huntly’s loyal cohort and fiercest warrior. MacLean had to hold him; if Erroll broke through they were done. Someone else would have to go to Mackintosh’s aid.

  Duncan didn’t hesitate. “Where?”

  Fergus pointed to the gap in the ridge on the other side of the burn.

  Through the haze Duncan could just make out the skirmishing warriors. Perhaps a dozen men had been separated from the rest of the force and were trapped in a narrow gully between the two hills—completely surrounded by Huntly’s forces who were descending on them like vultures.

  A quick reconnaissance of the situation proved grim. Any rescuers seemed just as likely to be slaughtered as the men they were trying to reach. Their only chance was to strike hard enough at Huntly’s left vanguard, creating enough of a diversion to give the Mackintoshes time to retreat through whatever gap they could create. With a big enough force it wouldn’t be as difficult, but Duncan knew he could not afford more than a few men—they were having time enough of it as it was defending their own position. If they lost the hill, they lost the battle.

  He made his decision and turned to face his father’s men—now his—explaining his plan. He called out the names of five of his fiercest warriors, all of whom he knew to be unmarried and without bairns. His jaw clenched. Like him.

  “I’ll not force you to go,” he said. “There is every chance you’ll not return.” He looked around the circle of men, seeing no hesitation, but fierce determination on their dirty, scraped-up faces. And he saw something else. Trust. They trusted him—not only to lead them into battle, but to bring them home or follow him to the death. He felt a charge go through him, emboldened, and knew without a doubt that this was his destiny.

  Neil, one of the older guardsmen, spat on the ground. “Hell, Captain, ’tis the damned Gordons who’ll sup with the devil before the day is done.”

  Duncan grinned. “Aye, then we’d best not delay—we wouldn’t want them to be late for dinner.”

  With a fierce battle cry Duncan led the valiant charge.

  The six Highlanders who rode at breakneck pace, swords held high, into the heart of Huntly’s left vanguard should have died that day.

  Instead, they became legend.

  Jeannie woke with a start. The first golden rays of dawn broke through the dirty pane of glass in the small window and tumbled across the floor. But the sun could not warm the cold emptiness that gripped her heart.

  She knew without even looking: Duncan was gone.

  She’d failed.

  Dread took hold of her and did not lessen its virulent grip the entire journey back to Freuchie Castle. Indeed, it was only made worse when barely an hour into the journey they heard the terrifying sound of loud explosions behind them. Explosions unlike anything she’d ever heard before, but knew to be cannon. Even from a distance she could feel the air reverberate with each deafening boom.

  As much as she wanted to know what was happening on the battlefield, she also knew that Duncan was right—it was no place for her. Thus, she hastened back home to do all that she could—wait and pray and hope that he came for her as promised. Her guardsmen did not hesitate at the sudden “change” of plans to return to Freuchie, nor did she need to
feign the illness, which was her explanation. Her fear for Duncan saw to that.

  It was the longest day of her life. She tossed her needlework to the side and hastened to the tower window once more as she’d done all day—back and forth, unable to sit still. God, she hated waiting. Hated the feeling of utter helplessness. Her life was being played out on a battlefield and all she could do was stand by and wait. What was happening? Who would emerge victorious? Would he still come for her? And the most torturous question of all: Would he live to come at all?

  He couldn’t be dead. Surely she would know it?

  Then, just before nightfall, Jeannie saw the white standard of the Chief of Grant crest the hill from the east. And riding not far behind, her father.

  She said a prayer of thanks for his safe return and raced down the tower stairs, through the great hall, and down the forestairs into the barmkin below, her heart pounding like a drum. The victorious expressions on her clansmen’s faces as they rode under the iron yett answered her first question: The Campbells had lost.

  Now, all she could do was wait and hope that if Duncan lived—and she could not bear to contemplate anything else—he did not blame her for her father’s treachery.

  The triumph over the death-defying rescue of the Mackintoshes was short-lived. Duncan fought alongside the MacLean until the bitter end, but eventually they were overwhelmed and forced to retreat. No matter how bravely or fiercely they battled, Huntly’s cavalry and his cannon proved insurmountable. Had the Campbells not lost half their vanguard in the first hours of the battle, they would have had a chance. As it was, they could claim a small victory to have lasted as long as they did. Though he supposed his cousin would not see it as such.

  Argyll’s flag would fly over Strathbogie Castle this night as he’d promised, but in defeat not in victory. Though it had taken three spears to bring him down, Robert Fraser, Argyll’s standard bearer, had fallen to the enemy.

  The last whisper of daylight had just faded when Duncan rode through the gates of Drumin Castle, numb and exhausted from the day’s events.

  They were waiting for him in the laird’s solar. The chiefs and chieftains who’d made up the War Council last night appeared changed men—somber, pride in tatters, an air of stunned disbelief permeated the painfully quiet room. These were men not used to losing. And though none would ever give voice to their thoughts, ever present was the knowledge that what many had warned against had come true. But no one could have anticipated Grant’s treachery.

  Perhaps they should have. Perhaps he should have.

  Duncan took one look at his cousin and could see that time had not dulled his rage. He was in a dangerous temper. Mouth pulled back in a snarl, eyes narrow and hard, with his sharp, Gallic features he looked like a half-crazed wolf, ready to take a bite out of the first person to look at him the wrong way.

  But appeasing his cousin’s wounded pride was not what Duncan was thinking about right now. “Our father?” he asked Colin, relieved to see his brother had followed his orders and returned to the castle.

  Colin’s face was pale and streaked with dirt and blood, his eyes unfocused. He appeared in shock by the events of the day. Duncan couldn’t blame him.

  “He lives,” Colin replied. His relief, however, was tempered by his brother’s next words. “But he has not woken since we left the battlefield.”

  “Where is he? I must go to him.”

  “In the laird’s bed chamber,” Argyll said. “But I will have your report first.”

  Duncan recounted the events after his cousin had left the field, emphasizing the courage and fortitude of the MacLeans and their chief.

  “Where is MacLean? Why is he not here to tell of this himself?” Archie demanded.

  “He took a pike in the arm and is having it tended.”

  “Our losses?”

  Duncan met his gaze. “At least five hundred men.” He didn’t need to mention the thousands of untrained rabble who had deserted at the first cannonade.

  “And Huntly?”

  “Far fewer.” Duncan would guess no more than a score—he and his men had been responsible for half of them.

  Archie’s gaze hardened, his eyes shone black as onyx. “They knew our positions. They knew our battle plan.”

  A murmuring of agreement went around the table. Campbell of Cawdor spoke up. “Aye, they may as well have had a map, so well did they anticipate our movements. ’Twas probably Grant’s doing.” He shrugged. “He must have sent a man after our meeting last night.”

  The mention of Grant seemed to unhinge his cousin. His face flushed crimson. “The filthy, lying viper.” He banged his fist on the table. “He will pay for his treachery.” He motioned to one of the guardsmen who stood by the door. “You there. Go, find out who was seen leaving the castle last night.”

  Duncan swore silently, hoping that no one had taken note of his departure. He’d rather not have to explain his meeting with Jeannie. Especially now.

  “If that is all, cousin, I should like to go and see my father.”

  “Go,” Argyll said, waving him away. He was almost to the door, when he stopped him. “Wait. Before you go, leave the map.”

  Duncan opened his sporran, pulled out the parchment and handed it to his cousin. He turned to leave again, when Argyll said, “What’s this? A note?”

  Damn. In his haste to see his father he must have accidentally handed Archie Jeannie’s note.

  He held his expression impassive and opened his sporran again, this time looking as he rifled through the contents. He frowned. Where was it?

  “Is there a problem?” Argyll asked, the barest hint of uncertainty creeping into this voice.

  “I can’t seem to find it. I must have lost it during the battle.”

  If the room was quiet before, it was dead silent now. He didn’t need to look around to know that all eyes were fixed on him. He felt a burst of anger, knowing that there were many in this room who would be suspicious of him simply for his blood alone. But Archie would never doubt his loyalty. Duncan’s actions on the battlefield spoke for themselves. He would dare any man in this room to say otherwise.

  He held his hand out for the return of the missive, but his cousin hesitated. He was tempted to snatch it back, but doing so would only make it look as if he had something to hide.

  “Who is it from? It appears to be a woman’s hand.”

  Duncan gritted his teeth and squared his jaw. “ ’Tis a private matter.”

  Only when his cousin unfolded it and started to read, did he recall the wording: Come quickly … we must act immediately. Wording that might provoke question in even the staunchest of hearts.

  His cousin looked up at him with a strange look on his face. “When did this arrive?”

  Duncan did not shirk from the truth. “Last night.”

  “After the council?”

  “Aye.”

  “I warned you to let nothing interfere with your duty to me. Perhaps you should have been focusing on the father rather than the daughter. Convincing Grant to join us was your responsibility.”

  Duncan heard Colin’s sharp intake of breath when he understood the implication of Argyll’s words. Damn. He hadn’t wanted Colin to find out like this.

  Shock registered on his brother’s features. “Jean Grant? You were with my betrothed last night?” he asked, accusation ringing in his voice.

  “You are not betrothed. It is complicated, I will explain everything, I swear, but later.” He looked back to Argyll. “My relationship with Grant’s daughter has nothing to do with this.” His cousin’s criticism, however, was not as easily dismissed. “Perhaps I should have anticipated treachery, but I am not the only one in this room who Grant fooled.” His father, Argyll, all of them had believed Grant’s anger against Huntly to be real. “If you have something you wish to accuse me of, cousin, do it. Otherwise I shall go to see my father.” Who took a bullet intended for you. But he left that unsaid.

  He waited and when his cousin said nothi
ng, turned and left the room. Archie hadn’t accused him of anything, but neither had he defended him. With all that Duncan had been through today, the realization that his cousin could even remotely harbor suspicion toward him stung.

  Could Argyll really think him capable of betrayal? Nay, it was only his frustration and anger talking. When his cousin calmed down, he would see the truth. Archie never apologized, but Duncan knew he would find a way to make amends.

  For the next two days, Duncan kept a steady vigil at his father’s bedside, leaving only to wash the stains of battle from his weary body and make occasional use of the garderobe.

  His father lay still and bloodless in the enormous bed, seeming to wither before his eyes. The bleeding had stopped, but he’d yet to regain consciousness. The healer warned that it was likely he never would. But Duncan wouldn’t leave his side in the oft chance that he did.

  Jamie and Elizabeth had been sent for, but had yet to arrive. Argyll and Colin were frequent visitors, but never stayed long and spoke little. In Duncan’s absence, it seemed, Argyll had turned to Colin to attend him as they awaited King James’s arrival. The king was enraged, both by Argyll’s precipitous attack and by Huntly’s treason. Now he was on his way north with thousands of men, intending to bring Huntly to heel.

  No mention was made of what had been said—or left unsaid—after the battle. But with MacLean’s return, rumors of Duncan’s valiant rescue of the Mackintoshes had spread, casting doubt on the suspicion toward him.

  Or so he thought. Late in the afternoon of the third day, Colin burst into the chamber. “You have to leave,” he said, gasping for breath.

  “Calm down, Colin. What’s wrong?”

  “They found it.”

  Duncan frowned. “Found what?”

  “The gold.”

  He laughed. “Well if they found gold, you can be sure it isn’t mine.”

  “How can you make light of this? Don’t you see that they think you are guilty? You were angry after the council at not being given a command and with father for refusing your marriage. They think you conspired with Grant.”