by Amy Jarecki
Too many things needled at his mind during this unholy, wretched chase. Margaret had risked her life to warn him about Walter MacCorkodale. For Christ’s sake, the woman is incorrigible. She should have sent a messenger. Perhaps an annulment would be necessary after all…and it appeared he needed to find another factor quickly.
Ballocks.
Walter had been a trusted servant for years. He collected the rents, bought and sold cattle and other livestock, paid for shipments of sand, among other things. Had he been skimming coin from Colin, as well as supplies? A raging fire burned in his chest. No one stole from a Campbell and lived.
Moreover, no one attacked Colin’s family. However, he held on to a thread of hope for Walter’s innocence. It was unlikely a learned man like he would play outlaw and attack a noblewoman and her guard—especially his lord’s wife. Surely, Walter wouldn’t be bold enough to act with such incredible stupidity.
Colin would dig to the bottom of this, and it had better be soon, lest his armor and his limbs turn to rust. His inner circle of six trusted men who always traveled with him looked as bedraggled as he felt. Yes, these were Highlanders of rugged stock. Each of his loyal men would follow Colin into the fiercest battle and lay down his life without question. But no man was impervious to constant rain and bone-chilling wind. Winter stopped entire armies in Scotland, and sure as he breathed, winter was coming early this year.
“They’re leading us into the Mamore Forest,” Maxwell said, pulling Colin from his thoughts.
“Aye, this is becoming a mockery,” Fionn agreed. “We go up there, and we’ll end up atop Ben Nevis, neck deep in snow.”
Colin quickly surveyed their surroundings. He’d been through this land before—so had his men, and not all that long ago, chasing after the Douglas traitor. “How far ahead do you reckon they are?”
Hugh, the best tracker in the Highlands, scratched his shaggy beard. “We’ve gained on them, ’tis certain. I’d say a half-day, mayhap less.”
Colin pulled up his horse and drew the men into a circle. “You want out of this rain and into some dry braies?”
“Aye,” the six warriors chorused.
“This isn’t going to be easy, but we’ll end this nonsense by nightfall.” Every man nodded, eyes fierce. “Fionn and William, come with me. We’ll head up the outcropping and cut them off.”
Hugh shook the droplets of water from his helm. “Are ye bloody daft? One misstep on those cliffs and you’ll meet your end.”
“Do you want to chase these mongrels up the mountain—see us caught in a blizzard or worse?”
Hugh shut his mouth and glared.
Colin pointed a gauntleted finger at him. “Take the others and continue to follow the mongrel’s tracks. We’ll cut them off and drive them back toward you. If they make it that far.”
Maxwell chuckled. “There’s only three of them. I ought to be able to take them with one hand.”
Close enough to reach, Colin clamped the young squire’s arm and squeezed. “Never underestimate a foe you’ve not faced. The first time you do could be your last.”
Colin split the men and took the treacherous pass. He probably hated heights more than any warrior in his company, but he would never ask a one to do something he wouldn’t attempt himself. Fionn and William were the most skilled horsemen, and they’d both taken this route before. Colin couldn’t consider taking the others across the slippery, wet narrow ridge.
They followed the game trail straight up through the forest until the foliage opened onto a rugged outcropping—mountain, in all truth. Colin stopped for a moment and scanned the forest below, looking for movement.
William pointed. “There.”
Sure enough, riders flickered through the trees. Colin rested a hand on his pommel and leaned forward. “Why the blazes are they heading to nowhere?”
“Trying to keep us away from Kilchurn?” Fionn guessed.
Colin’s fist tightened around his reins. “Bloody bastards. They’re leading us away from a great many things.” He met the eyes of each man. “Are you ready for this?”
Fionn nodded. “Aye.”
William did too. “Aye. I’ll lead.”
Colin let him pass. William’s horse could pick his way over a crossing no wider than three hands. The other horses would follow without spooking—he prayed.
When they stepped onto the stony shelf, Colin’s stomach clenched into a hard ball. His sweaty fingers slipped inside his doeskin gloves. He glanced down and perspiration streamed into his eyes. He could face an entire army, but putting his faith in a horse to safely carry him across a treacherous path pushed his limits.
He clenched his teeth and focused his gaze on William’s horse. The bay walked slowly, hooves clicking the stone. The sky above darkened.
Could we bloody go faster?
A sloppy drop hit his helm’s nose guard. Colin’s grip again slipped inside his gloves. A bolt of lightning flashed overhead. Colin jolted in his seat. His horse stutter-stepped.
Colin grimaced and prepared for death, every muscle taut.
The horse steadied.
Taking in a quick breath, he willed his bum cheeks to ease, sending a soothing message to his steed. It took every bit of self-control he had to maintain a relaxed posture.
Rain poured down in sheets. Within two strides, Colin could scarcely see the horse’s rump in front of him. He resisted the urge to pull up and stop. There was nowhere to go but forward.
His big warhorse stumbled. Rocks broke away and hit the cliff hundreds of feet below. Colin’s body jerked downward. Thunder rumbled like the deafening bellow of twelve cannons. With a grunt, Colin closed his eyes and tried to swallow.
Margaret’s beautiful smile filled his chest, lightened it as if he were floating in midair. Her chestnut locks shimmered with sunlight. Her hypnotic green eyes focused on him, filled him with strength. Colin gathered his reins and pushed his heels down in the stirrups. “Stay with it, lad.”
With his next breath, the warhorse found his footing. Colin tried to relax. “Good boy,” he cooed. “Keep up, we’re nearly there, lad.”
The shelf opened to a rocky plateau. Colin shook his head. Every time he blinked, Margaret smiled at him. What the devil was that about? He squeezed his eyes and conjured a picture of Jonet. At first her face was clear, and then it faded.
“Are you all right, m’lord?”
Colin snapped his eyes open. Both Fionn and William had stopped their mounts beside him. Their expressions were filled with concern.
“What the bloody hell are we stopping for?” Colin barked.
William spread his palms to his sides. “You’re the one who pulled up, m’lord.”
Colin straightened and looked down the steep gorge. Waterfalls gushed with the newly fallen rain. “Have you spotted them?”
“They’d be behind us yet.”
Colin clicked his heels and took the lead. “Good. Let’s move off this mountain before the rain washes us down.”
Colin led the way, hoping he’d never have to take that crossing again in his life. Lord, it did unholy, irrational things to his mind. The further down the slope his horse trod, the more his heartbeat returned to a normal rhythm. Never would he admit how much that crossing bothered him—especially in the driving rain.
Before dropping down to the path, Colin stopped. “We’ll wait here.”
Fionn pulled his bow from his shoulder. “I’ll take care of them from the bluff.”
“I want MacCorkodale alive—if he’s with them.” Colin held up his palm. “But aye, Fionn, set up here and cover our backs. William and I shall go down and meet them head-on.”
William grinned. “They won’t know what hit them.”
“We’ll tie our horses here and lie in wait upon the outcropping below.”
Colin had begun to think the slippery bastards had turned back. When faced with driving rain and the promise of heavy snow higher up, he certainly would have. At least the men he left on the trail woul
d intercept them if they did.
Lying on their bellies on a slab of rock, wearing armor was none too comfortable. But they did have an advantageous position above the path.
When hoof beats sloshed the muddy turf, the hair on his nape stood on end. At last he would have vengeance. Colin nodded to William, who slowly drew his sword. The first man came into view, hunched over, clutching his cloak closed at his chest—the dog had no idea he was about to lose his life.
A few more paces. Colin reached for his dirk and raised his chin. “Now.”
Bellowing his war cry, he launched himself off the rock and hurled his body down the twenty-foot drop—right onto the back of the leader’s horse.
The man jolted and flailed for his weapon. The horse sprung into a gallop. Holding the man’s torso against his body, Colin pressed his knife to the blackguard’s neck. “Pull up or the next log your horse jumps will be your last.”
When the steed slowed to a trot, Colin yanked the bastard from his horse. Together, they crashed to the ground. Colin jumped to his feet. Chuckling, he sheathed his weapon. “Come at me, thief.” He held up his fists. “There’s nothing I’d like more this day than thrashing a beater of women.”
The man’s eyes darted side to side. He rose to his knees, then barreled straight for Colin, striking him just below the breastplate.
Balling both fists, Colin threw an undercut into the man’s unprotected gut. Two punches to the face. The varlet bled from the nose, and backed away. Colin took two steps and slung his fist back for another blow. The man tried to block with his hands, but Colin’s fist slammed into his face. Bone crunched beneath his gauntleted knuckles. The blow lifted the coward off his feet, sending him crashing to his back. He rolled to his side and wheezed.
Colin drew his dirk and dropped to his knees beside the pathetic cur. “I will have answers.”
“Go to hell.”
“Not before I send you there.” Colin pressed his dirk harder. Blood oozed down the man’s stubbled throat. “Who sent you after Lady Margaret?”
“No one. W-we wanted to rob her, ’tis all.”
Colin pushed the blade harder. Blood streamed. “You expect me to believe you?”
“Believe what you like. I’m a dead man one way or the other.” His teeth chattered. “You weren’t supposed to follow us up the mountain.”
Colin could no longer feel the rain or the cold. “I’ll ask you one more time. Who’s behind this?”
He pursed his lips.
Fionn led the horses beside them. “All dead, m’lord.”
“Good. Build a fire. We’re going to have to burn the truth out of this one.”
The man’s eyes popped.
Colin chuckled. “What did you think? I’d kill you without causing a wee bit of pain?” He tied the outlaw’s hands behind his back.
No fire would start in the open, and the men resorted to lighting a small flame under a rock shelf where they’d found a few dry twigs. It was enough. Colin heated the tip of his dagger in the blue part of the flame. When the iron glowed red, he held it to the bastard’s face. “If you tell me now, we can end this swiftly.”
Shaking, the cur turned away. Colin grasped the man’s bloodied chin and forced him to look him in the eye. “I’m not an uncompassionate man, but I give no quarter to those who cross me.” Grinding his teeth, he held the scorching blade to the man’s face and drew a slow line down to his chin.
The bastard howled like a castrated calf, his arms and legs shaking spastically. “Frigging bloody hell.”
Colin handed the dagger to William. “Heat this up and make sure it glows red.”
“Wait,” the man pleaded.
Colin eyed him. “Who?”
“MacCorkodale wanted her dead.”
“Why? She’s an innocent woman.”
The man spat blood. “Said she overheard something not meant for her ears.”
William passed the red-hot knife to Colin.
The outlaw shook, his eyes wide with terror. “That’s all I know. I swear.” His legs squirmed. “God’s oath.”
Colin wanted to torture him more—make him pay for touching Margaret. He eyed the sweltering metal and swallowed down his ire. Always true to his word whether he liked it or not, he doused his dagger in a puddle and sheathed it in his boot. “Very well. You shall suffer no more.”
Standing, he pulled William aside. “Finish him.”
14
Kilchurn Building Site, 23rd October, 1455
During her time at Kilchurn, Margaret spent her mornings reading to Mevan. The guard was sitting up and getting antsy to return to his duties. She urged him to rest, however, until Alana pronounced him fit enough to return home to his wife and wee bairns.
After leaving the surgery, Margaret found Tom Elliot. With All Hallows only ten days away, she wanted to discuss plans to prepare Kilchurn for winter. “Once you’ve mudded the walls, is there anything else to do until spring?”
Though lacking organizational skills, the stonemason proved to be quite knowledgeable about building a lasting structure. “We’ll need to secure thatch over the foundation to prevent water from seeping in.”
She started calculating a timeline in her head. “How long will that take?”
“Only a couple of days. Mudding takes the longest.”
She eyed the workmen, absorbing Tom’s every word. “When will we be able to start again in spring?”
He removed his bonnet and scratched his head. “Supplies should start delivering in March. We can clear off the mud then, too.”
“How about building?”
“When the pre-work is over, we can commence as soon as weather permits.”
Margaret cast her gaze to the clouds above. “March seems so far away.”
“Aye, but it’ll come quick enough.” Tom pointed to the trough the men had built, now delivering water directly to the site. “Your idea has paid dividends already. Things will go much faster, especially if Lord Glenorchy stops the vandals.”
Clutching her hands against her chest, she’d thought Colin would have returned with news by now. She’d also sent a missive to Dunstaffnage advising of her decision to stay on at Kilchurn. Surely he’d come soon. Not that she wanted to see him. She rather worried about his men. She and Mevan prayed every morning for their safe return.
The sentry upon the wall-walk blew his ram’s horn and waved his arms. Margaret looked to the path through the void that would become Kilchurn’s gate. Highlanders approached, leading a wagon.
Tom chuckled. “That would be Robert MacGregor and our sand.”
“We are blessed indeed.” Margaret craned her neck, searching for Colin or his men. The entire escort was MacGregors, with red plaids draped over their heads and shoulders to keep out the drizzle. Margaret stood on her future threshold and watched the procession gradually approach. A team of oxen lumbered, heads swinging from side to side, pulling the heavy load.
Laird Robert trotted ahead. “I’m happy to report we secured the sand, m’lady.”
She clasped her gloved hands. “Did you come upon any outlaws on your journey?”
“Not with the MacGregor arms at the ready. No one in these parts would dare challenge me and my men.”
She patted his steed’s sturdy neck. “Mayhap we’ll need such an impressive contingent of men to accompany all future deliveries.”
“Could be a good idea.” He glanced to Tom. “Though most of my guardsmen also work with the mason.”
She considered Robert’s words then held up a finger. “Surely we can recruit laborers more easily than soldiers.”
“True.”
Margaret again looked down the path. “Do you have news of Lord Glenorchy?”
“Forgive me. I should have mentioned it directly.” Robert bowed his head. “The lord set out after the men who attacked your ladyship and Mevan—sent me and my men to escort the shipment.”
Her tongue went dry, her chest tight. “Have you not seen them since?”
/> “No, m’lady. They rode north, up into the mountains.”
Margaret covered her mouth with a gloved hand. The mountains could be treacherous in this foul weather.
“Have no fear. If anyone can track the bast…er…outlaws down, ’tis Colin Campbell and his band of fighting men. There’s a reason he’s returned home from two crusades—and a reason he’s known as Black Colin. He puts fear in the hearts of all who face him.”
Margaret studied the admiration in the chieftain’s eyes. Truly, Robert MacGregor respected her husband. If only he would return, Colin might find it in his black heart to respect her.
Colin pushed inside the alehouse doors and beheld his backstabbing factor, collecting rents as if all was right with the world. Walter’s eyes popped wide only for a moment, then shifted.
Guilty.
The double-crosser reached for his quill and made a notation.
The alehouse buzzed with crofters who came to Glen Orchy to pay their rents on the first Tuesday of every month. Colin’s men filed in behind him. Walter pretended not to notice Colin, accepting payment from the next in the queue.
Colin’s hackles burned as he marched toward his conniving factor. Walter snapped his gaze up and met Colin’s stare. The stocky man floundered for his tankard. In his haste, the pewter vessel flew from the table, spewing ale across thresh-covered floorboards.
Walter watched while Colin’s fingers wrapped around the hilt of his claymore. “I think you ken why I’m here, MacCorkodale.”
The voices in the alehouse dwindled into utter silence.
“Whatever do you mean, m’lord?” The swindler’s Adam’s apple bobbed.
“You’re a pathetic liar for a thief.”
Walter held up two trembling palms. “I…I think you must be mistaken.”