February 1499
Inverary Castle
Loch Fyne
“The incompetence of your guards at Innischonaill cost me my freedom,” Godfrey complained bitterly. “I don’t dare show my face outside these walls. I might as well be clapped in a dungeon myself.”
Archibald Campbell peered at Godfrey from the corner of his eye with cold indifference. They were in the laird’s suite of private rooms at Inverary Castle, seat of the earls of Argyll. The present earl was having his portrait painted.
“MacLean and his brothers took the lives of some of my finest men-at-arms,” Argyll replied in an unruffled tone. “You don’t hear me ranting like a madman.”
One hand on his hip, the other on the hilt of his broadsword, Argyll stood in the feeble light of the window, flanked by four freestanding candelabras. Draped across the back of a settle beside him was a banner with his coat of arms; on the cushions lay a magnificent claymore. A brass-studded targe, throwing back the candlelight, had been propped against the bench leg.
“Finest men! Pah!” Godfrey replied with a snort. “Andrew said over a dozen of your soldiers fell beneath the three brothers’ blades in a matter of minutes. Only their gross incompetence kept MacLean from guessing the brigands were actually Campbell clansmen in disguise. My God, if your men couldn’t abduct a bit of a lassie and an awkward lad, they were worthless to begin with.”
Godfrey glanced over at the artist with a scowl of annoyance. Upon his arrival in the sitting room, Argyll had assured him that Jan van Artevelde spoke no Gaelic; they communicated with each other in French.
The earl, in his attempt to preserve himself for posterity, had engaged the Flemish painter while meeting with the king at Castle Stalcaire. The short, stocky man from Ghent had painted both Duncan Stewart, earl of Appin, and James IV of Scotland. ’Twas the height of vanity, not to mention vulgar ostentation. Wisely Godfrey held his tongue and didn’t mention either subject.
“MacLean killed eight more of my clansmen single-handedly on the road from Archnacarry Manor,” Argyll said pleasantly as he flicked a piece of lint off his sleeve. Attired in a predominantly black tartan, he sported a forest green jacket, a sleek badger sporran, and a black bonnet adorned with three plumes. He looked over at Godfrey, and his umber eyes reflected the gleam of the candlelight in cold, calculating appraisal. “You shouldn’t have gotten the big fellow so damn mad, my friend. It took twenty husky men-at-arms to drag him down from his horse, disarm and bind him.”
“I should have slit the sonofabitch’s throat when I had the chance,” Godfrey snarled. The artist looked up from his palette, mild astonishment in his eyes at the openly hostile tone.
Ignoring the baldheaded foreigner, Godfrey clenched his fists, longing to have MacLean on his knees before him once again. This time he wouldn’t hesitate. Since the day he’d learned that the bloody bugger had escaped the island fortress on Loch Awe, he’d been shaking in his brogues.
Argyll smiled at the display of impotent anger. “I had hopes that the annulment would eventually be granted. In faith, I planned to free MacLean from Innischonaill after Joanna and Iain were safely wed. There’s no argument more convincing than a fait accompli.”
“My brother had other plans for Joanna,” Godfrey reminded him bitterly. “What makes you think Ewen would have relinquished the heiress once he obtained an annulment?” In mounting irritation, he watched van Artevelde putter with his brushes and oils. Damnation. Argyll hadn’t even shown the good manners to meet with him in private.
“You forget,” the earl said placidly, “I have far more influence with the king than Ewen Macdonald ever had. Without James Stewart’s permission for his ward to wed, no marriage contract would have stood up in the civil courts. And in the Western Highlands I am the civil courts.”
What he said was true. Argyll obtained Crown charters of forfeited lands and bought up other chiefs’ debts and mortgages. Using his overwhelming power in the Argyllshire courts, he obtained legal decrees giving him possession of their lands. And the earl wasn’t afraid to use force, if necessary. He and his Campbell clansmen backed up their unscrupulous strategies with sword and dirk.
The earl looked down at the hand he’d braced flamboyantly on his hip and studied his large ruby ring. A nauseating complacency curved his thin lips, and Godfrey hoped to hell the portrait painter would capture it.
“With MacLean missing, presumably dead,” Argyll continued, “the youngest son of the chief of Clan Campbell would have been a fine political choice for Lady Joanna’s husband. But I underestimated MacLean’s determination. This time I agree with you, Godfrey. He needs to be killed. And I’m going to give you a second chance to rid the world of the King’s Avenger.”
“What good would it do to kill him now, for Christ’s sake?” Godfrey demanded. “There’ll be no annulment. Not only does the rutting bastard have his wife back home at Kinlochleven, she’s presented him with a son.”
Argyll stirred restlessly and readjusted a fold of his plaid. The Fleming stepped from behind the easel, a frown on his intent features, and twitched the fold back in place. When the Scottish laird turned a thunderous scowl on him, the chubby fellow shrank behind the bulwark of his canvas.
“I’m well aware that a healthy male child has been born to Laird and Lady MacLean,” Archibald Campbell replied in a sullen tone. “I had a very uncomfortable interview with the large gentleman in the presence of the king two weeks ago. It took all my wiles to convince James Stewart that I had nothing to do with MacLean’s interment at Innischonaill.”
His jaw clenched, Godfrey’s words came sharp and stilted. “I suppose you placed the blame squarely on me.”
Argyll shrugged and lifted his brows. “Whom else could I blame, my dear fellow? I told His Majesty that you and your clansmen had taken The MacLean to the fortress on Loch Awe and, through guile and deceit, convinced the captain of the garrison that you were acting under my orders.”
Godfrey sank down on a low chest and covered his bearded face with his hands. It was worse than he’d expected. He was a dead man.
“Don’t despair,” Argyll told him smoothly. “There’s still a way out of this mess.”
Godfrey looked up, and his voice held the hoarse ache of utter defeat. “How, dammit?”
With a wave of his hand, Argyll signaled van Artevelde that the sitting was over and came to stand in front of his fellow Scotsman. “If you kill MacLean,” he said without a trace of emotion, “the lovely widow will have to remarry for the sake of her clan and to safeguard her fortune. Given the chance, I know I can convince James Stewart that my son Iain would be the right choice. With my unqualified support, the alliance between the Glencoe Macdonalds and the Campbells would strengthen the king’s hold on the entire western coast of Scotland.”
“But MacLean’s brat will inherit Joanna’s estates and the chieftainship of the Glencoe Macdonalds,” Godfrey retorted. “Not her second husband or the issue of that marriage.”
“The lives of small children hang by a very fine thread,” Argyll replied. He went to stand in front of the easel, studying his unfinished portrait intently. “A fever, an unfortunate accident, can snuff out their young lives in a matter of hours, minutes even.”
Godfrey rose to his feet and straightened his shoulders belligerently. “Why should I take the chance?”
“Très bien,” Argyll said, nodding his approval to the artist, then turned to Godfrey. “Because you are the one who knows Kinlochleven like the back of your hand, my dear fellow. And no one, least of all MacLean, would expect you to show your face within fifty miles of his castle.”
A tiny flicker of hope sprang up in the midst of Godfrey’s despair. “Getting into Kinlochleven wouldn’t be easy,” he said, half to himself.
“There’s to be a christening in two weeks,” the earl told him. “Relatives and friends have been invited to a grand banquet to celebrate. At Lady MacLean’s request, even Beatrix and Idoine, accompanied by a small retinue of Macdonalds from Mingarry, are planning to attend. It seems the besotted husband is willing to grant his wife’s kinsmen a pardon, provided they swear their loyalty to him on the dirk.”
“I’m sure that pardon doesn’t extend to me,” Godfrey said with a humorless laugh.
“I’m afraid not,” Argyll agreed. He picked up a decanter from a table nearby and poured sherry into three glasses as he continued. “But the celebration will provide an opportunity for you to slip inside the castle unnoticed. If you lie in stealth and take MacLean completely by surprise on what will certainly be one of the most joyous days of his life, you’ll have a chance to rid us both of the King’s Avenger once and for all.”
Godfrey took the glass he offered. “And if I succeed?”
“If you succeed, I will see that you are safely transported to France with enough money to last through your lifetime—provided you’re frugal.”
By God, it wasn’t much. A refugee’s life in some dreary, backwater village. But if Godfrey stayed in Scotland, he’d eventually be apprehended and hanged. MacLean wasn’t called the Avenger for nothing.
He met the shrewd earl’s unblinking gaze and read the unspoken ultimatum. If Godfrey knew what was best for him, he’d do exactly as he was told.
“You’ll kill him?” Argyll questioned amiably as he handed Jan van Artevelde a glass.
“What choice do I have?”
“Then I propose a toast,” Archibald Campbell said with a smile of immense satisfaction. “To the death of Rory MacLean.”
He lifted his glass, and the Flemish portrait painter, beaming happily, joined them.
The three men downed the wine in one hasty gulp. When Argyll dashed his glass against the hearthstone to seal the bargain, Godfrey did the same. The little Fleming looked from one man to the other in frank curiosity, then, with a grin, followed suit.
The day had been gray and stormy, but Kinlochleven sparkled with candlelight and swaths of green and black tartan. In spite of the chilly March weather, guests had come from as far as Castle Stalcaire to attend the christening of James Alasdair MacLean. Everyone had assembled in the great hall for the lavish banquet following the High Mass and baptism ceremony. There’d been jugglers in bright silks and jesters with painted faces, muscular acrobats in doublets and hose, minstrels playing harps, flutes, drums, and bells; and mysterious dancing gypsies with black flashing eyes.
After the feasting and entertainment, the titled visitors mingled, shoulder to shoulder, with the castle staff and garrison in the high-ceilinged chamber—laird and lady, steward, scullery maid, and soldier—in celebration of the marvelous day. Even Ethel and her shy daughter, Peg, their dimpled cheeks aglow, came from the kitchen, blushing and smiling and hiding behind their lifted apron skirts, to join in the toast to the bonny wee bairn.
When Joanna and Rory had returned to Kinlochleven after the storming of Dhòmhuill, the Macdonald men-at-arms had been angered at learning that he’d killed their war leader. But Joanna told them how Ewen had abducted her, after forcing her to lie under oath to save her husband’s life. She related her suspicions that Ewen had planned to do away with her baby once it was born. Each clansman had then willingly sworn an oath of loyalty to his chieftain’s husband.
Joanna’s household servants had been frightened of their new laird as well—after all, they’d helped her deceive him. But Rory had been willing to overlook past mistakes. He demanded only their loyalty from that day forward. His courage and intrinsic honor had shown in his actions these past five months. He’d been decisive and fair when it came to matters involving the castle, estates, and tenants and had proven himself a capable and just chief.
Now Seumas and Davie, Jacob Smithy and his burly son Lothar, Jock Kean, Abby, and Sarah stood beneath the gallery, where the musicians had started playing a lively round. Mary and several other pretty dairymaids whispered to one another in a corner, casting covert glances at a group of tall, rugged MacLeans and wondering if they were going to join in the dancing that was about to begin.
Lady Beatrix, Idoine, and Andrew had also attended the baptismal Mass, escorted by Tam MacLean and a small contingent of Macdonald men-at-arms. They’d stood a little apart from the throng of well-wishers in the great hall until Joanna approached, offering her hand in welcome to each. She knew her cousins had been dominated by Ewen’s forceful personality. They were her kinsmen, and for the sake of her clan, she’d forgiven them. With Rory’s acquiescence, she’d allowed the dispossessed trio to reside once again at Mingarry Castle.
Rory had begun, at Joanna’s request, the subtle negotiations necessary to find Idoine a suitable husband. When Joanna had told her cousin they’d settled on a likely prospect, a joyous smile lit her round face, revealing the comeliness hidden behind the past sour disposition. Idoine had fussed over Jamie, her longing for motherhood tangibly expressed in the way she held the bairn close and kissed the wisps of golden hair. Away from their father’s self-centered influence, both Idoine and Andrew would mature into the responsible adults they were meant to be.
Joanna moved from group to group in her role as chatelaine, making certain that everyone was enjoying the festivities. She waved to Lady Emma and her brother, Laird Duncan, from across the chamber, then threw a kiss to the Camerons. Lady Nina had graciously consented to be the baby’s godmother, and Lachlan became the proud godfather.
The next chief of Clan MacLean was upstairs with Maude, sleeping peacefully in the cradle beside his parents’ great canopied bed. Joanna had noticed Fearchar following her dear friend up the stairs and smiled to herself at the possibility that the two would soon ask their laird’s permission to marry.
Murdoch and Tam chatted with Father Thomas by the blazing hearth, while Isabel and Raine Cameron, seated at a bench beside one of the trestle tables, visited animatedly with Arthur Hay. At another table, Keir and Lachlan were engrossed in a game of chess. Rory watched over their shoulders, offering acerbic advice to both.
After pausing to compliment Ethel and Peg on the delicious food they’d worked so hard to prepare, Joanna joined Lady Nina and Laird Cameron.
The rich blue satin of Nina’s gown brought out the rose tones in her gold hair and complemented her peaches-and-cream complexion, reminding Joanna, once again, of a celestial being.
“Tell us about this tapestry in your bedroom that has Lady Emma so intrigued,” Nina implored with her warmhearted smile. “I understand it’s quite unusual. Rory’s mother believes the figures may be based on little known Greek mythology.”
“Oh, ’tis not exactly Greek mythology,” Joanna replied. “Originally, I had a scene of a knight in full armor bringing gifts to his lady fair hanging on my bedroom wall. I’d brought it with me from Cumberland, but my husband wasn’t overly fond of it. So I had it removed to please him.”
“What’s so intriguing about this particular knight and his lady?” Alex asked, his hazel eyes inquisitive. At the mention of mythology, his scholarly interest had clearly been aroused.
“Nothing,” Joanna admitted. “’Twas the tapestry Rory hung in its place that’s…well, different.” At their looks of fascination, Joanna continued reluctantly. “’Tis the depiction of a Highland laird who has a dragon’s tail. He’s…ah…frolicking with a sea nymph.”
“Sounds rather scandalous,” Alex said with a good-natured smile.
Rory joined them at that moment, and the two men exchanged distinctly masculine glances that spoke volumes about the differences between men and women and what they considered humorous.
Her eyelids lowered, Joanna smoothed her hand down the jeweled edge of her girdle. “For some strange reason,” she said in a perplexed tone, “my husband thinks the laird in the tapestry is supposed to be the chief of Clan MacLean.”
Nina’s musical laughter rang out in startled surprise. “Why ever would he think that?”
Joanna met her husband’s sparkling eyes. “Who knows?” she replied brightly. “I can’t imagine where he would get such a nonsensical idea.”
Nina and Alex turned their gazes on Rory, impatiently awaiting an explanation.
“That’s something I intend to keep to myself,” he said. He touched Joanna’s long curls and grinned complacently. “But I will tell you that my wife insisted the sea nymph be given bright red hair before she’d allow the tapestry to be hung in our bedroom.”
As their friends laughed, Joanna wisely held her tongue. Sometimes in the evenings, Rory would look at the colorful wall hanging and burst into laughter all over again. She’d scolded him the last time, demanding to know if he was ever going to let her forget her mistake, but he’d been guffawing too hard to answer.
They’d spent the long winter evenings before Jamie was born sitting in their big bed, with a roaring blaze in the hearth nearby, learning about each other. Joanna had told Rory of her girlhood years at Allonby and Kinlochleven. He’d entertained her with stories of his marvelous adventures at sea. And she’d learned, though not to any great surprise, that the perfidious, diabolical, salacious Sea Dragon had a very sharp and very wicked sense of humor.
Rory put his arm about his wife’s waist and drew her apart from the chattering guests. “I don’t want you getting overtired,” he told her quietly as he searched her face for any sign of fatigue.
Joanna had insisted on nursing Jamie herself, rather than allowing a wet nurse to nourish the babe. Resting against the pillows, she’d sit in their bed at night, cuddling him in her arms and cooing while he sucked greedily at her milk-swollen breasts. The loving tableau never failed to stir Rory’s deepest emotions. He’d watch in awed silence until Jamie, milk pooled at the corners of his tiny pink mouth, fell asleep and was tucked in his cradle nearby. Then Rory would gather his wife in his arms and hold her against his heart, till they were all sound asleep once again.
“I’m not a bit tired,” Joanna assured Rory now. “God’s truth, I’m so happy, I’m floating.” Her eyes agleam, she reached up, pulled his head down and kissed him lightly on the mouth.
He took the kiss and improved upon it, as greedy as his little son. “What’s that for?” he teased.
She patted the lace on his shirt collar and fiddled with the gold buttons on the jacket he’d worn on their wedding day. “For bringing the Welsh troubadour all the way from Allonby Castle to sing at the banquet,” she replied. “’Twas a wonderful surprise.” A smile curved her lips, and her face glowed with happiness. “How did you know I loved his ballads as a child?”
He touched the tip of her freckled nose playfully. “Maude told me about him. She said you used to sigh like a moonstruck lass over the verses he’d trill about the gallant knights-errant.”
“Well, I don’t anymore,” she said pertly. “I’m not a dreamy-eyed lassie any longer. I have a real flesh-and-blood hero, who sleeps beside me every night.”
He pulled her closer. “Do you now, lass?”
“Umhm,” Joanna replied, scarcely able to keep from laughing. “And his name is Jamie.” She wrinkled her nose impishly. “Let’s go take a peek at him.”
“Let’s,” Rory agreed. He caught Keir’s eye as he guided Joanna toward the doorway of the great hall, signaling his brother that he was going upstairs.
Upon his arrival two days prior, Duncan Stewart had brought his nephew a message from Jan van Artevelde. Rory had spoken to the talented artist at Stalcaire, when he’d met with the king and the earl of Argyll a month ago. Upon learning that the little man from Flanders had been offered a chance to paint Archibald Campbell’s portrait, Rory encouraged him to go to Inverary Castle and learn what he could about the connection between Godfrey Macdonald and the earl. Van Artevelde had quickly agreed, adding that the chief of Clan Campbell was unaware of his knowledge of the Gaelic, which had continued to improve since his shipboard studies with Lachlan.
From the painter’s letter, Rory knew that Godfrey intended to sneak into Kinlochleven and assassinate him, most likely on the day of the christening. After conferring with his brothers and Fearchar, Rory had decided to go unarmed—except for the armpit knife hidden under his shirt—in an attempt to lure Godfrey from hiding.
From the day Duncan arrived with Lady Emma, the sentries had been alerted at the gatehouse and all entrances to the keep had been well guarded. But Rory hadn’t told Joanna of the threat; there was no point in worrying her needlessly. Either Fearchar, Lachlan, or Keir, fully armed and ready for a surprise attack, would be with her and the baby at all times.