The Thistle and the Rose

by May McGoldrick

  There was no blanket of gray smoke pictured over the men, the women, and the children scratching out their meager lives in the lands to the south of Benmore Castle. But Celia knew that smoke was there. And she felt the cold grip of it on her own aching heart.

  “We need to reinforce them,” Colin said. “At the very least.”

  “Aye, lad,” Hugh agreed fervently. “We owe it to the Macphersons. But even if we didn't, it would be a crime to allow the butcher and the traitor to traipse unopposed through the Highlands. We need to stop them.”

  Colin placed his hand on Celia's shoulder and pointed out Kildalton Castle. Running his finger to the northeast, he indicated Benmore Castle. To the south of the Macpherson's holding, Celia could see the Grampian Mountains stretching to the east. Between the mountains and the Campbell lands along the western coastline, Colin placed his index finger.

  “This is where Alec figures Danvers and Argyll to be,” he said. “If we do not reinforce the Macphersons, and Benmore Castle falls, then there is nothing to stop the invaders from either knocking off the clans one by one to the north or from driving directly west to Kildalton Castle.”

  “Why haven't they done that already?” Celia asked. “Marched to the west, I mean?”

  “Because they do not want the Macphersons at their back,” Edmund put in.

  “Aye,” Lord Hugh agreed. “But if they're able to hurt the Macphersons, then the entire Western Isles are far more vulnerable.”

  “But it's Kildalton and everything we have here that Danvers and Argyll want,” Colin added.

  He leaned forward on the table and scanned the attentive faces around him. “This is what we'll do. Emmet and I will take a force from Oban by boat up Loch Linnhe to the River Spean, and march overland to join Alec's forces at Benmore Castle. That way we can cut off Danvers and Argyll from pushing any farther north or west.”

  “Aye,” Edmund put in. “The English will need to travel south or east through the Grampian Mountain passes to avoid a major battle.”

  “Nothing would make me happier than to send a force south to cut off those mountain passes,” Colin said pensively, looking down at the map. “With the Macphersons to the north, and Campbell fighters to the west and to the south, we could close off the raider's retreat and engage them where they stand.”

  Celia watched as Colin weighed the possible outcomes of such an action in his mind.

  “But we cannot,” he decided after a pause. “The risks are too great. We've got to protect Kildalton castle, and a force large enough to trap the butchers would leave the Castle and the western lands far too vulnerable.”

  “There may be something else,” Celia said quietly. “They may be trying to lure us out.”

  “That's very true,” Colin considered, looking thoughtfully at her. “Though I do not think they'd try to attack Kildalton from the sea, even with a smaller number of defenders here.”

  “Maybe they just do not want to fight us at Kildalton at all,” Emmet suggested.

  “We'll charge that to cowardice on their part rather than wisdom,” Lord Hugh responded. “Argyll's capable of treachery when he thinks you're not looking, but he hasn't the guts to take you on face to face.”

  Lord Hugh squeezed her bloodless hand, but Celia's heart was pounding in her chest. The thought of Colin going out to face these vile and desperate marauders was terrifying. She wanted to cry out against the plan, but she knew that she couldn't. Colin's plan was sound and his friendship with Alec inviolate. With supreme self-control, she tried to fight back the overwhelming fear that was lodged in her throat like some great stone, that clogged her lungs like thick, gray ash.

  Looking at Colin and trying to hide the worry that she was feeling, Celia saw the determination on his face soften into a look of reassurance as he returned her glance.

  “Then it's settled,” Colin said. “We'll bring back all but a handful of fighters from Argyll's castle. And the day after tomorrow, Emmet and I will take a thousand or so men from Oban.”

  He looked around at those at the table.

  “And Celia and Edmund and the rest of us,” Hugh rumbled, with a look of tenderness at his new daughter, “we'll guard the loved ones here at Kildalton.”

  The next day was gray and threatening. As Celia sat with Colin in the garden, the cold, wet wind chilled her to the bone in spite of the heavy cloak and the giant's arm around her.

  The cherry blossoms all lay plastered to the ground from the night's rain, and the dark green of the tree's young leaves was a poor substitute against the shiny black bark of the wet branches.

  “When the king left for his fight with the English,” Celia said, her voice calm and controlled. “The people of Scotland lined the streets, cheering and celebrating a victory before the battle was even fought. The men marched out, handsome and dashing in their armor, the long spears flashing in the sun.”

  Celia paused as she recalled the vision, a tear running down her cheek.

  “The women were weeping as they cheered. I remember thinking that they must be so proud, even in the thought that danger lay ahead for their men. I remember thinking then that I could see their emotions, but I couldn't feel what they were feeling. All I could feel was hope that everyone would return with their honor and their lives. But I never dreamed that Flodden would mean the end of the world as the Scottish people knew it. As these women knew it.”

  “Nobody could have known what it would mean,” Colin agreed, holding her close. “Nobody could have known that the number of deaths would be so high.”

  “Colin, those deaths caused misery that should never again be repeated. I saw those women...I heard them...shrieking in agony. Wandering the streets, their eyes blind with anguish, their faces the same dead color as the corpses they once called...husband... brother...father.”

  “Celia, we are not going to our Flodden,” Colin said in a low voice. “This is not the same. What happened on those wet fields last fall is not going to happen here.”

  Colin looked out into the mist that lay like a shroud over the cliffs beyond the wall.

  “We have to use what we have learned,” he said firmly. “All of his life, James fought for a Scotland that would stand together. He used his charm, his guile, and his strength to achieve that goal. A unified Scotland is what you and I believe in, as well, but we will not make the same mistakes that he made.

  “When the battle began, James gave up his role as commander of the forces under his control. It was his fatal error. Without his leadership as king, as the symbol of strength and authority, the army broke into the factions that it was comprised of. Like Scotland itself, without a central power to hold it together, they fell away...clan by clan, village by village, man by man. And when traitors like Argyll and the others should have engaged the English, they lay back and watched the king fall as well. James died at Flodden because he fought like a common soldier rather than as a leader, as a commander, as a king.

  “But James never had the woman that I have now. I have fought these battles many times before, but I have never had so much to come back to. I am the commander of these men and a leader of the people of these lands. They depend on me to live and to bring them prosperity. I will not die a soldier's death in the hills around Benmore Castle. I will come back to you, the woman I love.”

  Chapter 16

  Kildalton Castle was a solemn place in the first days following the fighters' departure.

  Celia, Lord Hugh, and the others waited anxiously for news of Colin and his men, but when it came, by way of a daily messenger, there was never anything of importance. Although a speedy messenger could reach the Macpherson holding in less than a day, the Campbell troops were progressing slowly and carefully toward Benmore Castle. The only signs of the enemy were the constant streams of refugees limping into the northern hills.

  Finally, the message arrived that Colin had reached Benmore Castle, only to find it under siege by a combination of English troops fighting alongside Gregor clan and Ma
cleod clan warriors.

  The outrage of the Highlanders' treachery was expressed strongly and openly by Lord Hugh. Torquil Macleod was vying for power, just as Argyll was. The Gregors were in it simply for the money.

  Hugh's greatest concern, however, a concern that he tried to hide from Celia, regarded the sheer numbers that Colin might be facing there. The message gave no information about that.

  That afternoon Celia walked with Bear in the courtyard of the castle, all the time thinking of Colin, fearing for him. These past days he'd been all she thought of. In the long hours of night he had been all she dreamed of. She had found herself praying as she'd never prayed before. Walking by the open drawbridge of the fortress, she found herself praying now. Praying for his success. Praying for his safe return.

  But Celia's meditations were interrupted when, from the castle gates, a child hesitantly approached her. She recognized him immediately as the nephew of Eustace, the woman who had saved Celia from her husband's Gregor clan kinsmen.

  “M'lady,” the lad mumbled nervously. “My aunt...My aunt's been hurt. I was sent to ask for your help...to bring you.”

  “What happened?” Celia asked, crouching before him and peering into his face. “Is she badly injured?”

  “I cannot say, m'lady,” he responded. “They just said to come and get you.”

  Without another word, the boy broke away from Celia and ran out the great castle gates.

  “Shall I get your horse, m'lady,” Runt said from behind, startling Celia with his presence.

  “I can get it, Runt, thank you,” she said quickly.

  “It may not be a good idea going out alone, m'lady.”

  “Runt, I'm just going to the cottages outside the village,” she said reassuringly. “I'll be back in an hour.”

  “I do not know if Lord Hugh will—”

  “Besides, I'm always armed,” she said, patting a sheathed dagger that she was wearing inside the waist of her belt. “But if it will make you feel better, I'll wear a short sword, as well.”

  “Let me go with you, m'lady,” he suggested.

  “Runt, I really prefer that you check in on Ellen and Kit for me.”

  “Aye, m'lady!” he responded cheerfully. “If that's your wish, I'll be going up there right away.”

  A few moments later Celia was riding toward the village. Since Eustace’s arrival at Kildalton, Celia had visited with her a number of times and had been happy to see her settling into her younger sister’s home. Her sister was a widow who was now sustaining herself by working at the clothworks in the village. Celia knew that Eustace hoped to do the same.

  But as she rode to the cottage, something in the boy's face bothered Celia. There was a hint of something—fear, perhaps—in his eyes.

  The cottage sat on a knoll overlooking a quiet inlet away from the village. When Celia called at the door, the timber plank swung inward. Going into the semi-darkness, her eyes took a moment to focus on those within. Across the room beneath a shuttered window, the boy sat huddled with his mother, their eyes openly displaying terror. On the floor beside them lay a battered heap that Celia recognized as Eustace.

  With a cry, she stepped into the room, suddenly aware of the shapes that were surrounding her from the dark corners. Turning back as the door slammed shut, Celia looked into the ugly face of Eustace's husband.

  Leaping back toward the frightened group, Celia whipped out the short sword, facing the five thugs who were approaching carefully.

  “You promised to let my mama go!” the boy sobbed behind her.

  “Shut your trap,” Eustace's husband sneered. “You think we would let any of you live to tell what you've seen?”

  “Laddie,” Celia ordered. “Open the shutter behind you, and you and your mother go out...NOW!”

  The boy scrambled into action, and as light flooded the room from the opening shutter, the assailants stepped forward, only to scurry backward before the slashing arc of Celia's sword blade.

  The ugly sneer turned to concern on the leader's face as the mother and son clambered through the window. “Get her, before they come back with help,” he shouted, lunging at Celia.

  With a short stroke, Celia drove the point of her sword into the hollow at the base of his throat. Before Eustace's husband hit the floor, however, Celia had spun sharply, slashing another attacker beneath the ear.

  But this was to be her final act of self-defense before the crashing blow from the right exploded in her head a shower of yellows and reds, shutting down the conscious functions of her brain. And then, all was in darkness.

  Celia knew she was in a boat before her senses fully cleared. The throbbing in her head was aggravated by a loud roaring noise that gradually settled into the sound of three arguing voices. Listening to the voices, she slowly began to piece together what had happened.

  “Are you sure this is Loch Etive?” one voice growled in English.

  “No, I'm not sure,” another responded in the same English accent. “The bitch killed that thieving Gregor scum, and he was the only one that knew the way, for certain.”

  “That dirty Scot surely enjoyed beating his woman,” a third English voice chipped in, his voice betraying an attitude of loathing.

  “We should have killed her anyway. She'll live to tell a tale or two,” the first one answered.

  “We're here to do a job,” the third replied with disgust. “Although some of us have forgotten, we're not here to kill women and children.”

  The other two laughed the inhuman laugh of the monsters they were.

  “What have you been doing the last six months?” the second soldier spat out.

  “I wouldn't mind putting my hands on this fine lady,” the first man said lecherously.

  Celia heard the sound of a sword being drawn.

  “You lay one finger on her, and Lord Danvers will have you impaled and left for the crows,” the third soldier warned. “She's the hostage that we'll use to get the baby king.”

  The two others laughed again. “Where do you get your information from, Sergeant High and Mighty?”

  “Aren't we still under orders of King Henry?” he snapped.

  While the other two cursed under their breaths, Celia shot a glance at the third soldier. It was good to know that at least all English soldiers were not like Danvers and the other two. With this man aboard, she had a chance of surviving this trip, at least.

  “Is this Loch Etive or not?” the first voice asked angrily again.

  “We'll know by nightfall...if the wind holds,” the second man growled in response, as the three lapsed into silence.

  Celia knew that Loch Etive was a long, watery wedge snaking far into the mainland in the area south of Benmore Castle. If these pigs were taking her into that area, then the marauders had obviously divided their forces. Some were attacking Benmore, and the rest, under Danvers it seemed, were waiting farther to the south.

  Lying in the belly of the boat, Celia became acutely aware of one of the craft's ribs pressing against her shoulder. She tried to move ever so slightly, so as not to draw the attention of the soldiers. Realizing that her hands were tied in front of her, Celia carefully felt the material of her dress beneath the cloak. Her dagger was still in its sheath. They had not thought to see if she was carrying another weapon.

  It seemed as if an eternity passed before the boat bumped ashore. The sun had set a good hour earlier, and Celia had been surprised that the soldiers continued to sail in the dark. But the darkness had covered Celia's movements, and she'd been able to shift her position from time to time, even feeling the lump and the drying blood on her face.

  Why do these louts always go for my aching head? she thought to herself. Well, when Colin gets a hold of them, they'll prefer Danvers's impaling.

  As they reached the stony shoreline, Celia realized why they'd been able to sail the past hour. The blazing light of a bonfire atop a nearby hill and the torches that the troop of waiting soldiers held must have provided quite a beacon for her c
aptors, she thought. There was no longer any reason to pretend unconsciousness, and Celia pulled herself to her feet before rough hands dragged her out of the boat and across the strand to a waiting horse.

  After a few hours of hard riding, it began to rain on the dozen or so soldiers who were taking her to Danvers. Celia was nearing exhaustion, and her head felt as if it were going to split in half, but she was determined to remain strong in the eyes of the soldiers, and to be ready for her chance.

  When they reached a gushing river only to find the timber bridge swept away by the swollen waters, the leader, amid a string of curses, called for the troop to stop for the night. They would have to wait until daylight to find another crossing.

  Celia huddled under her cloak beneath a tree, soldiers posted all around her. She had decided to remain awake through the night, but her eyes closed within moments of dismounting. She awoke as the dawn broke gray and steely, only to find the soldiers being roused for the day's ride.

  A few moments later, as Celia was pushed up onto her horse, she wondered if by now Colin could have been notified of her abduction. But would he know where she was being taken?

  Lord Danvers and the earl of Argyll hunched over the map in Danvers's tent. The rain had been pounding down for most of the morning, but was just letting up as the dripping messenger standing by the entrance slipped out into the muddy camp.

  “It would figure that Macleod couldn't take a single fortress,” Danvers sneered. The two allies had just received word that the Macleod and Gregor forces had been smashed the previous day. The word was that Torquil Macleod had been captured and was locked up in Benmore Castle's dungeons.

  “You do not know what the Campbells and the Macphersons are like when they fight together,” Argyll responded, walking nervously away from the table.