The Thistle and the Rose

by May McGoldrick

  “M'lady, I heard a god-awful scream, and furniture breaking, and voices. I—”

  “It's all right now, Ellen,” Celia said, putting an arm around her companion's shoulders. “Everyone has retired, and you do the same. But first I want to look at the baby. Has he been sleeping well tonight?” Celia looked tenderly into the heavy cradle.

  Reaching in and smoothing the heavy wrapping that surrounded the child, Celia wanted to touch the baby's soft skin. Pick him up. Hold him close. She was still amazed at the sense of possessiveness, of protectiveness that overwhelmed her when she was near him. Celia had always heard stories of maternal instinct, but she never dreamed it would happen to her—not like this.

  “He was a mite fretful for a short time, but he's been resting peaceful as can be most of the night. He's surely eating better than before,” Ellen said softly, looking affectionately at the baby.

  Celia thought of Ellen, losing her baby at birth, so soon after her husband's death. Although her own feelings were baffling to her, Celia could easily understand how Ellen's loss could have turned into loving Kit as her own.

  They had been very concerned about Kit's health over the past few days, but yesterday the feverishness seemed to improve, although the coughing fits still continued. She and Ellen had certainly not gotten much rest since they’d arrived at Kildalton Castle, and after tonight's unexpected activity, Celia wondered if she'd ever be able to close her eyes here.

  Content that Kit was resting quietly, Celia scanned the room for possible secret entryways. This room, smaller than her own, had no panels beside the fireplace, and the plaster that covered the stone walls appeared smooth and solid. Not wanting to upset Ellen, Celia said nothing to her about the passageway.

  Bidding her good night, Celia slipped back into her own room, listening while Ellen barred the door behind her.

  Ellen had been eight months pregnant when she lost all those whom she cared for at Flodden—her husband, her father, and her only brother. They had all been wiped off the face of the earth in a single day. And then, only days later, when her own baby died at birth, her devastation had been complete. But Kit had brought Celia and Ellen together, and the grieving mother had found a purpose for going on, a reason for living.

  What kind of a life had she found? Celia thought. A life of danger and uncertainty with consequences even more drastic than the ones she'd experienced before. Ellen, too, had made a decision, to give all that she had left—herself—and Celia knew that she owed her the best protection she could muster.

  Retrieving her short sword from the wall by the clothes pegs, Celia climbed back into the bed and fastened the heavy curtains on both sides. Sinking into the depths of the feather bed, Celia doubted that the layers of heavy wool blankets that covered her could ever dispel the chill that permeated her body.

  It seemed that she'd been cold since they left Caithness. Celia's thoughts wandered back to that wild night.

  Escaping Lord Danvers and his men with just the clothes they were wearing, Celia and the others had ridden northward past Loch Lomond. The terrain had become rugged, and by the time dawn broke over a gray and drizzly morning, they were well into the Highlands.

  Wet and cold, the weary travelers pushed past the looming peak of Ben Lomond, looking in vain for some shelter in which to rest. The high moors offered not even a windbreak for them to huddle against.

  “Edmund, we've got to get Kit out of this cold,” Celia murmured as they rode.

  “Aye, lass, and Father William looks like he could use a bit of warming, too,” her uncle responded in a loud enough voice for Dunbar to hear.

  “Don't you be worrying about me, you scar-faced infidel,” Father William snapped back. “I'm doing just fine with this foul weather. And you might learn to appreciate it a bit more, yourself, considering where you'll be going when you're finished on this earth.”

  “If you're suggesting, priest, that my everlasting reward is to include a somewhat warmer climate, then at least I'll know where I am when I see your face.”

  “My face! I will not be going there, you booby. I'm a man of God.”

  “Maybe so. But I recall seeing a painting once of St. Michael driving Satan into the fiery pit, and that devil had your face, I'll swear.”

  “You're coming a mite close to blasphemy, you old scoundrel, and if you think I'll do anything to save your eternal soul—”

  “Edmund! Father William! Must you two always fight with one another?” Celia rolled her eyes skyward.

  She knew these two men respected and liked each other, though they were determined not to show it. Since the day they'd met, their banter had been a source of amusement for her—and for each other, she suspected.

  Over the years, each had instilled a part of himself in Celia. She had acquired her physical training and prowess from Edmund, and her intellectual and spiritual discipline and insight from Father William's tutelage.

  Though they were roughly the same age, they were very different types of men. Edmund, tall and stately, solid as an oak, was the very model of chivalry. He was directly descended from Robert the Bruce, and the quality of that lineage was embodied in the knight.

  Over the years Edmund had taught her to value that lineage that was so much a part of her, as well. And Celia knew that it was the strength of that noble Scottish blood, passed on to her through her mother, that had helped her keep Kit safe.

  Celia smiled to herself as she thought of this man whose ideas about proper behavior seemed so old-fashioned, so “by the book.” That is, except where Celia herself was concerned. He had been more a force in her life than her own father had been, and he had given her a kind of education that allowed her to survive. Not exactly “by the book” childrearing, but the kind that developed an unconventional variety of skills he knew she would need in this world of men.

  William Dunbar, small and wiry, was priest and poet, and as powerful with his tongue as Edmund was with his sword. His quick wit and fearless audacity had long made him a favorite at court. He, too, was not “by the book”—he wrote his own. When King James had licensed the printer Myllar and his partner Chepman to set up the first printing press in Scotland, Father William had put together one of the first books they had printed. And when the king wanted to insult a rival, Dunbar was the only man he called upon. The poet’s acid tongue and whirlwind of rhetoric was deadly to an adversary’s honor. In the world of the court, the wound of a word was deeper than the sword of any knight.

  Always at the king's beck and call, Father William had continued to serve James faithfully. His only regret was that the king had never granted him the one thing he wanted most, a church of his own with God's people to serve and their children to teach.

  But in spite of their differences, Edmund and Father William were both devoted to the Scottish national identity, an identity they all were in danger of losing now that the king was dead.

  But they were all tired now and needed to find food and shelter.

  “A few hours farther on,” Edmund said, turning back to Celia, “we'll come on the valley around Loch Arklet. There's shelter there, but we must be careful. The Gregor clan controls that area, and they'd sell their own mothers if they thought they'd profit by it. You'd better put on your best Gaelic accent.”

  “Would they go so far as to deal with the English?” Celia asked anxiously.

  “They hate the English as much as they hate the Stewarts,” Edmund answered. “But they'd deal with Satan himself if it'd be in their interest.”

  As they began to descend into the valley, the craggy moors gave way to groves of huge oak trees. But the temperature was dropping, and the drizzle changed over to a thick, wet snow. Celia gathered the sleeping Kit closer to her within the protection of her cloak.

  “It will not be long now,” Edmund told the group.

  “These folks offer lodging to travelers,” he said soon after, as they came to a halt before an old, thatch-roofed stone farmhouse. “If they're the same folk living her
e, they're honest enough.”

  As the weary travelers surveyed the shelter and its surroundings, the door opened and a shabby, angry looking man stood slouching in the doorway, eyeing them warily.

  “We need food and lodging for the night,” Edmund called out.

  “Aye. Can you pay?” he sneered.

  “We can,” Father William put in shortly. “And bring down God's blessing on you, as well.”

  “A king's shilling will do well enough, but we'll be glad of any other blessings that come with it,” the man replied roughly and turned back into the house.

  As Celia and the others dismounted, the farmer reappeared at the door, driving an emaciated cow out into the falling snow.

  “The shrew will show you where you can sleep,” he said to the group, gesturing with his thumb at the door.

  “And there's feed for the horses under the overhang at the back,” he said to Edmund, continuing in that direction. As he walked he cast a sidelong look at the horses, covertly appraising them. “I cannot promise your animals will still be here in the morning, though. There's all kinds that wander these parts at night.”

  Celia handed Kit to Ellen, and went into the dark farmhouse ahead of her, while Edmund and Father William went to care for the horses. Just inside the doorway, a thin woman, looking older than her husband, peered fearfully at them from the shadows. When she saw that Ellen carried a baby, however, she stepped into the light.

  Celia and Ellen both caught their breath at the sight of the woman. One side of her face was swollen from a blow she had received very recently. Her other eye was blackened as well, perhaps from an earlier beating.

  “Quality folks,” she clucked with embarrassment, turning her face from the guests' concerned gazes. “And a bairn, too. We cannot have you sleeping on the same straw as that old cow. Let me just clear this corner out and put down some fresh straw.”

  “Thank you,” Celia said, looking around at an interior devoid of any creature comforts but the fire that crackled in the huge open hearth and the large iron pot that hung simmering above it. “Let me help you.”

  Celia worked with the woman as she prepared their places and their supper. Seeing her battered spirit and condition, Celia's heart yearned to help this woman somehow in her troubles. But she knew there was nothing she could do...not now...not in the position she herself was in.

  Then, during supper, as they all gathered in the cottage for the meal, the surly-faced husband grunted for his wife to pour him more ale. She scurried for the pitcher, but obviously not fast enough for his liking. For as she poured, his surly expression turned to a snarl as he knocked the cup away and leapt to his feet, raising his fist as the woman cowered in anticipation of the attack.

  But the blow never fell. Edmund caught the man's wrist as he swung, lifting him back and away from his wife. Bending the husband's arm back, Edmund forced the man to his knees.

  “We'll not put up with the abuse of any woman,” Edmund growled.

  “Not my arm,” the husband pleaded. “Don't break my arm!”

  Celia could hear the panic in the husband’s voice. They all knew that a broken arm could mean not surviving the winter, could mean that the spring planting would not be done. Her look traveled from the fear-stricken face of the husband to the anxious face of the wife.

  “Swear you'll not strike her again, coward,” the great knight ordered, bending the arm further. “Swear!”

  “I swear, m'lord,” he whimpered. “I'll not strike her. By God, I swear.”

  “Just remember,” Edmund threatened, releasing the trembling husband. “I travel this route often. I'll be back, and if I ever hear of you hurting her again, it will not be your arm that I break. It will be your neck!”

  After supper Edmund decided that he would do best to stay outside under the overhang where he could watch their horses and put some distance between himself and the `host.' Celia joined him in the raw Scottish dusk so that they might talk privately. The snow had turned back into a cold, gray rain.

  “The earl of Argyll will still be at the Highland chiefs' meeting at Dunvegan Castle on the Isle of Skye,” Edmund said, settling down on an overturned bucket, his back to the wall of the house. “He may not get back to his winter castle before Easter, and I do not know that we'll find warm welcome there while he's away. He cannot know what happened at Caithness Hall, and his servants will not be expecting us.”

  “But we cannot just wander around the Highlands in this weather until he returns,” Celia responded. “And I do not particularly like our host enough to stay here.”

  “I agree. In fact, if we stay here past the night, I may kill the bastard,” Edmund stated with a frown. “These are very different folks than were here before. We need to take our chances going to the Western Isles. The farther we get from those butchering English, the better off we'll be. And besides, if need be, I've an old friend in the Isles who lives about a half day's sail from Argyll's winter castle, and he'll take us in for sure until Argyll returns.”

  “Who is that?” Celia asked.

  “Hugh Campbell, the most powerful chief in the Western Isles. A good man, but always too independent for the king's liking. And I hear that his son Colin is as good a—”

  “Campbell!” Celia interrupted. “Before you and Father William and the husband came in from the horses, I got an earful about the Campbells from Eustace, the wife. You would think they could both—father and son—walk on water. This woman is from that clan, I gather, because she never stopped talking about them—until the moment her husband came through the door. It was the only time she opened up, at all. I think she rues the day she left her clan. But what were you saying about the Campbells?”

  “Well, from what I hear, the son is as good a man as the father, and Lord Hugh is as fine as they come. Unlike some Scottish lairds, they care deeply about their people. They say that for the Campbells, the people that depend on them come before even the king.”

  “But that's not uncommon in these Highlands. Would we be safe there?” Celia asked.

  “While the king was being murdered at Flodden, Colin Campbell was terrorizing that pompous Tudor Henry and his English troops in France. I do not think the English would even dream of bringing the battle to Kildalton Castle. I hear it has got more guns now than Edinburgh Castle itself!”

  Celia knew that King James had sent some of his best warriors to France when the English had invaded the continent. But they had come back too late to join the king at Flodden.

  “If we do go there, what could we tell them? Who will you say that I am?”

  When they left Linlithgow, her benefactor Lord Huntly had insisted that Celia keep her identity a secret. There were many good reasons for it, and Huntly wanted her and Kit out of harm’s way while he focused on reorganizing what was left of the Stewart court. Lord Huntly was the most powerful noble left at court, and he intended to see that Stewart rule would continue as the unifying force in Scotland. He had told them that if they found themselves in danger, they were to seek out the earl of Argyll, who would shelter them until a more settled time.

  They had thought they would be safe at Caithness Hall, and they had been--for nearly five months. With Lord Caithness dead and Lady Caithness with her family in England, Edmund’s presence had been a welcome one at the Manor Hall. Edmund had been a close friend to Lord Caithness for many years, and his face was a connection with less troubled times. So they had become guests in a Hall that housed many noble families uprooted in the turbulent days following Flodden. With so many widows in Scotland, her true identity had never been questioned. She was Edmund’s niece, and that had been enough for the retainers left to manage the manor.

  But Celia knew now that the devil Danvers would not stop until he had found them. She had been promised to the Englishman long ago. Celia was the daughter of John Muir and granddaughter of the Duke of York. It was not her rank or her money that he had originally desired that drove him on, but rather the hatred that he carried for
her. She had wounded and rejected him. His honor had been injured.

  Danvers had to be put off the track somehow.

  “You could become Lady Caithness, Celia,” Edmund suggested thoughtfully. “She has a bairn, as well.”

  “Will they not know the truth?” she asked uncomfortably. “Lady Caithness was quite well known at court.”

  “Most likely not,” Edmund continued. “The Campbells were never ones for court society. I can tell you one thing, though, even if Lord Hugh guesses the truth, he would never confront us on an issue of honor.”

  Celia hoped that she would not have to deceive anyone, but most particularly those loyal friends of Edmund’s.

  Celia felt that the finest bed in the finest castle could not feel better than the couch of dried rushes that the woman had prepared for her on the fresh straw. She had drifted off with Kit and Ellen tucked comfortably in beside her, and Father William not far away.

  She did not know how long she'd been sleeping when she was suddenly conscious of the movement near the open hearth.

  The husband moved silently to the cottage door, unbarred it, and slipped away into the night. Not a moment had passed, however, when Celia saw the woman crossing the room to where the travelers lay. Eustace placed her hand on Celia's shoulder, but saw immediately that the young woman was already awake.

  “You must go now!” she whispered urgently. “He's gone to get his filthy Gregor cronies. They'll murder you all for those horses of yours. They would murder you for less, m'lady.”

  “You're putting yourself in danger,” Celia said, on her feet and rousing the others. “What'll you tell him, Eustace, when they come back? We cannot just leave you here.”

  “Aye, you can. He'll not hurt me. I will just tell the blackguard that you heard him leave,” she answered, following them to the door. “Don't you worry about me. I may be married to this dirty Gregor lout, but I'm still a Campbell. I'll be fine.”