Knight in Highland Armor (29 page)

The Isle of Rhodes, January, 1461

The fighting continued nonstop for nine grueling months. Every living soul on the Isle of Rhodes had been driven behind the walls of the great Hospitaller fortress. Colin couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept a full night. The tension in the air was palpable, and the stench of unclean humanity and sewage sweltering in the hot sun pervaded his nostrils.

Having given up his tiny cell to a homeless family, he lay on his pallet, watching the sky. The firmament above changed from midnight blue to cobalt at the mere blink of his eye.

Dawn
.

Colin rose and woke Maxwell. “’Tis time.”

Full battle armor today. The squire had gone through the ritual of helping Colin suit up so many times, the once tedious task had become nearly as easy as putting on chausses and a surcoat. Fortunately, a cool breeze blew in from the Mediterranean. It would make the fighting easier.

Colin spun the ring on his finger. Then he pulled it off for the first time since he’d put it on whilst Margaret watched. The Celtic pattern had worn in the past six years. He held it up to Maxwell. “Today you will not fight.”

“But I—”

“Hear me.” Colin placed the ring on a thong and tied it around Maxwell’s neck. “You will hide in the church catacombs. If I should die this day, take my ring back to Lady Margaret and tell her I love her. Tell her I did not witness a single sunrise without thinking of her.” He grasped the young man’s shoulders and shook. “Promise me you will do this.”

Maxwell’s jaw twitched, then he nodded once. “I swear my oath.”

By the time the squire buckled Colin’s last finger gauntlet, the courtyard was astir with fighting men, all in various stages of dress. No one spoke. The only sounds were of iron scraping against mail and leather slipping though buckles.

“William, bring me a tankard of water.” Colin’s voice cut through the silence.

The knight did as requested. Colin unclasped the charmstone from around his neck and dipped it in the water three times. “Lady Margaret gave this stone to me. Its charms have kept me alive all these years. Legend is anyone who drinks the water into which it has been dipped will have good health and a safe journey home.” He refastened the stone around his neck and took the first sip. “Drink, all of you. We need the stone’s special powers against the Turks this day more than ever before.”

Colin passed the cup to Maxwell and watched each man sip. He hadn’t given a second thought about the reputed magic of the stone. But it had survived with him all this time. He should have died when the boom hit his head—or in the Turkish prison, or in any of the battles he’d led in the past year. The stone hadn’t failed him, nor had it been lost. Its charms were genuine—Margaret’s charms.

Colin inspected his weapons—dirk on his right hip, sword on his left, a dagger lashed to each leg iron. He picked up his targe and pike, and headed to the stables. The groom already had Colin’s warhorse fitted with armor and saddled. He climbed up the mounting block and took the reins. Nodding his thanks, he rode back to the courtyard at a slow trot.

He glanced at the grim faces of the men—some his, others serving knights from every corner of Christendom. One thing reflected in each man’s eyes.

Fear.

That was no way to start a battle. Colin spurred his horse to a canter and rode back and forth in front of the gates until all eyes focused on him.

“Are we going to let the Ottoman Empire drive us out of Christendom?”

“No,” someone hollered from the crowd.

“One person says no? That does not sound like an army ready to face the fiercest battle of their lives.” He slammed his pike into the ground. “I ask you again. Will you allow the
rutting
Turks to take
our
lands?”

“No,” a unanimous roar boomed from the crowd.

“Will you return home a coward and a failure?”

“No!”

“Are you ready to fight for your God and your freedom?”

“Yes!”

Colin gave the signal for the heavy gates to open. “Who are you fighting for?”

“God!”

“What are you fighting for?”

“Freedom!”

“We will not let them win…”

“
Deus vult, Deus vult, Deus vult!
”

Leading the ancient crusader’s cry “God wills it,” Colin led the charge out the gate to face the Ottoman army.

Joined by the cavalry, Colin steadied his pike against his steed’s shoulder as they approached the enemy at breakneck speed. His fearless horse breathed a steady, but labored rhythm beneath his heavy plate armor. Colin glared into the eyes of his opponent, riding head-on, the bastard’s sword held high, ready to strike.

One step before impact, Colin raised his pike and launched it into the heart of the man who aimed to chop off his head. The Turk’s stunned eyes bulged before he fell from his horse, trampled by his own men.

Colin snatched his sword and swung, fighting the onslaught right and left, spinning his horse in the fray, heads and arms flying, men shrieking in pain, thudding to the ground. Hour after hour he fought, swinging, thrusting, hacking. There was no time to check his men. A sea of Turks washed over them. Cannons blasted from the battlements. Arrows hissed overhead, and though Colin’s muscles burned with the weight of his armor and the relentless fighting, he could not stop.

His battle lust grew until something blunt struck him from behind. Bellowing, Colin spun and swung his blade. Out of the corner of his eye, a battle hammer flung through the air, straight for his temple. The weighty weapon connected with bone-jarring force. Flung from his saddle, his eyes rolled back.

He’d never see home.

Goodbye, my Margaret. My token will release your heart
.

Colin’s body thudded to the ground. Blackness took him to a place with no pain.

Kilchurn Castle, 1
st
May, 1461

As they grew, Duncan and John became more similar—almost like twins. It was the Beltane Festival, and Margaret shared her plaid with Ewen near the big bonfire. All the children, Campbell and MacGregor skipped around the maypole, weaving their ribbons as they laughed and danced to the piper’s tune.

Ewen sipped from his flask while Margaret clapped and laughed with the children. She glanced at Ewen’s face. A quirky smile crossed his lips, and he took another swig, keeping his gaze fixed across the courtyard.

Margaret followed his line of sight. Alana’s eldest had just come of age, and she wore a gown that revealed far too much of her young flesh. Margaret grimaced, but leaned in so only Ewen could hear. “Morag just turned five and ten. She’s a sweet lass.”

He snapped his gaze away and chuckled. “A lassie such as her won’t stay a maiden for long.”

“Pardon me? Please excuse your vulgar tongue.”

Ewen took a long draw from his flask. “Apologies, m’lady. I meant nothing untoward—just making an observation.”

“I don’t care for that train of thought, especially coming from a leader of men.”

“Aye, but all men think with their cods. We cannot help it.”

“I think you may have indulged in a wee bit too much spirit this eve.” Margaret scooted away by a hand’s breadth.

He held the flask upside down and belched. “’Tis empty. I suppose I’ll have to switch to ale.”

“Mayhap you should seek your bed.”

Ewen shrugged.

Margaret pursed her lips and looked away. The laird usually wasn’t so uncouth. She hated the way Beltane and spirit brought out people’s unsavory side. Ewen was no different. Thank heavens she’d not seen him inebriated before—drunkenness didn’t become him.

The bagpipes stopped, and the children all fell to the ground in a heap of laughter. Margaret stood and clapped. “Duncan, John. ’Tis time to turn in.”

John’s bottom lip jutted out. “Och, Mummy, we’re having so much fun.”

Mistress Lena stood, but Margaret held up a hand. “I’m ready to retire. I’ll take them up.” She dipped a quick curtsey to Ewen. “Goodnight.”

She grasped the boys’ hands and led them into the tower before Ewen could protest.

“I wanted to dance some more,” Duncan complained. “You always make us go to bed when everything starts to become fun.”

Margaret strengthened her grip. She would have allowed them to stay up a bit longer had Ewen kept out of his cups. One thing she hated was watching a man overindulge in spirit. They became loose with their tongues, as well as their hands.

Amongst the courtyard filled with people, a black chasm filled Margaret’s chest, as if she were completely alone. If only Colin would return home. Alas, hope was running out.

She put the boys to bed and read them a passage from
The Manual of Good Conduct for Children
. Though it contained valuable and important material, it never failed to put them to sleep.

She shut the nursery door quietly and headed down the passage to her chamber. Footsteps echoed up the tower stairwell. Margaret listened for a moment. They were heavy steps, like a man’s. She darted to her door—Beltane was renowned for its ill effect on people. They lost their sense of propriety, became emboldened.

She grasped the latch.

“There you are.” Ewen slid between her and the door, smiling broadly.

She frowned at the sour whisky odor wafting around him. “Laird, whatever are you doing up here?” She’d never invited Ewen above stairs, and his presence here now sent prickles along her nape.

He brushed an errant lock of hair away from her face. “Do you not think ’tis time we took another step? I’ve resisted you for so long. ’Tis Beltane.” His voice grew husky. “The night when women choose their bed partner.” He placed a hand on her waist.

Margaret’s entire body shuddered. Ewen’s warm hand upon her body was nearly more than she could bear. She gazed into his pale eyes. Filled with lust, they stared at her. Her traitorous insides fluttered. No, Ewen wasn’t as handsome or brawny as Colin, but he was a flesh-and-blood man. Too many years had passed since a man placed hands on her with an unmistakable intent to ravish.

But she couldn’t.

Groaning, Ewen tugged her body against his. He crushed his mouth over her lips. Knees turning to mush, Margaret clenched her fists against her deep, base urge for passion. Heat swirled inside her loins, and her breasts ached from the friction of Ewen’s chest colliding with hers.

He thrust his tongue into her mouth. Margaret responded, sucking, swirling. Oh God, she wanted to feel a man make love to her, wanted to be caressed and dig her fingers into powerful shoulders.

But not with the fleshy man who had her backed against her chamber door. Margaret’s mind took control of her reckless senses and screamed
no
. She closed her eyes and pictured Colin in her arms. She must, she absolutely
must
remain faithful to her husband—at least until hope had run its course.

“Mummy,” a tiny voice called from down the darkened corridor.

Trembling, Margaret pushed away and swiped a hand across her mouth. “Yes, John?” Her voice shook in time with her trembling fingers.

“I had a bad dream. Can I sleep with you?”

“Of course you can, darling.” Thank God for little angels.

Ewen grasped her arm. “But we…”

Steeling her resolve, she shoved her finger in Ewen’s sternum. “You shan’t tempt me like that again. Either you wait until we are wed or you can head back to Tromlee and remain there.”

***

The next morning, Margaret awoke to John’s tiny fingers playing with her hair. Toasty warm beneath the coverlet, she smiled at her youngest son, and the chasm in her heart stretched. The image of Colin brought tears to her eyes.

He clasped her face between his tiny palms. “Are you all right?”

She dabbed her eyes with the linens. “Och aye. Just missing your father, is all. Your bonny face reminds me of him.”

“It does?”

“Aye.” She mussed his hair. “And we’d best rise afore the master-at-arms comes and breaks down the door.”

John squirmed. “And skewer me with his dirk.”

Margaret took pause. “Where did you learn that?”

“Duncan always says it.”

Margaret sighed. She’d have to have a word with Mevan to ensure the boys weren’t learning to be heathens. But first she had something more pressing to attend. After breaking her fast with the lads, she set out across the courtyard and surveyed the construction of the chapel.

“M’lady. You’re up early,” said Tom Elliot. He gestured to the foundation. “The mortar’s nearly set. We can start on the walls in a sennight.”

“No.” She tapped the foundation with her toe. “I want you to take your time on this project. Think on it as your masterpiece. Leave nothing for granted, spare no expense.”

His face lit up. “Honestly?”

“Yes.” She flung her arms wide. “I want this chapel to be your legacy, your greatest feat of architecture.”

He rubbed his hands. “Yes, m’lady. I’ll need to revise the drawings.”

“Then I suggest you set to it, Master Elliot. Make the nave as grand as Melrose Abbey.”

Smiling, Margaret proceeded to the solitude of the gardens. This would be a very long engagement indeed.

Please, Colin. If you are alive, I anxiously await your sign
.