by Amy Jarecki
The king’s gaze darted to the side exit. “Hmm.” He drummed his fingers on his goblet, as if the life of one of his nobles were as unimportant as that of a dog. He then looked to each man standing before him. Certainly three brawny Highland knights armed to the teeth must give him pause, especially now that his guardsmen were off chasing after the earl. “You are aware Lord Campbell is also accused of killing his father?”
Sean slammed his palms on the table and leaned forward. “If you believe that, you never witnessed the love Duncan had”—he gestured wide—“we all had for the late Lord of Glenorchy. Each one of us would gladly lay down our lives for the baron, and most assuredly Duncan Campbell would give his right arm to see his father again preside over Glen Orchy lands.”
The king frowned at Sean’s aggressive stance.
Robert pulled Sean back into line. “Well put.”
“Agreed,” Eoin said.
The king leaned forward and regarded a man clad in black velvet toward the end of the table. “Lord Chancellor, has the prisoner confessed?”
The man cleared his throat and dabbed his mouth with his sleeve. “Last I heard, not as yet, sire. He lost consciousness before the executioner could extract the truth.”
“Are you mad?” The words slipped out before Meg had a chance to think. But the ire burning up the back of her neck compelled her to hold forth. “Lord Campbell is on the verge of death itself, and yet he still maintains his innocence. Is that not enough? Must you kill a man if he does not speak as you wish?”
The king narrowed his eyes and gave her a belittling glance. “You are boldly outspoken for a woman.” He smirked. “But I’d expect no less from a Douglas lass.”
She curtsied. Oh dear, I’ve made a mess of things now. “Forgive my display of exuberance, sire.”
He pounded his fist on the table. “I shall consider your plea once Lord Campbell’s interrogation is complete.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Now begone and leave me to dine in peace.”
Eoin led them to one of the low tables, far away from the king’s ear. Meg’s fingers trembled. She couldn’t believe that after Lord Percy had fled the dais, the king still clung to the accusations of Duncan’s guilt.
Sean grabbed a ewer of ale and four tankards from a passing servant while they all climbed over and sat upon the benches. Meg leaned forward and kept her voice low. “Duncan will not last much longer.”
“Aye,” Eoin said, sliding a tankard in front of her.
A servant placed a bowl of pottage and four pewter plates on the table. Meg held her tongue until the man moved on. “What are we going to do about it?”
“We?” He looked at her as if she were daft, then gestured to Tormond, who obediently stood behind her. “I’d say you’d best take your guard and head back to Tantallon at first light. Leave the dirty work to we knights.”
Meg’s gut clenched. “Have you completely lost your mind? I will not tuck my tail and head home whilst Duncan suffers.”
Robert raised his tankard. “This is no place for a lady. Eoin’s right. There’s nothing you can do for him now. And if we spring him, there’ll be no stopping. If found within Edinburgh’s walls, you could be arrested for conspiring against the king.”
Hogwash.
The men leaned their heads together as if she weren’t sitting beside them. Over the rumble of the crowd, she struggled to make out their mumblings. Feigning interest in her ale, she leaned a tad closer. Tonight?
Meg reached for a bit of bread and doused it in a bowl of pottage. “If I must start back to Tantallon on the morrow, I’d best locate my rooms.” She turned to Tormond. “Come.”
29
Duncan had no idea if it was night or day. The cell they’d put him in after his last bout of torture had no cracks in the walls. But his aching body lay on a fresh pallet of hay. Thanks to Lady Meg, he’d eaten his first solid food since he’d been imprisoned. The oil that still soothed his wounds was proof Lady Meg’s visit had not been his imagination running amuck.
In a few short months, he’d had too many regrets. He’d failed in so many ways. Aye, he was responsible for Da’s death, and moreover, he never should have allowed John to return Lady Meg to Tantallon. He should have insisted that she remain at Kilchurn until his return. If only she’d been there, things would have been different, and somehow he would have found a way to approach her brother and ask for the lady’s hand.
Now all was lost. He was about to meet his end. The king had no intention of releasing him—his men must have failed in their attempt to plead his case by now. The executioner would torture him until he confessed or died. Duncan thought the latter more probable. He would never confess to a crime he did not commit. What good would that do, aside from spare him a few moments of misery? Worse, confessing would smear his name throughout Scotland. His lands could be forfeit to the king, and his sisters ruined. No, he would never confess.
Duncan’s mind homed in on that thought. Who did kill the Earl of Mar? Surely the king wouldn’t be dimwitted enough to order a murder. But then, he’d arrested his brother on the charges of witchcraft. Bah. In all his life, Duncan had never seen a true act of witchcraft. Aye, some odd things happened, like a tapestry falling from a wall, or the creaks in the castle at night…but witchcraft? And though the earl seemed a wee bit eccentric, he didn’t appear to be a sickly worshiper of Satan.
Duncan moved and the raw skin on his back tortured him, as if a thousand dull knives carved his flesh. If only he could hold Lady Meg in his arms one more time before he met his end, yet it was not to be.
A grunt echoed in the outer passage. Through the cobwebs of his mind, the sound reminded him of a man being run through. Instinctively, Duncan raised his head.
Footsteps pattered, as if running.
“Halt,” a deep voice roared.
Iron clanged. Duncan had heard the hiss and collision of swords too often not to mistake the sound. He pushed himself to his knees, grinding his teeth against the searing pain. The hinges of the door creaked and a blinding torch pushed inside.
“Duncan, are you in here?”
He raised his hand to shield the light, and tried to peer around it. “Eoin?”
“Aye,” his friend said.
A wave of relief washed over him. “Have you seen the king?”
Eoin approached. “He plans to wait until after your interrogation to decide your innocence.”
“Bloody hell.”
“Aye, my thoughts exactly.” Eoin knelt beside him. “Och, you look like shite.”
Sean stepped into the light. “Lady Meg said you wouldn’t last through another bout of torture.”
Duncan shoved the hair from his face. “Och aye, she was right.”
“Can you walk?” Eoin asked.
“Bloody oath I can.” Duncan tried to stand on wobbly legs.
Sean dashed beside him and grabbed him under the arm. “Steady.”
Duncan leaned into the knight and steadied his legs. “I’m right as rain.” He looked between the two men. “What’s the plan?”
“Robert’s waiting with the horses,” Eoin said. “We’ll slip out of here and ride like hell.”
“Och.” Duncan grinned, his chapped lips splitting open. “The usual.”
“Can you run?” Sean asked.
“For freedom? I’ll beat you to the door.” Duncan swallowed against his urge to puke. Bloody Christmas, his legs wobbled.
“Make haste.” Eoin dashed to the gate and beckoned. “They’ll find the dead guards soon.”
Meg hated to trick anyone, but it had to be done. Before she’d “retired” for the night, she’d given Tormond a tot of whisky laced with valerian essence. According to Hubert, the dosage she’d administered would ensure her personal guard would sleep soundly at least until midmorning. She prayed he would not hate her for the rest of his life, but she was desperate. In no way could she return to Tantallon whilst Duncan suffered in the bowels of Edinburgh Castle’s dungeon.
She had ab
solutely no intention of remaining in her chamber through the night, especially after she’d overheard Duncan’s men. They knew as well as she that Duncan wouldn’t survive more torture. Meg couldn’t even think about what would happen if they broke him and he confessed. Yes, Duncan Campbell was the toughest man she’d ever met, but everyone could be broken…or killed.
Wearing a white wimple to ensure she would look like a chambermaid, Meg placed her ear against the door and listened for any sign of movement. All was quiet in her wing of the tower. Sliding her hand to the latch, she cracked open the door and slipped her head out. No one. Wishing she could have pinched a change of men’s clothing, she tiptoed through the dark passageway.
After she pattered down the stairwell, she hugged the shadows and made her way to the stables. The light was dim, though a group of soldiers stood at the near entrance. Slipping around the back, she tiptoed to her horse’s stall and quickly saddled the mare. Before leading her out, Meg listened. All was quiet.
Slipping back the way she came, she picked up Tormond’s bow and quiver of arrows, thanking the good Lord her guard left them in her path, and that Arthur had taught her to use them ever so long ago. Meg tied her mount outside the St. Margaret’s Chapel.
Once inside, Meg moved to a narrow window. If the men were planning to help Duncan escape, they might need someone watching their backs. She’d enjoyed archery as a lass, though sometimes the claw could be a bother. She’d learned to shoot left-handed, and pulled back the string with the claw. She loaded an arrow in her bow and waited.
An eerie calm hung over the courtyard. The clammy shiver coursing across Meg’s skin reinforced why midnight was called the “witching time.” Everything was so quiet, her heartbeat was like a thundering drum.
Clouds, illuminated by the moon, sailed past. A cold breeze blew her wimple back and made her entire body shudder. Had she missed them? She was sure she overheard Eoin say midnight.
Meg cast her gaze back through the dim chapel. A moonbeam reflected off the bronze cross sitting atop the altar. Dear Lord, please watch over your servant, Duncan, this night. Keep him safe. Keep all the men safe.
Horse hooves clattered on the cobblestones. Meg snapped her head around and tightened her grip on her bow.
A deep voice echoed off the curtain walls. The hoofbeats sped. Around the bend, the first knight galloped into view, furiously slapping his reins against the black steed’s neck. Meg recognized Eoin’s helm, then Sean and Robert. Hunched over his horse’s neck, Duncan kept pace. Seeing him in such obvious misery made her stomach squelch.
Next, a foot soldier followed, running with a pike in his hand. Unable to keep pace, he climbed to the top of the bend. Up there, he’d have a clean line to all four men once they rounded the next corner. The man stopped at the top and took aim.
Meg snarled and pulled back the bowstring as far as it would go. Grinding her teeth, she let the arrow fly. Hitting the man in the leg, he dropped his weapon and fell to his knees. Meg snatched another arrow and trained it on the cobbled road leading from the gaol, sucking in stuttered breaths. The enforcers’ hoofbeats faded. No one else followed. She threw her weapons over her shoulder and raced to her horse.
Galloping faster than she’d ever ridden in her life, she headed for the gate. The shadows of the men darted through the barbican. Voices bellowed from atop the wall-walk, but with the wind rushing in her ears and the metallic beat of shod hooves, Meg couldn’t make out their words.
A wrenching groan reverberated from the gatehouse. That noise meant one thing. The guards were closing the portcullis. Determined, Meg rounded the last bend and darted straight into the darkness of the gatehouse. The dim light beyond was narrowing by the descent of the black, iron-toothed portcullis.
The downward-thrusting barbs would skewer anyone who got caught beneath them. Meg’s heart flew to her throat. If she ducked and pushed her mount hard enough, she might make it through.
Closing her eyes, she slammed her crop into the horse’s rump, hissing like a snake. The horse beneath her surged forward. The chains above creaked under the weight of the deadly gate.
Meg dared open her eyes. The cobbled road stretched endlessly into the black night. She glanced back as the portcullis slammed to the ground with an earthshaking boom.
Duncan’s gut roiled from the jostling motion. Earlier, he’d eaten his first meal in days, and now it churned in his gut. It was all he could do to sit in the saddle and spur his horse forward. With every jarring gallop, he grunted. His wounds punished him. When his eyes rolled back, he shook his head. If he lost his wits and passed out, he’d be a dead man.
“We’ll ride hard until we reach the River Almond, then we’ll slow to a steady trot,” Eoin called over his shoulder.
“Aye? And what of the horses?” Duncan asked.
Eoin’s teeth flashed white in the darkness. “Fresh mounts await at the inn in Callander.”
Duncan’s pain eased a bit. Of course Eoin would have a solid plan to ensure a successful escape. For the first time in days, hope of freedom filled his chest. He couldn’t about facing the king’s army until he and his men were safely behind Kilchurn’s walls.
Once home, he would figure out a way to prove his innocence and earn a pardon. He focused upon one driving thought—when he arrived home, he would regain his good name, and then he’d be free to seek Lady Meg’s hand. If she would still have him.
Duncan followed his men across the bridge, then they slowed to a trot. God on the cross, trotting jarred his wounds worse than the smooth gait of a gallop. When stars crossed his vision, Duncan shoved his heels downward to steady his body. He didn’t have enough strength to post with the horse’s movement, but he must stay the course. After they changed horses, they’d ride until they reached Kilchurn—he had all night and a whole day to endure this miserable motion. He’d best steel his mind to it now.
“A rider approaches!” Sean called over his shoulder.
Duncan stole a backward glance. Will they not allow a tortured man a moment of respite? The heathen was bearing down on them like a ghost in a windstorm. Something white flapped, as if he were wearing a pennant. “Did you see any others?”
“Only the one.”
Eoin pointed. “There’s a bend up ahead. Let’s ambush him there.”
Robert and Sean drew their swords. A warning tickled at the back of Duncan’s mind. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. “Let’s see what the bastard wants before we kill him.”
“You’re serious?” Eoin asked. “He’s likely to have a go at one of us.”
Duncan strengthened his grip on his reins. “Only one rider after the notorious Highland Enforcers? Either he’s out to get himself killed, or he could help us.”
“How?” Robert asked.
Hoofbeats pummeled the earth before Duncan could answer. Each man moved into the shadows and waited as the galloping horse approached.
Duncan watched him sail past, but it wasn’t a man. Dark skirts billowed behind, while her wimple flapped in the wind. He’d only seen one woman in his entire life who could ride like hellfire. Lady Meg.
Sean and Eoin took the lead, spurring their horses to a gallop beside her. Duncan clenched his teeth and took up the rear. “’Tis Lady Meg,” he bellowed, praying to God they heard him before anyone laid a hand on her.
She shrieked when Sean reached in and tugged on her reins.
“Stop, you bloody bastards!” Duncan forgot his pain and urged his horse ahead.
When he pulled beside Sean, they’d started to slow.
The whites of Sean’s eyes were as big and round as silver shillings. “We’ve caught Lady Meg.”
“That’s what I’ve been hollering about.” Duncan reined his horse to halt. Catching his breath, he leaned forward and steadied himself on his mount’s withers. Wincing as the pain returned with vengeance, he bellowed like a dying bull.
“Duncan!” Meg leapt from her horse and rushed to his side. “I’ve a tonic for your pain.”
His agonizing wounds no longer mattered. He swung his leg over his horse’s rump and slid down, pulling her into an embrace. “What are you doing out here, lass? You could have been killed.”
“Me?” She placed her hand on his cheek. “You would have been struck by a lance if I had not been in the chapel with my bow.”
Eoin stepped beside them. “Lady Meg, I told you to return to Tantallon.”
Duncan thumped MacGregor’s shoulder with a quick backhand. “Did you not hear? She covered us whilst we escaped.”
Meg gazed up at him. “I couldn’t run to home. Not with so much at stake.”
Duncan smoothed his hand over her wimple and cradled her to his chest.
“But what of your guard?” It didn’t appear Eoin would let things rest. “I gave him instructions—”
A grimacing smile stretched Meg’s face. “Methinks Tormond will be sleeping rather late. Forgive me, but I gave him a tonic that was sure to put him to sleep.”
Duncan staggered a bit while he led her to her mount. “Did you purchase a potion?”
“Nay. Ever since I returned to Tantallon, I’ve been studying healing arts with the gardener.”
“Ah, m’lady, you are always full of surprises.” He grasped her hand and bowed over it. A lovely fragrance of rose blossoms filled his senses and he pressed his lips to the back of it. If only he could cradle her in his arms throughout the duration of the night.
“We’ve no time for niceties,” Robert said. “The king’s men will be following for certain.”
Duncan nodded and gave Meg a leg up. “We’ve no choice but to take you with us.”
“’Tis what I want.”
“Your brother will be in a rage when he discovers you missing.” Duncan hobbled back to his horse and mounted, choking back his urge to bellow. “But we cannot worry about that now. Lead on, Sir Eoin.”
30
It was early morning when Isaac awaited Lord Percy’s retinue on the north side of the Melrose city gates. He’d arrived ahead of the king’s sentry, but not by far. The rider had given a proclamation to the town crier, who announced the Earl of Northumberland was accused of murdering the Earl of Mar and that every effort should be made to apprehend the criminal.