by Amy Jarecki
She desperately needed a change of subject. “I’m looking forward to seeing Kilchurn finished—and on schedule.”
Argyll arched a single brow. “Aye? Then you can start on my castle in Inverary next.”
“One thing at a time.” She chuckled. “And what about you, Argyll? Have you a woman in mind to marry?”
“No one in particular as of yet.” He raised his tankard. “Eventually I want to marry, but I’m off to court at first light on the morrow. I’m to assume my appointed position of master of the king’s household.”
“Oh dear, that does sound tedious. Though you will have an opportunity to meet every available courtier in Scotland.”
Argyll laughed. “I like the way you think, Auntie.”
“Pardon me?” She whacked his shoulder. “We are both two and twenty. I’ll hear no ‘aunties’ from the likes of you.”
He raised his tankard. “Apologies in the grandest order.”
She tapped her cup to his with a clank of pewter. “Accepted. Though I must say I shall miss you. I could use an ally around here.”
“Never you mind. In time, Colin will become your greatest advocate. I have no doubt.”
“I wish I could be as confident as you.” Margaret also wished Argyll might have married her rather than Colin. Though the younger man wasn’t quite as handsome, he was far more amiable. Colin treated her like chattel. Curses to his knee-wobbling kisses… You will be stepmother to my son or be damned with you.
She touched her fingers to her lips as if she’d spoken the vulgar words aloud. Never in her life had she uttered the word damn…or even thought it. She hadn’t known Colin Campbell for long, but he surely was bringing out deep-seated angst she didn’t care for in the slightest.
A shiver slithered up her spine. She’d been thinking about it since he’d shooed her off the wall-walk. Why had he apologized? Does he hate me? She crossed her arms and rubbed the outside of her shoulders.
That was it.
Colin thought her unsightly and dull. Her throat closed. Once Argyll left for court, she’d have no allies here at all.
11
Dunstaffnage Castle, 12th October, 1455
Margaret broke her fast in her chamber. Colin didn’t come down for supper last eve, nor had he made any appearance. He obviously wanted distance, obviously detested being in her presence. She couldn’t decide if his detachment or his disdain hurt more. She dabbed the corner of her mouth with a cloth. Definitely his silent rejection caused a knot in her stomach to clamp so taut, she couldn’t eat.
Margaret loathed Dunstaffnage. Her chamber reeked of another woman. It wasn’t at all like the rooms she’d stayed in at the palace. There was a personality to it—winsome, with ivory linen bed coverings embroidered with garlands of colorful flowers. In fact, the upholstery of the very chair she sat upon had the same floral pattern. Yet another reason to see the tower house at Kilchurn finished soon. Living in the shadow of a dead woman, Margaret would have no hope of surpassing Jonet’s legacy. She’d never met Colin’s former wife—how on earth could she be expected to fit the mold?
She wandered down the passage and entered the nursery. Effie smiled from the rocking chair. The matron seemed to never leave Duncan’s side.
“Where do you sleep?” Margaret asked.
Cradling Duncan in one arm, Effie pointed to a side door. “In the nursemaid’s quarters.”
“That explains why you’re with the lad hour upon hour.”
“Aye, but I don’t mind. I was born to care for children.”
Margaret tapped the cradle and watched it rock. “Do you have any children of your own?”
“One son, a bit older than Lord Glenorchy. They played together when they were lads.”
Margaret walked around the tidy nursery, filled with toys with which Colin could once have played. “How nice you were able to keep him with you while you were working. What does he do now?”
“Lord Campbell was kind enough to give him a trade. He manages the stables.”
“And your husband?”
Effie smoothed her hand over Duncan’s head. “He passed.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No need. It was ever so long ago.”
Wringing her hands, Margaret moved to the window. Colin was mounted with his entourage of men. With a gasp, she glared down at the courtyard. Oh no, she could never mistake his physique when clad in armor. His shoulders were as wide as his warhorse’s rump. “Do you know where Lord Colin is off to this morning?”
“Back to Kilchurn.”
Margaret crossed her arms and clutched them tight against her ribs. How did Effie know Colin was returning to Kilchurn, when he hadn’t mentioned a word to her? “He told you?”
“Aye, stopped in to see Duncan at dawn.”
That confirms it. He cannot stand the sight of me. Margaret kept her back turned. Her lack of relations with her husband was none of Effie’s concern.
The old woman set the babe in his cradle and came up behind her. “He’s a good man, Colin.”
“Is he?” She would not speak ill of him to a servant.
“He’s suffering from a bout of melancholy. He took Jonet’s death very hard.”
Margaret continued to watch from the window. Colin led his men out the inner gate. “I’m sure his loss must have been devastating.” If his attitude toward me is any indication, I’m positive he’s wallowing in misery. But Margaret’s throat tightened. That he was hurting, she had no doubt, nor did she have any clue as to how to ease his pain—or hers.
“I’ve known Lord Colin since the day he was born. He can hide naught from me.” Effie grasped the window furs. “The lord is still in mourning. I can see it in his eyes.”
“Perhaps that’s why he can show me no…” Margaret silenced herself. She mustn’t have this conversation with Effie. She tapped her hand to her chest. “His former wife was nice, was she not?”
“Aye, caring and lovely. Perhaps not as beautiful as you, but she had an endearing air about her.”
Margaret’s stomach twisted. “I gathered as much—the endearing part especially.” The entourage gone, she turned and regarded the old nursemaid. Effie had a kindly, careworn face. “The mistress’s chamber reflects the same.”
“Ah. You will have to see that changed.”
“I’d prefer to be in Glen Orchy, overseeing the completion of the castle. There I’ll ensure every chamber decorated to my taste.”
Effie placed a hand on her shoulder. “You do have ambition. It will serve Colin well.”
The woman’s light touch consoled and Margaret welcomed it. “If he’ll only allow me the freedom to do so.”
“Give him time, m’lady. He’ll come around.”
“Aye.” Margaret grimaced. “Mayhap not before he goes on another crusade and gets himself killed.”
Effie pulled her into a soft embrace, smelling of warm bread. “Lord Colin will not perish in battle. He is far too skilled with a sword.”
Left alone for an indeterminate amount of time, Margaret took it upon herself to explore the castle. Besides, it was more interesting to discover passages and secrets without a nosy guide. Colin’s chamber was beside hers, joined by an internal door. Had she known, she would have pushed a table across it. But it mattered not—he hadn’t come to her, and from his cool distance, she thought it a good possibility he might never do so again.
She opened the door to his chamber and stepped inside. A warning tickled the back of her neck as if she were trespassing. Margaret bravely took another step. Perhaps she could learn more about the man she’d married. He slept upon an enormous bed with thick maple headboard and posts. His comforter and canopy were red—bold colors for a bold knight. A threadbare, red plaid rug rested in front of the hearth. Though clean, it needed replacing. A round table with two padded chairs were off to the side—he undoubtedly read missives there, at least when he wasn’t in his solar.
She sat in one of his chairs and her toes skimmed the floor.
A man as tall as Colin might find the seat comfortable, but Margaret preferred her feet to be flush with the floor. The fire in the hearth had burned to embers, and she shivered. Nothing in his chamber welcomed her.
Exploring further, she learned their apartments were not the “lords’” rooms, however. Argyll and the king occasioned an entire “royal” suite of rooms on the floor below.
She found Colin’s solar on the second floor, across from Argyll’s. The kitchens, bustling with activity, were immense, just like Dunalasdair. However, the cavernous catacombs of cellars with vaulted ceilings seemed to go on forever. As with most Scottish castles, as she’d noted the night before, the great hall was vast, and the kitchen catered not only to the lord’s family, but to the large number of clansmen and women who served the Campbells.
Margaret had yet to visit the stables to see if the mare she’d ridden from Stirling was stalled or turned out to pasture. She hoped to find her. Mayhap she’d ride to the chapel and offer up prayers that one day her husband might actually find her alluring or useful and treat her with kindness—not necessarily in that order.
Making her way past the gatehouse, hushed male voices came from the window above, the tone angry. Margaret stopped.
“What do you mean, he left this morning? He only arrived yesterday. Besides, my ploy will only be successful if he is here. The bastard’s supposed to be swivving his new wench.”
Margaret clapped a hand over her mouth to mute her gasp.
“I’m not responsible for the bloody Black Knight’s agenda.”
Silence—aside from Margaret’s racing heartbeat.
She held her breath, afraid to hear another word. Yet moving now might alert these men of her presence. And who were they, so full of self-importance?
“I had a bit of fun planned for the morrow.”
“Oh?”
“Aye, something that would damn the MacGregors once and for all.”
The deep voice emitted an evil chuckle. “I do like your tenacity, Walter.”
Walter? He must be Colin’s factor—the very man the MacGregor women warned about. Margaret’s heart thrummed louder.
“Och, I must call it off.”
“Reorganize for another time, aye?”
Parchment rustled. “Mayhap make a change. There’s a shipment of sand en route. We can strike there.” Footsteps clapped floorboards. “I must away,” intoned the faceless Walter.
Margaret’s hands shook. She darted toward the donjon. With any luck, Walter wouldn’t notice her, though her nape prickled. She placed her hand on the latch and glanced over her shoulder. A shortish man with dark hair and a cropped beard glared at her from across the courtyard then disappeared into the stables.
That is he, I’m sure of it. Margaret slipped inside and pressed her back against the door, calming her breath. She must warn Colin straight away.
Whom could she trust to accompany her? Argyll was already gone—left at first light. Walter had spoken openly with the other man in the gatehouse. How many others were in his confidence, swindling Lord Campbell? She couldn’t chance setting out alone, not for a day’s ride. That would be madness.
Margaret raced up the stairs and collected a few necessities in a satchel. She snatched her dagger from the drawer and slid it into her belt. She’d start in the stable. Surely a young lad with a pitchfork could make a recommendation. She doubted a man like Walter would pay mind to a common hand.
Mevan, a burly guard, rode beside her, grumbling all the while. “I still think we should’ve waited until the morrow to set out. As sure as I breathe, it will be dark afore we reach Glen Orchy.” His thick black beard sprouted in all directions, making his helm appear too small for his head.
“Not by much. Especially if we remain at a steady trot.”
He shook his head. “Och, Lord Colin will have me hide for this.”
Margaret clamped her reins. “Lord Colin would have your hide if you refused to escort me.”
“Aye? Then why the secrecy? You should tell me what’s afoot.”
“I will as soon as my husband can vouch for your trustworthiness.” True, the stable boy had recommended Mevan as the strongest and most loyal to the Campbell Clan, but she would take no chances. She was not unfamiliar with men like Walter MacCorkodale. They could worm their way through a man’s armor with the most unexpected twists.
He tapped his heels into his warhorse’s barrel. “I’m the master-at-arms, is that not enough?”
“Apologies, but nay. At this stage, I’ve no idea whom I can trust.”
Mevan mumbled something that sounded like a curse. Margaret chose not to ask him to repeat it. In all honesty, she liked the big guardsman. At first, he’d been adamant Margaret remain at the castle while he delivered a missive on her behalf. But she couldn’t put a written note in anyone’s hands. When she’d ridden out the gate, he’d followed, armed to the teeth. Once they arrived at Kilchurn, she’d ask Colin to appoint him to guard her permanently—providing he was free of skullduggery.
She chuckled under her breath. Mevan reminded Margaret of her brother, Robert. They both were stocky, with full beards and blue eyes. Hopefully, she could make a friend of him—in time—if he ever forgave her present, yet necessary secrecy.
“Are you married?” she asked.
“Aye.”
“Children?”
“Two. A boy, age five, and a girl, age two.”
“You must be very proud.”
His eyes twinkled when he glanced her way. “I am, m’lady.”
“I shall ensure you are rewarded for coming to my aid. Surely I pulled you away from a great many responsibilities.” It never hurt to give due recognition, and the more Margaret considered it, the more she believed him to be innocent.
“Thank you, m’lady.” A hint of surprise in his voice, Mevan’s posture relaxed. “Me wife will be much obliged.”
They stopped once to rest their horses. Fortunately, Mevan carried a parcel of oatcakes and a skin of ale tied to his saddle.
Margaret’s legs were stiff. They’d been riding much harder than the procession from Stirling. She stretched her arms forward and reached her fingers to her toes. “I didn’t think about food, but I’m hungry.”
“I tie a parcel of food to my saddle every morn. It comes in of use more often than not. Most days I patrol the grounds with the guard. You caught me before we were about to ride.”
“’Tis a good thing I did. I wouldn’t want to be out here alone.”
He handed her two oatcakes slathered with butter. “You would have set out on your own?”
“Aye.” Her mouth watered when she bit into the crunchy cake, creamy butter smoothing across her tongue.
Mevan offered her the skin of ale. “Whatever news you have for Lord Glenorchy must be grave.”
“It is indeed.” She tipped it back and took a healthy swig. None too ladylike, but what did one do without a cup?
“Then we’d best not dally.”
They rode though late afternoon. When the air turned cold, Margaret shivered and pulled her cloak tight around her shoulders. The autumn day had been chilly, and now the clouds rolled in. It most definitely smelled like rain.
With the heavy covering gathered above them, darkness fell early. They continued along the vaguely familiar, narrow path. Shadows in the trees made Margaret uneasy, as if someone or something stalked them.
A shadow lurked on their flank.
She could have sworn she saw something move, though when she peered through the dim forest, there was nothing at all. She patted her face to pull herself together. It had been a long day, and there was a fair distance yet to travel.
Her heart leapt when Mevan drew his sword in one hissing motion. He held a finger to his lips and inclined his head toward the bend ahead. “Just a precaution,” he whispered.
Margaret ran her fingers across the hilt of her dagger. If anything went awry, it was her last defense. With two older brothers, she knew how to use it. God forbid
she’d ever need to.
Mevan slowed his horse to a walk. Margaret followed his lead. Slowly, they rounded the stony outcropping. All was quiet—not even the call of a bird filled the air. Margaret grimaced, her eyes wide, each breath whistling in her ears. Her skin crawled as if alive with spiders.
Ahead, a twig snapped.
Margaret’s mouth grew dry with her gasp.
Blood-curdling roars erupted from the trees. Every muscle in her body clamped taut. Ice shot through her blood. Three men with swords and poleaxes barreled toward them, though it sounded like more.
“Run!” Mevan yelled, reining his horse around to face the attackers.
Margaret slammed her riding crop against her mare’s rump and leaned forward. “Go, go, go!” Slapping her crop in a steady beat, the mare raced into a gallop. The young horse caught wind of Margaret’s fear and sprinted faster than Margaret had ever ridden in her life.
The wind picked up her veil, snatching it from her head. Her gut clenched as hoof beats pummeled the earth behind her. She glanced over her shoulder. A hooded man with a cloth tied across his mouth gained on her.
Blast her sidesaddle. In no way could she outrun a man with her legs aside. She rounded the next bend. He’d nearly overtaken her. Margaret slapped her crop and kicked with all her strength. The mare beneath her snorted in a steady, terrifyingly fast rhythm.
The outlaw pulled alongside. Eyes wild, he reached for her reins. With all her strength, Margaret slapped his hands with her crop. Her mare pulled ahead. The brute closed the distance. He reached again. Margaret slapped. His other hand came across and grabbed the crop.
Oh God, save me.
He pulled on her reins. Margaret kicked and leaned out over her mare’s head, demanding more speed. Her stomach flew to her throat.
Skimming the top of her hair, a thick branch flew past.
The man’s fingers released her reins.
Thud.
Margaret didn’t turn around. She’d heard it. Caught by the branch, the dastard had been thrown from his mount. She slapped her hand to urge her horse to continue the frantic pace. They barreled ahead until white foam leached from the mare’s neck. Margaret pulled on the reins and ran her fingers along the horse’s mane. “There, there, lass. We can ease up a bit.” She’d said it more for her own sake than the horse’s. She glanced back. No one else followed her, at least not yet.