by Amy Jarecki
Lord Percy’s gaze drifted to Isaac. The man was tenacious if nothing else. If he hadn’t returned with Lady Meg, or her rescuer’s head, he’d planned to dismiss the bumbling idiot. But he’d brought back a tidbit of useful information. Percy shooed him away with a flick of his wrist. “That is all. Please remove yourself, and the next time I see you, you’d better appear and smell a damned sight more presentable.”
Isaac bowed. “As you wish, my lord.”
Duncan finally caught up with his men near Perth.
Though Da wouldn’t have wanted it, Duncan had let his father sleep until dawn. Then the crofter had helped him carry his father to the horses.
The old man slipped in and out of consciousness during the arduous journey, but he uttered not a word of complaint. Hunched over astride his stallion, the Lord of Glenorchy was too weak to sit upright. All the while, Duncan admonished himself for his bullheadedness. Over and over his mind replayed what had happened, recounting all the things he should have done to protect his father.
He’d held Da’s life in his hands. Death was eminently final. His father had come too close to paying the greatest price for Duncan’s bravado—his grand plan. Night hunting? I’m an unmitigated fool. If he would have been more attentive to Da’s whereabouts, Father mightn’t be struggling for his life on the back of a horse.
Duncan blamed himself. Alas, there was no other person who could be accused. Da warned against riding on a hunt at night. He’d complained about his failing vision, too. But had Duncan listened? No. He’d just barreled ahead, hell-bent on proving his own worth. His arrogance had gravely wounded his father. Duncan glanced over his shoulder. From Da’s pale complexion, the baron wasn’t weathering his injury well. He needed a bed, damn it, lest he succumb to his wounds altogether.
“Campbell here,” Duncan hollered to avoid an arrow in the gut as he rode in behind his men.
Eoin was the first to pull up his mount and look behind. His face turned ashen. “My God.”
Each man looked to Da hunched over his horse’s neck and then met Duncan’s gaze. His self-loathing sank with the weight of an anchor. Steeling his wits, he explained what had happened.
“Serves him right, you backstabber,” the Earl of Mar said.
With a spike of rage, Duncan leapt from his horse, latched his hands on the earl’s collar and pulled him to the ground. With an inhuman wail, Duncan slammed his fist into the bastard’s face. The earl tried to protect himself with his bound hands, but Duncan batted them down with his left and hurled his fist into the man’s face with his right.
Pulling back for another blow, someone stopped his fist midair. Duncan spun around and barreled into Eoin, tackling him before the MacGregor could utter a word. Duncan focused his ire on his best friend. All five knights pounced. Duncan struggled under the pressure of knees and hands pinning him to the ground.
Robert squeezed his fingers around Duncan’s neck. “Calm yourself.”
He thrashed while a man held him down by each shoulder and hip. “Let me at him, you miserable lot of sheep-biters.” His body shook with his need to rip something apart.
Robert squeezed his hand tighter. “And deliver a dead man to the king? Just where do you think that’ll get you?”
Duncan shuddered. His father had demanded he complete the mission, and he’d all but minced the earl’s face. Grinding his teeth, he stopped struggling. “Let go.”
“Will you control your ire?” Eoin asked, rubbing his jaw.
“Aye. A bloody demon came over me.” With the release of their hands, Duncan sat up. He stared at the earl, who was bleeding from the nose. “Da demanded I follow through with our duty and report to the king.”
“Jesus,” Sean said, shoving his fingers through his thick hair.
Duncan eyed his cousins. As kin, they were best suited to take his father home. “Robert and James, find a cart and take Da back to me ma. Tell her I’ll ride night and day until I make it home.”
They both offered thin-lipped nods.
Duncan gestured toward the earl. “Clean him up and put him back on his horse.”
“The devil will claim your soul,” the earl said.
“Aye?” Duncan planted his fists on his hips. “Is that witchcraft you’re using? ’Cause if it is, I’ll not hesitate to bear witness to his highness.”
“I’ve no idea to what you are referring. My miserable brother is scared to death I’ll plot against him. This contrived charge is a ploy to come after me first.”
Duncan watched Eoin and Sean help the earl mount. “If you are innocent, the court will release you. ’Tis why the king hired us to bring you in, else he would have ordered your death.”
The earl smirked. “If you believe that, you are a greater fool than I.”
After delivering the earl to Sir Simon Preston at Craigmillar, Duncan hastened to the royal lodgings at Holyrood Abbey where the king preferred to reside, a mile away from Edinburgh Castle.
Accompanied by his men, Duncan strode into the king’s antechamber and addressed the chancellor with purpose. “Sir Duncan Campbell, heir to the Barony of Glenorchy, at your service.” He bowed. “I’ve delivered the king’s package to Craigmillar as directed.”
The man frowned. “The king expected to see the Lord of Glenorchy. Has something gone awry?”
“Indeed it has.” Duncan’s gut twisted with guilt. “My father was struck by an arrow as we made our escape. If it pleases the king, I should like to make my report forthwith so that I may return home and see to his health.”
“An arrow?”
“Aye.” Duncan glanced away, wishing the man would stop asking questions.
“And he still lives?”
“The wound is grave, but with God’s will, I shall see him recover.”
With a skeptical frown, the chancellor ran his fingers over the medallion signifying his rank. “Wait here. I shall relay your message.”
Eoin tapped Duncan’s elbow. “Come, sit.”
He jerked his arm away. “I’d rather be on my way.”
“I ken, but we’ve no choice but to wait.”
They sat in chairs upholstered with ornate embroidery, reflective of scenes from God’s creation of the world. Duncan leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. His head pounded.
The men knew to be quiet. They most likely were stunned as well. Colin Campbell had fostered them all, turned them from pimple-faced adolescents into the most elite fighting men in Scotland. Black Colin of Rome was their hero, a man who could never succumb to an arrow wound.
Duncan replayed the night hunt over and over in his head. How could he have prevented Da from being shot? How did he lose sight of him during the hunt? He’d always been such a strong leader, Duncan had never considered that aging might have weakened Da in any way.
Why did I not realize he’d fallen behind sooner?
When the door to the king’s chamber opened, Duncan scarcely remembered where he was. Duncan looked up and wiped a hand down the beard that had grown in since leaving Kilchurn nearly two weeks ago.
“Duncan Campbell, Lord of Glenorchy,” bellowed the page.
Duncan gulped. “My father still lives. I am Sir Duncan Campbell, son of the said Lord of Glenorchy.” He resisted the powerful urge to slam his fist into the young man’s face. The slight of tongue should not go unpunished, but now was not the time for a fistfight. Flanked by Eoin and Sean, Duncan proceeded into King James’s chamber. His majesty sat upon a wide throne, clad in black velvet, his head topped with an ermine bonnet.
As customary, Duncan knelt and bowed his head. “The Earl of Mar has been delivered to Craigmillar, sire.”
“But not without heavy losses, I understand.” The king’s reedy voice grated with an accusing tone.
“Aye. My father was hit by a stray arrow from a crossbow. We led the earl out of Kildrummy by enticing him to partake in a sport of night hunting. Unfortunately, all did not go as planned.”
“Hunting at night?” The king rubb
ed his hands and chuckled. “An ingenious challenge—however, ’tis a wonder not more were killed.”
Duncan’s shoulder twitched. “I suppose it did confuse the earl’s guard enough for us to spirit him away without them any the wiser.”
The king spread his palms. “I am impressed with your ingenuity, especially to your king.”
Duncan bowed his head. “Forgive me, sire.”
“Rise.” The king reclined in his throne and crossed his legs at the knees. “The Earl of Angus tells me he’s pleased with the return of his sister.”
Duncan stood, but couldn’t meet the king’s gaze. If the Earl of Angus knew Duncan had lain with Meg, he wouldn’t be so bloody happy. “Thank you, sire.” God knew Duncan’s failings, and one day he’d burn in hell.
“I’d like you to dine with me tonight. It would be amusing to hear the details of your recent pursuits.”
Duncan bowed deeply. “I thank your highness for your generous invitation, but I must away home. I’ve a father to attend and a mother to console.”
“But ’tis nearly time for the evening meal—surely you cannot take your leave until the morrow.”
“Forgive me.” Keeping his head bowed, Duncan took a step back. “I gave my word that I would ride night and day until I returned to Kilchurn. Please excuse my impertinence, sire.”
“Very well.” The king’s gaze traveled from Duncan’s head to his feet. “Perhaps some other time.”
“I would enjoy that very much.”
The king’s frown was decidedly forbidding as he flicked his wrist and waved Duncan away.
Now he’d disappointed the king on top of it all. Duncan ground his back molars. It couldn’t be helped. The king could not be so crass that he expected Duncan to ignore his duty to clan and family.
After a final bow, Duncan led Eoin and Sean back to the antechamber. But the page’s next announcement stopped him dead. “The Earl of Northumberland from Alnwick, England.”
Heart hammering in his chest, Duncan looked up to see Lord Percy’s pinched face. The man puffed out his chest and strode straight past him, too filled with his own importance to give Duncan a glance.
What the hell is that bastard doing in Scotland?
Meg pulled her cloak snug around her shoulders and headed for the castle garden. When she stepped outside, Midge and Max bounded up to her, rubbing their scruffy coats against her legs.
“Och, ye wee beasties, would you like to help me?”
In the past, she’d spent some time in the gardener’s workshop, but her days tending Duncan made her realize the importance of herbal lore. Also, any nun worth her salt would need a good understanding of the healing arts.
Though spring was near, the trees were still barren of leaves. Only brown, skeletal stalks of last summer’s harvest sprouted from the lines of planting boxes. As usual, the path to the workshop was so soggy, Meg had to hold up her skirts to avoid getting them muddy.
Hubert, the old gardener, sat hunched on a stool, snipping the roots from a clump of a dried plant. He wore layers of woolens with a navy plaid draped across his shoulders.
Standing in the entrance, Meg cleared her throat.
Hubert glanced up with his kind, rheumy eyes. “Lady Meg? What brings you out to the garden on this chilly day?”
She stepped inside. A peat fire smoldered in a brazier at the center of the room. Meg waved her hand to clear the haze of smoke. “Two more sennights and we shall pass the vernal equinox.”
“That we will.” He held up the clump of roots. “’Tis why I’m preparing this avens for planting.”
“Avens? ’Tis an important herb, no?”
“In my opinion, the most important.” He snipped thoughtfully. “The Benedictines call it ‘the blessed herb.’”
Meg’s attention piqued. “Aside from flavoring ale and preserving linen, does it have healing properties?” She pulled another stool from beneath the table and sat.
“Aye, avens is used for a great many remedies. It can keep a wound from bleeding out, and some say ’tis more effective than St.-John’s-wort for dressing deep cuts and preventing them from turning putrid.” He held the clump to the light and examined his work. “And a tincture can be made from boiling its roots—administer it for the ague, sore throat, headache and chills.”
“All that? My heavens, no wonder they call it blessed.”
Quietly, Meg watched Hubert work. She doubted the Gypsy salve contained avens. If it had, Duncan wouldn’t have succumbed to the sweat. But she wouldn’t mention it to Hubert. If anyone at Tantallon were to discover exactly how familiar she’d become with Sir Duncan, she’d be locked in her chamber for life. “So, when will you plant your avens?”
“Ye must be wary and not sow too early, lest a frost kill the shoots. But ye do no’ want to leave it too late, either.”
“May Day, then?”
“Aye, mid-April at the earliest, but keep in mind ye need a healthy crop by midsummer.”
Meg hung on his every word. “What medicinal herbs should a castle garden never be without?”
“Well.” Hubert scratched his chin and looked to the rafters. “I’ve quite a list, but ye’d never find me without avens, of course . . . St.-John’s-wort, mallow, comfrey, feverfew—especially when there are bairns about.”
“For the colic?”
“Aye.” He rubbed his head as if trying to access the recesses of his memory. “Valerian, common house leek, and hollyhock.”
Meg repeated each word as he said them. As soon as she returned to her chamber, she’d write them down. “Now I need you to tell me what ailments each herb cures.”
Hubert sputtered a guffaw. “I haven’t all day to laze about and give ye a lesson.”
“No?” Meg straightened and raised her chin. “I disagree, and I believe Lord Arthur would as well. Now, let us start with valerian.”
With an audible sigh, Hubert launched into a recitation of the herb, how best to grow it, and its proven as well as unproven uses. Meg’s head swooned with information. Hubert’s lessons would take a great many days to relate. Next time she’d bring a quill and parchment. Over the years, gardeners might store all their knowledge in their heads, but she wanted a record to which she could refer.
When he finished with valerian, Hubert inhaled deeply, as if he’d never strung so many words together at once in his life.
Meg patted his shoulder. “My thanks. Perhaps I can come back on the morrow with a bit of parchment. I want to be sure to note every detail.”
He stared with his mouth agape. “The morrow, m’lady?” He removed his bonnet and scratched his thinning hair. “I dunna ken—”
“I’m most certain Lord Arthur will approve.” She offered a consoling smile. “If we cover one herb per day, it should not be too taxing. Besides, you cannot expect to keep such vast knowledge in your head for an eternity. What if you were to forget something?”
“Ah, m’lady, I never forget.”
“Are you certain?” she asked. He twisted his mouth with hesitation. Meg held up a finger and stood. “Everyone forgets something.” She moved to the doorway. “I shall see you midmorning on the morrow and let us talk about mallow.”
She didn’t wait for him to answer—she abruptly turned and collided with Arthur. Sputtering, he grasped her shoulders and pulled her back along the path. “The valet told me he’d seen you head for the gardens. Whatever are you doing out here in Hubert’s cold workshop?”
She tugged her arm from his grasp. “I’ve realized I need to know a fair bit more about herbal remedies if I’m to bec—”
“Become?”
Why must her brother always tie her stomach in knots? “Merciful mercy, Arthur, it matters not. Wife or nun, I need to know more about healing.”
“Now that’s my Meg. Always worried about caring for others.” He stopped and faced her. “’Tis good to see you focusing on something useful.”
Meg exhaled. If Arthur would have forbidden her from seeing Hubert again, she
might have lost all control and slapped him across the face. How dare he interfere with something that would be so trivial to an earl, anyway? Then she recalled the valet had told Arthur of her whereabouts. “Were you looking for me?”
“Ah yes.” His expression grew dark. “News has arrived that Lord Colin Campbell was gravely injured by an arrow. Since you spent a sennight at Kilchurn, I thought you’d want to be aware.”
Meg clasped her hands to her mouth. “Oh my heavens, that is awful. It only seems like yesterday when I last saw him.” She steadied herself on the stone fence. “Will he survive?”
“I know not.”
“If only there were something I could do.”
“Lord Colin is at home resting, surrounded by his family. ’Tis the best thing for a man when he’s injured.”
Duncan must be sick with worry. “How did it happen?” Meg’s voice grew softer while her eyes welled with tears. If only she could reach out to him. She hugged her shoulders and rested her chin upon her chest.
“Word is something went awry when they captured the Earl of Mar and took him into custody.”
“The king’s brother? Why ever would they capture him?” That must have been the secret mission Duncan spoke of.
Arthur continued to amble along as if this news were commonplace. “He’s been accused of using witchcraft against the king.”
“Honestly? How dreadful.” Meg’s hands trembled. Truly, news of Mar was grave, but she could not control the pounding of her heart. Trying to breathe normally, if it weren’t for Arthur looking at her with an apprising stare, she may have swooned. If only she could rush to Kilchurn. Duncan would need someone to talk to—he probably felt responsible. Even if he had only tepid feelings for her, she wished she could do something for him . . . and Lord Campbell, who had been so kind to her.
Meg had no idea how long she’d been silent when they’d arrived at the castle steps. Arthur placed a hand on her shoulder. “You seem deep in thought.”
“Aye, just shocked by the news. Sir Duncan would be troubled, I am quite certain.”