Knight in Highland Armor (24 page)

The Vatican, January, 1456

A cardinal ushered Colin into the starkly decorated papal apartment’s anteroom. Pope Callixtus III sat in a high-backed mahogany chair upholstered in red velvet. Dressed in white robes, the old man’s skin withered beneath his coif.

Hearing his name announced, Colin strode up to His Holiness and knelt, swallowing his grimace at the pain of kneeling in his battle armor. Though he had jointed knee-guards, the metal cut against bone. The Pope held out his hand. Colin took it and kissed the ruby ring he had once kissed when it adorned the hand of the late Pope Nicholas. “It grieves me to attend you under such dire circumstances, Your Holiness.”

“Rise, sir knight.” Callixtus pulled his gnarled hand away. “How was your journey?”

“Difficult. Three men perished. Winter seas always take their toll. My small galley was forced to cross at the channel and hug the shore all the way from Northern France.”

“It is a tragedy to lose those who fight for right. But their deaths will not be in vain.”

“I pray not.” Colin bowed. “I have a sound ship armed with the latest six-foot Portuguese cannon. I am yours to command.”

The Pope clapped, and a Cardinal stepped forward. “You will take Peter, the Archbishop of Tarragona, to Rhodes. With him you will command a fleet of sixteen ships and drive the Turks from our stronghold islands.”

Colin nodded to the cardinal. There was always a holy man assigned to every crusade—monks in the order also fought, though Colin could not take an oath of celibacy because he was married.

Peter bowed politely. “How many man your galley?”

“Twenty well-trained fighting Highlanders.”

“We sail at dawn.”

“Very well. That should give me time to gather provisions.” Colin deeply bowed to the Pope. “With your blessing, we shall prevail.”

After His Holiness made the sign of the cross, Colin took his leave and headed to the pier. From experience, he anticipated many months of fighting ahead. The sooner he sailed into hell with his men, the sooner he could return to his beloved Scotland and Margaret.

He’d written several letters during the journey to Rome, all of which he dispatched before climbing the hill to meet the Pope. Margaret would receive all at once. He’d numbered them so she would open each in the order written. If only he could watch her face when she did.

***

During winter, Margaret met with tailors and weavers, selecting patterns for tapestries and bedding for the new castle. She’d ordered a fabulous landscape tapestry of Loch Awe for Colin, with Ben Chruachan in the background. His canopy and comforter would be a rich emerald-green silk. She’d spent more coin on his chamber than any other. But her husband’s rooms should be the grandest of them all.

March arrived at Dunstaffnage with blustery wind and driving rain. That didn’t slow Margaret. She ushered grooms bearing trunks into the nursery. “Effie, we’re moving to the cottage at Kilchurn as soon as weather permits. I want everything packed and ready to be loaded onto the wagons.”

The old woman planted fists on her hips. “You’re serious? ’Tis miserable out there. We should wait until spring has taken root.”

“In no way will I sit in this drafty castle for another two months.”

Gurgling, Duncan rolled over and rocked on his hands and knees. He’d be crawling soon. Margaret swooped the bairn into her arms. “I’ve sent for Tom Elliot. Last November, he promised me work would begin in March.”

“Och, the men can start without ye getting in their way.”

“Perish the thought. What they need is leadership.” Margaret set Duncan on the blanket. “Now set to packing, and I shall do the same.”

“But what of your condition?” Effie wrung her hands. “The cottage will be cramped with the three of us.”

Margaret rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “I’ve already planned to build on a nursery. That will be Tom’s first task.” She smoothed her hand over the small bump in her belly. “This bairn won’t be cosseted. Besides, Alana is the best midwife in all of Argyll. ’Tis better for the bairn to be born in Glen Orchy than here.”

Effie frowned at the trunks. Margaret patted the old nursemaid’s shoulder. “It will be fine. You’ll see. The three of us will be cozy in the cottage.”

“Soon there’ll be four.”

Margaret grinned. “Aye, so start your packing.”

Margaret had the household necessities stowed in trunks within two days. By a stroke of luck, the weather cleared. With Mevan in the lead, she set out with a handful of servants and a dozen Campbell guards.

When she arrived at the building site, Tom Elliot was there to greet her. He already had the laborers working with shovels and barrowing away the mud and thresh. Margaret grasped his hand warmly. “How fared your winter, Master Elliot?”

“Well. Glad to be back on the job. My coffers are wearing a bit thin.”

“We shall see what can be done about that. I want this keep thriving before Lord Glenorchy returns.” She glanced toward the cottage. “But first you must build on a nursery to the cottage.”

His beetle brows pinched together. “Is that necessary? It will slow our progress.”

“I’ve brought healthy guardsmen from Dunstaffnage to help. It should take no additional time. Put them to work forthwith. I want it done in a fortnight.”

“A fortnight, m’lady?”

“Aye.” She spread her arms wide. “Complete with hearth.”

“But—”

“You’d best make haste, else your purse will remain empty.” Margaret inhaled the fresh air as she strode away. It enlivened her to be back at Kilchurn. The dead of winter gone, she could face the coming months with renewed purpose.

***

It was early August when Margaret waddled through the portcullis of her tower house with Tom Elliot. She was proud of her belly, now so large, no amount of fabric could hide it. Her only sorrow was that Colin would not be there to share in the birth. He’d promised to send a missive once he reached Rome, yet it had been almost eight months since he set sail and she’d received not a word.

“The first floor is complete, and the great hall above will be finished before winter sets in.”

“You’ve done a fine job.” She pulled a torch off the wall and walked to the dungeon. Droplets of water splashed on the stone floor. “This room is aptly dank.”

“Aye, but necessary for keeping the peace.” He reached for the torch and led her through the guardhouse into a sturdy passageway. “The cellars are dry and will keep the food cool. I’ve fashioned a grand hearth for the kitchen.”

Margaret stood inside the immense fireplace, which had been started last autumn. “Many a feast will be prepared here.” To her right, the bread oven recessed into the now completed thick stone walls. “I can practically smell the loaves baking already.”

“And it’s only a few paces from the great hall for easy access.”

The baby kicked with Margaret’s excitement. A bit lightheaded, she leaned against the wall. “This child is ever so anxious to come out and see the progress on the new keep.”

Tom grasped her arm. “Are you all right, m’lady?”

“Aye, just a passing pang.”

“Your time will be upon us soon. A building site is no place for a woman in your condition.”

“So repeats Mistress Effie. Do not fear. I shall be confined soon enough.” Margaret smoothed her hands over her wimple. “I detest the thought of it.”

“Can I escort you back to the cottage, m’lady?”

“No, you have much more important work to do, Tom. I’m pleased with your progress. Give the men an extra ration of bread and ale for their efforts, and after the babe is born, we shall kill a steer and have a grand feast.”

“I’ll look forward to that, m’lady.”

Alone, Margaret walked the short path through the trees to the cottage. Though Colin had insisted she remain at Dunstaffnage for her confinement, she would hear none of it. The nursery had been completed on schedule, Effie and Duncan had settled into the cottage, and Alana was on hand as her midwife. Margaret trusted the MacGregor woman far more than Master Hume, the old physician. Besides, birthing a bairn was women’s work.

A pain clamped around her womb so hard she fell to her knees. Her head spun. She gritted her teeth to bear it. A rush of hot liquid flushed down her legs.
’Tis time
. Panting, Margaret waited until the pain subsided. She could see the cottage through the trees ahead. Surely she’d make it before the next pain came.

She rushed as quickly as she could, trying not to jostle the baby. Pregnancy was alien to her. Being the youngest, she’d never seen a woman actually give birth, though Alana and Effie did their best to explain what to expect. At first the pains would come far apart and grow closer and closer until the baby was ready to slide out.

Breathing heavily, she pushed through the door. “Effie! Fetch Alana. I’ve lost my water and the pains have begun.”

Effie blanched. “Your water has shown already?”

Nodding, Margaret supported herself on the chair with one hand and held her swollen abdomen with the other.

“Haste ye to the bed.” Effie signaled to the serving maid to run for Alana and tugged on Margaret’s elbow. “Come, m’lady.”

Another pain hit her like someone had wrapped a noose around her belly and tied it to a team of oxen, drawing the rope tighter with every breath. Margaret clamped her hands around her stomach and panted. “Merciful heavens, it hurts.”

Effie rubbed the small of her back. “Breathe through it. Do not rush. We’ll move to the bed soon enough.”

“If I can manage to stay on my feet.” As the gripping pain began to ease, Margaret took a step. “I think I can make it.”

Effie supported Margaret’s elbow and aided her into the chamber. “Hold on to the bedpost while I layer the old linens atop the mattress.”

The old matron worked quickly and helped Margaret change into a clean shift. “Rest against the pillows. Try not to push. ’Tis too early in your labor.”

Margaret nestled her shoulders into the pillows. “Thank you.” She swiped a hand across her brow, moist with sweat.

“I’m here, m’lady.” Alana strode into the room attended by three other women. “Where is Duncan?”

Effie pointed. “He’s napping.”

“Mistress Lorna will care for the bairn.” She eyed Margaret. “You lost your water?”

“Aye.”

“How far apart are your contractions?”

Margaret convulsed with another.

Effie smoothed a hand over her hair. “Far enough apart to walk to the bed and allow me to spread the linens.”

Margaret panted through the blinding pain. She clenched her teeth and started to bear down.

“Boil a cauldron of water,” Alana ordered. “Where are the swaddling cloths? Is the ewer full? Come on, ladies, we have a bairn on the way.”

She grasped Margaret’s hand and rubbed it gently. “’Tis not time to push yet. Try to ease yourself.”

Margaret could have strangled her. “Are you completely mad?” She gasped for air, a bead of sweat rolling into her eye. “My entire being is screaming for me to push.”

Alana’s gaze softened. “I know. But I’ve birthed five of me own and assisted at least twenty other women. I ken what I’m saying. Listen to me and you might survive to hold your bairn in your arms.”

An icy shudder coursed over Margaret’s skin. Not once had she allowed herself to consider she might die giving birth to her first babe, but now the reality of her potential death struck her with a crashing wave of trembling and nausea.

The afternoon turned into dusk. Margaret writhed in a pool of her own sweat, struggling to hang on, completely at her wits end.

Alana ordered the candles lit. Effie, at eight and seventy, excused herself and retired. Night filled the chamber, dimly lit with candles. The pains were coming frequently. Margaret’s hair stuck to her face. Alana held a cool cloth to her forehead, but that didn’t help.

With each contraction, she pushed with every shred of remaining strength. Her eyes strained in their sockets as she clenched her teeth and bore down. Her arms shook of their own volition.

Alana held up the linens. “I can see his head. It won’t be long now.”

“It better not be.” The entire bed shook with Margaret’s effort. She hissed through her teeth. “Why isn’t Colin here? He did this to me then left me alone—
curses
to the Pope as well.”

“Aye, m’lady.” Alana’s voice was ridiculously soothing.

Margaret didn’t want to be soothed. She pushed the midwife’s hand away from her forehead. “Take that cloth from me and make this insufferable pain stop.”

Alana stepped back. “Breathe.”

How could that woman be so placid at a time like this? “I can’t take it anymore!” Margaret screamed. Her insides felt like they were being ripped out.

“He’s coming, m’lady. Push…push…
push
!”

Margaret bore down with everything she had, exhaustion making her lose control. Her fingers shook as she splayed them beside her on the bed. Pushing, her body stretching, she thought it would never end. Then suddenly, the pain subsided, the stretching eased. Margaret’s eyes blinked open, blurred through her sweat.