Knight in Highland Armor (3 page)

Margaret snatched her green velvet cloak and slipped the hood over her head. She cared not if she was covered—she was escaping this chamber and all the worrisome thoughts that had her innards twisted in knots.

Margaret looped her arm through her mother’s as they paraded out Stirling Palace’s fortified north gate, with two of her father’s guardsmen following at a respectful distance. The throng below hummed. White tents flapped in the breeze with a mass of colorfully costumed nobles and not-so-colorfully dressed commoners. They moved in a web of activity, accompanied by minstrels playing lutes and wooden flutes. Smells of humanity burned her nostrils—how invigorating it was to be out of doors. Everywhere Margaret looked, something was for sale—pigs, fruit and food to her right. Bright textiles, leathers, knives and everything imaginable ahead and to her left.

When she spied a bowl full of red apples, her mouth watered. She hastened to the display. “The fruit looks delicious.”

A dirty-faced vendor with brown teeth grinned at her. “Fancy a peck of apples, m’lady?”

“Perhaps.” Margaret mulled over the assortment of pears, dates and nutmeats. A young tot peeked out from behind the vendor’s cart. His blue eyes sparkled from beneath a layer of dirt. The child’s hair was matted, his cheeks sunken. Why, he appeared half starved. Margaret’s heart squeezed. She smiled at the child and snapped her gaze to the vendor. “I’d like a half-dozen each, apples, pears and dates, if you please.”

The man’s grin spread to his ears. “Aye, m’lady. Have ye a basket?”

Margaret bit her lip and glanced back to her mother. In her haste to leave, she hadn’t thought to bring one. “Have you a basket for sale? It appears I’ve left mine behind.”

“Honestly,” Lady Struan groused in Margaret’s ear.

The vendor held up a gnarled finger. “I’ve just the thing, but I’ll have to charge ye a penny.”

Mother gasped. “Thievery.”

Margaret held up a hand. “’Tis only fair. I should have thought to bring mine.”

The man filled the rickety old basket and held it out. “Four pennies, m’lady.”

She dug in her leather purse that hung from a cord on her belt, and handed him the coins. “Thank you, sir.” Margaret shifted her gaze to the laddie and plucked the largest apple. “This one’s for you.”

A huge grin lit up the child’s face. “Ta.” His darling little voice peeped when he accepted the gift with both hands.

Mother grasped her elbow and led her into the throng. “How could you allow that man to take advantage of you so?”

Margaret twisted her arm away. “I did no such thing. Did you see the half-starved child hiding behind the barrow?”

Mother frowned.

“I was simply buying the lad enough food to last through winter. Had I a mind to barter, I would have paid no more than one and a half.”

“Thank heavens someone else will be providing your allotment in the future. It pains me to see coin tossed away with such frivolity.”

Margaret tightened her grip on the basket handle. She loved her mother dearly, but the woman thought charity was giving alms at Eastertide and that was the end of it. She’d seen plenty of hardship, collecting rents from the estate’s crofters. A master with figures, Margaret knew full well her father could support a number of starving commoners without feeling the slightest pinch to his coffers.

Mother led her toward a tent filled with textiles. “Cloth from the east is more worth your coin, my dear.”

Margaret sighed. She’d spent the past week up to her eyeballs in cloth, standing for hours on end while the tailor pinned and snipped an entire new wardrobe. Dutifully crossing the grassy aisle, Margaret followed her mother’s lead. A juggler caught her attention. Dressed in bright yellow and red with a pointed hat, he tossed three balls high in the air.

A midget, clad in matching costume, held up another ball. “One more, master?”

“Toss it up.”

The little man threw it in and the juggler miraculously added it to the pattern of colorful flying balls. Margaret slid the basket over her wrist and clapped her hands. She rarely got to see jesters and players near Loch Rannoch. The juggler’s balls spun in a tantalizing circle that appeared to blend into one ring.

Margaret reached into her purse to pluck a farthing when horse hooves pummeled the ground. Looking up, she scarcely had the chance to dash aside. Two riders thundered through the fete at a brisk canter. She tripped over her gown. The fruit flung from her basket as the horses sped past. Margaret crashed into something sturdy and hard. Her hands whipped around it, saving herself from falling. Her hood flew from her head and dropped to her back.

It wasn’t until a pair of massive arms encircled her that she realized she’d fallen into a man—a very large, very strong man. She inhaled. The heady and exotic fragrance of cloves laced with a hint of ginger and male toyed with her insides. Struggling to drag her feet beneath her, Margaret made the mistake of grasping him tighter. His back muscles bulged beneath his quilted doublet. Her heart fluttered.

“Forgive me,” she uttered breathlessly.

His enormous hands held her shoulders firmly and helped her gain her balance. “Are you all right, m’lady?”

Flustered, Margaret pushed away and smoothed her fingers over the white ribbon encircling her crown. She brushed her fingers down the length of her exposed tresses, cascading over her shoulder to her waist. First, her gaze leveled on his red tunic, with a white cross emblazoned on the center of his very broad chest. Then her eyes drifted to his face, framed by dun-colored curls. Beneath his cap, they shone like silk in the sun, and she wanted to reach up and touch them to see if his hair was actually as soft as it looked.

Dark brown, wide-set eyes gazed upon her with a glint of humor. They were so friendly, her tension immediately eased. His features were undeniably masculine; his bold nose slightly bent toward full lips that grinned, revealing a row of healthy white teeth.

“I…I am unscathed, thank you.” Margaret inhaled a stuttered breath and hoped to heaven she wasn’t blushing. “Please forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive. Those lads had no business riding through the fair at full tilt. I shall have a firm word with them.”

“I’m sure they are long gone…” Margaret peered up at his feathered ermine cap—a fur only worn by Scottish barons like her father. “…m’lord.” She stepped back, taking in the whole picture. She’d seen the square white cross on his tunic somewhere before—it definitely identified him as a knight, though she could not place the order. Unusually tall, he had to be at least eighteen hands—six feet was enormous, especially compared to her five. He wore a stylish doublet of black beneath the sleeveless tunic. His woolen hose were also black, and they clung to his thighs like a second skin. His muscles bulged when he stepped toward her with fashionably pointed shoes.

Mmm. ’Tis said clothes maketh the man
.

He bent down and retrieved her basket. “I believe this is yours.”

“Thank you.” Margaret spotted apples and pears scattered everywhere. “But I’m afraid the fruit I’ve purchased is ruined.”

He frowned and stroked his bold chin. “Most unfortunate. Please allow me to replace it.”

“That should not be necessary. I only wished to help a poor man feed his family.”

“Most charitable of you, m’lady.” He offered a polite bow. “If you no longer require my assistance, I shall be on my way.”

“Very well. Should I fall again, I shall simply find another gallant knight to keep me from dousing myself in the mud.”

“A lucky man indeed to rescue a lady as bonny as you.” He bowed again and tapped his fingers to his hat. “Good day, m’lady.”

Margaret swooned, watching him walk away. Broad shoulders supported by a sturdy waist. To her delight, the knight’s doublet was short enough to give her a peek at his muscular buttocks. With a sigh, she smacked her lips while the crowd swallowed up the magnificent warrior’s form. If only her betrothed could be half as handsome.

“Margaret,” Mother called from across the aisle. “Come, I have something to show you.”

This time, she looked for racing horses before she set out. God forbid she fall into another knight. And heaven help her. On the morrow, she’d have to look upon such magnificent specimens with disinterested eyes. How on earth would she do that?

Stirling Palace, 7
th
October, 1455

Returning from the stables, Colin found Argyll on his way to the castle. “Have you seen her?”

The younger man shook his head. “Nay. I could only come up with a sentry who confirmed she’d arrived with her parents. I’ll wager they’re keeping her hidden.”

“Blast.” Though Colin fully intended to go through with the wedding, he would have preferred a report on Margaret’s looks from a disinterested party. Nonetheless, on the morrow, he would wed a plain woman who undoubtedly had matronly, child-bearing hips. Duncan would love a mother be her comely or nay.

Argyll regarded Colin’s casual dress. “Will you be attending the feast in the great hall?”

“I’d prefer to take my meal in my rooms. Though it would be acceptable for
you
to make acquaintance with Margaret Robinson, I fear it would be awkward to meet her the night before our wedding.”

“Aye.” Argyll slapped his back. “Her feet might grow cold and she could request a reprieve.”

Colin cringed. “That too—at least I shan’t give her the opportunity.”

A pair of giggling lassies walked past, batting their eyelashes. A muscle in Colin’s jaw twitched. Beautiful women seemed to be everywhere at Stirling. He wanted none of it. Soon he’d head home to Kilchurn with his portly wife, and all the sweet-fragranced lasses who flitted their wares around court would be left to their own tantalizing devices.

Argyll headed in the direction of the giggles. “I’ll see you on the morrow, then?”

“On the morrow.”

***

The following morning, Margaret stood in the center of her chamber holding her arms out to her sides. She’d been in that position so long, she could have sworn the tailor hung two stone weights from her wrists. From the glimpses she could steal in the looking glass across the room, the gown was everything her mother had hoped it would be.

But to Margaret, it was like being outfitted in chains to be paraded in front of the gentry.

The overdress, made of red velvet, had gold thread woven in a pattern that reminded her of icy snowflakes. Fashioned in a V with narrow strips of sealskin, the collar tapered down to the high waistline, also cinched with sealskin. White silk gathered like lace between the gaping V covering her breasts—at least, for the most part. Following the latest fashion, wooden slats had been sewn into the tight bodice. Margaret found them incredibly uncomfortable and stifling, though they made her waist appear a tad smaller.

While she stood being trussed like a peacock, a chambermaid braided her long tresses. She rolled them on each side and secured them with a caul atop Margaret’s ears, where they would form a part of her headdress. Mother had ordered a double hennin in the same fabric as her gown, covered with a sheer red-tinted veil. Margaret eyed the hat on the sideboard. It was a garish headpiece, embellished with gold cording and reinforced on the inside with wire. Margaret would have preferred a simple veil or French hood, but Mother would be disappointed if she said otherwise. Besides, what did it matter? Perhaps Black Colin liked outlandish hennins.

Margaret shuddered. God save her, she had no recourse. This day she would walk across the courtyard and marry a notorious knight in the Chapel of Michael the Archangel.

“May I please lower my arms?” she asked.

The tailor stepped back and examined his handiwork. “Slowly.”

“The way you talk, I’ll never be able to move.” Margaret held her breath and let her arms drift to her sides. “Mayhap we’ll have to conduct the ceremony here, where I can stand in this spot.”

Mother stepped beside him and examined the fashionably long sleeves that extended past Margaret’s fingertips. “She needs to have full movement, of course.”

“Indeed. I first wanted to ensure all the seams and tacks are secure.” He tugged at the shoulders and waistline. “Yes. Miss Margaret, you can dance to your heart’s content this eve.”

After Margaret’s headpiece was in place, her eyebrows plucked, her face powdered, cheeks made rosy with soft ochre and lips reddened to the color of her gown, Mother clapped her hands. “Leave us.”

Margaret regarded her reflection while the chamber emptied. She hardly recognized herself. Her new husband would be marrying Miss Margaret Robinson, courtier imposter. She looked like a painting one would find hanging over a fireplace mantel. If only she could impersonate a portrait, she wouldn’t be forced to proceed with marrying the most feared knight in all Christendom.

Mother shut the door and turned. She smiled, holding something in her hands. “I cannot believe this time has come so quickly.” She held out a bold necklace with a crystal the shape of a small egg. It rested in a setting of silver decorated with four pieces of red coral alternating with four silver balls. “This charmstone is part of your dowry.”

Margaret ran her fingers over the garish thing. “My, ’tis enormous.”

“With no male heir, this was passed to me. It has been in our family for countless centuries, and is said to bring good fortune to all who wear it. Those who drink water into which it has been dipped will also be protected by its charms.” Mother held it up. “Wearing this today will bring good tidings to your marriage.”

“Och.” Margaret fingered the large stone. “’Tis too precious to give to the likes of me.”

“No. I daresay its shine is far diminished by my daughter’s radiance.” Mother moved behind and fastened the heavy silver chain. “You have learned well, and I’ve no doubt you will be a fine matron of your keep.”

The matron of a keep? That’s what I always wanted, isn’t it?
Margaret sucked in a ragged breath. “Thank you.”

“Few women have attained your level of education—men as well. Though the ability to read and write and calculate sums is admirable, do not allow your skills to intimidate your husband.”

Margaret turned and faced her. “Are you saying I should play dumb?”

Mother ran her fingers across the charmstone. “Not at all. I’m only suggesting you pay heed to your husband’s wishes.”

“Do you think he’ll not want my assistance?”

“On the contrary—I think he will encourage it, just as your father has. But you can be opinionated as well as industrious. All I’m saying is to think about how your words might affect him before you express yourself.” She chuckled. “Men may appear tough on the outside, but inside they wound easily.”

“Honestly?” Margaret mulled over her mother’s words. “I wonder if a man like Black Colin has a sensitive side.” She seriously doubted that.

Mother pursed her lips. “You must stop referring to him so. His reputation comes from the battlefield, where one must be ruthless or face certain death. You’re well aware he’s one of the king’s most loyal subjects.”

Margaret sighed. This conversation had taken on many faces over the past sennight, but always ended by putting her betrothed on a pedestal. No one seemed to care about the trepidation dampening her skin like a clammy cloth.

Mother stepped closer, as if she had a secret the walls mustn’t hear. “Before I leave, there is one more thing we must discuss.”

Margaret met her mother’s gaze. The woman’s eyes softened, almost appeared compassionate.

“Are you aware of what will be required of you this night?”

Heat flared up Margaret’s cheeks. “He’ll come to my bedchamber?” She could but whisper.

“Aye, and as his wife, you must submit.”

This, too, had Margaret’s insides twisted in a knot. Worse, discussing it with her mother seemed so…unnatural. “Will he hurt me?” She wasn’t sure if she’d actually spoken the words aloud.

But mother offered a consoling pat on the shoulder. “Most likely he will try to be gentle—however, the first time always hurts a little.”

Margaret groaned and buried her face in her palms. She’d been to weddings before—come the morrow, her virtue would be on the bed linens for all to examine. Nausea churned her stomach. “This all seems nightmarish. If only I could have been matched with Lord Forbes.”

Mother’s pat turned into a firm grasp. “Colin Campbell is ten times the man, and his holdings of land and cattle are far greater. The king’s appointment is an honor, young lady, and when you walk out the door, you will hold your head high and rise to it.”

The ice returned to Mother’s steely stare. Margaret nodded and cast her gaze to the floor. Yes, she would go through with this marriage, because if she refused, she’d be acting against the wishes of the king, her parents and at least half the powerful nobility in Scotland. She would meet the infamous Colin Campbell, but she would have her wishes met as well. After all, she was the daughter of a powerful baron. She brought with her a dowry that rivaled any other woman in the land—including the heavy charmstone necklace chilling her skin. Yes, she would perform her duty as a wife, but in return, her expectations of respect and freedom to manage a keep had best be met.
Is that too much to ask? Most certainly not
.

Mother stepped back and smiled. “You look as beautiful as a picture. I’ll let the priest know you’re ready, and send in your father.”

Once alone, Margaret turned full circle. She’d been wrapped up like a package, scarcely able to take a deep breath. Normally she had an appreciation for new gowns and fine things, but today she most certainly resembled a stuffed pheasant, dressed to adorn the king’s table.

Margaret wrung her hands and stared at the door. So many unanswered questions filed through her head. Would baby Duncan be at the wedding? Would he instantly be thrust into her arms? Though equipped to run a keep, as the youngest, she had no experience with bairns. Surely Colin had a nursemaid for the lad, else he would not have survived.

She studied her reflection in the mirror. “Lady Campbell.” Her new title didn’t sound all that bad. “Lady Margaret of Glenorchy.” She liked that even better. How Colin received a barony, as the third son of the Lord of Lochaw, had her muddled. The Campbell family must be very powerful indeed, as was their reputation.

A rap rattled the door. Her heart raced with her jolt. It creaked open. Her father’s smiling face peeked inside. “Are you ready, sweetheart?”

Margaret spread her hands to her sides. “If there’s no other way.”

“I’m sure the circumstances are preventing a bride’s normal excitement—though many women are thus wed.” He smoothed his fingers across her cheek. “Everything will be fine.”

“Will it?” If only her wits would stop jumping across her skin.

He smiled with a knowing confidence. “Aye, and if you have reason for concern, send me a missive and I shall meet with Lord Campbell myself.”

She inhaled as deeply as her bodice would allow. “Thank you. I cannot say how much your words give my mind peace.”

He offered his elbow. “I may be giving you away in marriage, but you will always be my daughter.”

Upon her father’s arm, she crossed the courtyard while a chambermaid carried her heavy velvet train.

When they arrived at the chapel door, Margaret remembered nothing about passing through the inner bailey. She wouldn’t have been able to tell someone what time of day it was, if the wind was blowing, if it was cloudy or raining—or if she’d stepped in a pile of horse manure, for that matter.

Wiggling her toes in her slippers; her feet were dry. Stealing a glance behind her, she exhaled. The cobblestones had recently been cleaned of debris.

She gripped her father’s arm tighter when two pages opened the heavy double doors. Much warmer than the outside air, the Chapel of Michael the Archangel was packed shoulder to shoulder with people, all watching her cross the threshold. Rays of light streamed in from the stained-glass windows that lined the far wall.

With the change in light, Margaret couldn’t focus. Blindly, she leaned on Father’s arm while he escorted her through the throng. Too crowded—the sickly odors of humanity mixed with heady perfumed oils turned her stomach. Clammy heat prickled her skin. She looked back. People swallowed the path to the door. Margaret had nowhere to run.

Her heels clicked the floorboards, loud as a blaring trumpet. Courtiers parted, her train skimmed the wood as she walked.
That’s right, the maid was instructed to drop it once I stepped across the threshold
.

Finery surrounded her. Every guest clad in rich velvets and silks, adorned with sparkling rubies and garish jewelry. She scanned the faces ahead and gasped. Father was leading her straight up to the king and queen’s thrones, set high upon a dais at the rear of the chapel.

Margaret glanced toward the altar, straining for a peek at Lord Glenorchy, but the crowd blocked her view. Upon the platform, they stopped before the royal thrones. She curtseyed deeply, and Father bowed.

The royal couple were dressed in rich gold velvet, adorned with red silk and ermine collars. The queen wore a gold embroidered hennin, more garish than the one atop Margaret’s head. The regal woman smiled with brightly rouged lips.

With giant rings on his fingers, the king raised his hands and gave her an approving nod. What else would he do? Take one look at her and decide his earlier judgment had been ill conceived? Margaret almost wished he had.