The Scottish Rose

by Jill Jones

  Chapter Ten

  Taylor had thought Duncan was being overly dramatic when he’d warned her that their lives might be in danger. But after the men were gone, she almost jumped out of her skin when Greta came toward her carrying a huge long-handled knife.

  The gnome-like woman held it up as if in threat, the steel glinting in the firelight, then turned it and handed it to Taylor. “Take this,” she said gruffly. “Ye might be aneedin’ it soon. They say th’ English’ll not arrive for some days, but y’ niver know. If we’re lucky, Kenneth’ll get us out of here and safely into th’ castle before the butchers get here.” She shook her head. “If we dinna flee soon,” she sighed, “‘tis likely we’re done for.”

  “Done for?” Taylor wished like hell this was a script for a screenplay.

  Greta Fraser looked at Taylor as if she were addle-brained. “Y’know…deed.” She came closer and squinted up at the taller woman. “I’d rather be deed than tortured by that lot of bloody infidels.” Her tone was confidential. “I heerd th’ tales of what they done t’ th’ poor unfortunates who din’t escape when Montrose burnt us out in forty-five.”

  Taylor’s skin crawled. This woman was no actor. Her words were undeniably urgent, her fear real. Taylor accepted the knife with a solemn nod. Then Greta dug through a large oaken trunk and handed Taylor a wrinkled, well-worn garment. “Put this on,” she said, shaking dust from the rough brown fabric. “Ye’ll not seem such th’ stranger then.” She gave her a pair of shoes as well that resembled ankle-high moccasins.

  Taylor offered no argument. She went behind the curtain to change clothes, not from modesty, but rather to prevent Greta from seeing her other modern attire. She kept on the lingerie and Wintersilks that comprised the first layers of her garments, not wishing to give up more protection from the cold than she had to. Slipping the dress over her head, she wrinkled her nose at the odor that permeated it. Still, Greta was right, she told herself, now she didn’t look so much like a stranger. But she didn’t have to look like a barbarian, either. She brushed the tangles from her hair and started to apply lipstick, then thought better of it, not knowing if there was some means of reddening the lips in this place. Zipping the brush and lipstick back inside the bum-bag, she fastened it securely around her waist where it was effectively hidden beneath the large, loose skirt. Inside, the small camera seemed undamaged, and she hoped she would have the chance to discreetly snap a few shots of this incredible journey.

  After this ordeal, she thought wryly, she was certain she’d have to change the focus of the show. Maybe name it something like “A Lunatic Rethinks Legend and Lore.”

  She folded her jeans and sweaters into a neat pile, tying them along with her sneakers into a bundle within her jacket. Then she ventured again into the main room, holding the knife in one hand. “How do I look?”

  Greta eyed her critically, then nodded. “As ye should.” She took the knife from Taylor and showed her where to place it in her belt, hidden in the folds of the rough fabric.

  “There. It’ll serve ye well, but pray God ye’ll not need it. Now, I must make haste t’ be ready when Kenneth returns.”

  Greta bustled around the little house, which was no larger than the living room in Taylor’s New York apartment. She threw clothing and rough bedding and the newly washed cooking pot and some rustic-looking utensils and cups and plates into a pile on the floor. She picked up several other small items of her household and added them to the collection. “There,” she said at last, dusting her hands together, “that ought to do it.”

  Taylor had watched all of this with the animation of a statue, fascinated that Greta was so matter-of-fact about tearing down her household, no matter that it was meager, and leaving everything behind. She couldn’t imagine her friends at home doing such a thing. Of course, her friends at home didn’t have Cromwell’s troops bearing down on them.

  She forced back a wave of hysteria invoked by the thought. “How…how can I help?”

  Finished with her immediate chore, Greta turned her attention fully upon Taylor. “Y’ can help by remainin’ as hushed and hidden as possible,” she said, her voice suddenly terse and cold, no longer attempting to feign good will. “And for certain stay away from my Kenneth.” She took a step closer and regarded her guest with jealous eyes. “Ye didna come from Perth, did ye?”

  Taylor froze. Duncan had warned her not to give away their secret, but unlike him, she had no ready reply. “What makes you say that?”

  “Ye come through th’ Ladysgate, din’t ye?” the woman went on, nodding her head in answer to her own question.

  “I…I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Taylor said, adrenaline shooting through her. “What are you talking about, the Ladysgate, I mean.?”

  “Dinna play stupid with me, lass,” Greta warned. “Ye know verra well what I speak of. Everyone knows th’ place is bewitched.” She walked in a slow circle around Taylor, her eyes gleaming. “There’ve been others come here, like you, whose talk and dress and manner is not of our time.”

  Taylor’s eyes widened. “What others?” Curiosity quelled her fear, and her reporter’s intuition began to take charge. “When? How…?”

  “They’s come through th’ big arch from time t’ time. Most of them women, although some men’ve strayed through. Strange they’s been, all of ‘em. Some of them ravin’ mad.” Greta shook her head. “Some say ‘tis th’ work of th’ divil,” she whispered malevolently. “And if they find out ye’r one of them, ye’ll not be spared th’ stake.”

  “The stake?” Taylor squeaked.

  Again Greta looked at her as if she’d taken leave of her senses. “Aye, th’ stake. Th’ others was burned at th’ stake, they was, because th’ townspeople thought they was witches and th’ messengers of th’ divil.”

  Taylor went cold all over. She’d read a lot about Scottish witches in her research. And about the ignorant, superstitious people who had murdered thousands of innocent women accused of witchcraft. “Do…you think I come from the devil?”

  Greta gave a nervous laugh. “I dinna know what t’ ken. Ye seem harmless enough. Yet I’m afeered that some mischief shall befall us for takin’ ye in. Already, I seen th’ eyes starin’ and th’ tongues waggin’.”

  “Then we mustn’t stay here,” Taylor replied immediately. Not only did she not wish to place Kenneth and his wife in jeopardy by their presence, but she hoped that Greta, thinking she was about to get rid of them, would quit this creepy conversation. “As soon as the men return, my…uh…husband and I shall be on our way.”

  She couldn’t wait. Surely they could make it back through the Ladysgate before all hell broke loose here in this time. Why had Duncan gone with the villagers this morning? she wondered, her earlier irritation returning. And when would they get back?

  “I’m afeered it’ll not be that easy, Janet,” the woman continued, and Taylor suspected Greta of deriving some twisted satisfaction in scaring the bejeebers out of her. “Some of th’ others tried it, goin’ back through th’ Ladysgate, if that’s what ye be athinkin’.”

  It was as if Greta had read her mind, and Taylor wondered just which of them was the witch. “What happened to them?”

  Greta shrugged. “Th’ last one I heard tell of came through in my mother’s time. She was one of them what talked too much, and it dinna take long for th’ witch hunters t’ arrest her. She pleaded with them t’ let her go back through th’ Ladysgate, and they did. But instead of disappearin’ soon as she stepped through, she appeared again on th’ other side. That’s when they nabbed her and tied her t’ the stake.”

  She emphasized the word stake in a most unpleasant manner, and Taylor shuddered. “You mean, nobody who comes through the Ladysgate is able to return through it?” She found it difficult to believe that she was discussing this as if it made sense. But with each passing moment, the reality was more and more difficult to deny.

  “Oh, some’s got through it.” Greta’s nonchalant reply was encouraging. “At lea
st accordin’ t’ th’ tales that’s been handed down.” She paused. “But who knows? Th’ tale tellers have been deed a long time.”

  “Deed” or alive, until this misadventure, Taylor would never have believed a word of anyone’s tales of the Ladysgate. It was her job not to believe such folklore. It was how she made her living. But at the moment, she would be a fool not suspend her disbelief in time travel and the legend of the Ladysgate and at least take warning from Greta Fraser.

  It could, she feared, mean the difference between life and death.

  Left with that choice, the concept of time travel became infinitely more believable.

  After Greta’s grim tales, Taylor, aka “Janet,” had no illusions about the fate that might await them if they remained in this time. These people believed in legends and lore, like the Ladysgate and witchcraft, and although she wouldn’t classify them as lunatics, they were ignorant and superstitious, and therefore dangerous. She had no doubt that her life, and Duncan’s, were in jeopardy. She felt a pang of regret, knowing that it was her headstrong insistence on visiting the Ladysgate that had drawn Duncan into this predicament. But then she reminded herself that she hadn’t asked for his help. He’d come to her rescue totally of his own volition.

  Why? She hadn’t had time to wonder until now. Why had Duncan Fraser come looking for them? Had Fergus radioed for help? She didn’t recall that he had. It had all happened so fast there hadn’t been time. The thought of Fergus and Barry and Rob brought a hard knot to her throat. Where were they? Had they gone through the Ladysgate, too? Were they nearby, aware that they were no longer in the 21st century, that they were about to be attacked by English soldiers? Or had they managed to avoid those terrible jaws of granite and survive the turbulent seas that had caused her to fall overboard?

  Please, please, let them be safe.

  Greta’s frightening indoctrination had convinced Taylor that if she wished to survive to see her own century again herself, she had better learn fast how to become part of the seventeenth. There must be a way out, in spite of Greta’s stories to the contrary. But until she found it, she was going to have to remain sequestered and inconspicuous behind an old-fashioned dress and a shy demeanor.

  From this vantage point, however, she would be able to observe the villagers, making mental notes of every detail that might later come in handy in writing a script, or maybe even a book, about this adventure. She had come to Scotland to get a story. It seemed as if she’d found a dandy.

  If she survived to tell about it.

  Feeling ill at ease around Greta, Taylor stepped into the street for a breath of air. It was a beautiful, late summer morning, with a brisk breeze blowing off the North Sea. Looking about, she recognized the uniquely-shaped harbor, but otherwise, this Stonehaven looked little like the one they had left behind. Of course, she hadn’t seen much of it in the one night she’d been there, but this village was eerily primitive. For comparison, she tried to envision seventeenth century Manhattan for a moment and came up with an even more primitive image—white men trading beads to Indians in exchange for an island.

  Something rustled in an alleyway across the street, and Taylor jumped. She turned her head, expecting to see a giant rat or a stray cat and was surprised to see instead a small, filthy boy crouched by the side of a building, gnawing hungrily on a scrap of someone’s garbage. His face was so dirty it matched the mud-smeared rags he wore. Her heart lurched in compassion. Hesitantly, she took a step toward him. He looked up at her with wide, frightened eyes, then leapt from his hiding place and dashed away down the street, leaving Taylor regretting that she had interrupted his pathetic breakfast.

  “Leave him be,” Greta called from her front door. “Th’ boy’s touched, he is.” She tapped her own forehead. “He’ll not survive another winter, and it’s good of’t.”

  Taylor was shocked. “What do you mean?”

  Greta motioned to her to return to the house, peering around anxiously lest someone might have seen the strange woman make an overture to the boy. Inside the dim house, she shut the door firmly behind Taylor. “The bairn’s mother was a witch. And if ye be seen ‘round him, ye’ll have even more chance of bein’ accused of th’ same,” she hissed. Taylor saw the threat in her eyes.

  “There are no such thing as witches, Greta,” she replied, trying to restrain her aggravation. “That’s just foolish superstition.”

  Greta’s fat fists landed on her plump hips. “Naw that’s na way t’ talk,” she frowned. “Of course, there’s witches. Everyone knows about ‘em.” She wrinkled her face into a puddle of disdain. “Th’ most famous was named Janet, in fact,” she added as if unsure that her visitor wasn’t the witch just named. “Janet Beaton. Lover t’ Lord Bothwell, she was. Some say ‘twas her bewitched him and gave him th’ potions that he later used t’ seduce Queen Mary.”

  Taylor stared at this intense little woman, who obviously believed every word she uttered. “Queen Mary?”

  “Mary Queen of Scots, of course,” she scoffed at Taylor’s ignorance. “She must’ve been enchanted t’ kill her own husband for th’ likes of Bothwell.” She shook her head, considering this almost century-old gossip as if she’d read it this in the morning paper. “Although ‘tis common said that her husband, Lord Darnley, was no good man either.”

  Taylor was fascinated at this recital of history by an obviously ignorant peasant woman. Where had she learned all the details about the love life of a queen that had been dead almost a century? From legends, she guessed, and stories handed down by word of mouth from one generation to the next.

  Taylor was steadily gaining a new respect for that which she had once disdained.

  She wondered briefly if the woman had ever heard about the Scottish Rose, but Greta seemed as if she had spun all the tales she had to tell. So Taylor pressed her on another matter. “Who is the boy? What is his name? And where is his mother?”

  “Ye’d better learn ‘bairn’,” the other woman uttered. “Na ane calls a child a boy or girl.” She sat on the rough wooden bench at the table. “His name is Pauley, and his mother is deed. Fell from th’ cliffs, she did, just near th’ Ladysgate. ‘Tis whispered she was killed by th’ faeries for bein’ th’ wife of th’ divil.” She smiled maliciously, revealing several missing teeth. “But then, that’s just a tale.”

  “Was she…one who came through the Ladysgate?” Taylor asked tentatively.

  “Nay, she was th’ daughter of a crofter who lived nearby. His lodge is just up th’ hill from th’ Ladysgate. Ye might of seen it. Nobody lives there anymore. They’s all deed.”

  Taylor recalled the small hut where she’d taken shelter and fallen asleep by the fire. Although barren, that hovel appeared inhabited. Greta must be talking about another place, she decided.

  Their further conversation was interrupted by the sound of the arrival of the men returning from the castle. Greta jumped to her feet and ran to the door, but Taylor pulled her heavy skirts around her and moved to stand by the still-glowing coals in the grate. She knew her hostess meant well in lending her the clothing, but the dress smelled funky and looked worse, and she was in no hurry for Duncan Fraser to see her in it.

  And then she wondered why she cared.

  The men tromped in. There were six of them, including Kenneth and Duncan, all dressed in rough, rustic garments made of similar fabric as the dress. Duncan gave her a quick glance in which she saw first surprise, then approval, that she had changed into the costume of the day. She returned his greeting with a small smile, anxious to hear his news, hoping it included word that they would soon be leaving this town and this time and this insanity.

  Instead, she learned that he’d enlisted them in service at Dunnottar Castle, where they and the other villagers would join forces with the Royalist governor to defend the castle and the Honours of Scotland, just as she’d heard had taken place in history. She shook her head, stunned, but kept her mouth shut. If they were locked inside the castle, how would they ever get back thr
ough the Ladysgate? Maybe when she got him aside, she could explain their precarious situation and he would go with her to make an attempt at a return to their own time.

  Because she would make that attempt, with or without Duncan Fraser. She had no desire to play cowboys and Indians with this group of primitives.

  “Word from th’ south has it that Cromwell’s general will reach here in little more than a week,” Kenneth reported to his wife. “Governor Ogilvy needs forces now to prepare for a long siege. Are ye ready, wife?”

  Greta appeared pale and shaken, but she broached no argument to her husband’s decision. “Aye,” she murmured. Then she looked from Taylor to Duncan and back again at Kenneth. “What about them?” she asked, her voice betraying the fear and distrust Taylor knew she harbored against the two strangers.

  “They go with us. We’ll need all the strong men we can muster.”

  Greta stared openly at Taylor. She shook her head. “‘Tis a bad business,” she uttered.

  Chapter Eleven

  Duncan could see from Taylor’s face that she was struggling not to strike back at Greta’s rude declaration. That she was trying to control her quick tongue seemed a miracle, and he wondered what had come over her. Quickly, he went to her and took her hand, pressing it in reassurance. “Ignore her,” he murmured. “The woman’s just afraid.”

  Gazing into Taylor’s pale, grim face, he saw a demand for an answer. Why are we going to Dunnottar instead of the boat? Maybe they wouldn’t go to the castle but instead drop out of the group of refugees on the way. But only if the Intrepid was floating free and ready for them to make a dash for it. Otherwise, they’d be safer with the villagers. They must continue their play-acting, at least for a while.

  “Are ye ready as well, wife?” he asked, the old-fashioned words sounding awkward even as his eyes pleaded with her to go along with the ruse.

  She glared at him. “Aye, husband.”