Thistle and Flame - Her Highland Hero (6 page)

“Oh, that is...wonderful,” Laird Macdonald gritted
his teeth. “What interesting news. Kenna! Get the servants and have them load
your belongings. We leave immediately .”

Back down the path, Ramsay Macdonald shuffled
before heaving himself back into his carriage with a series of profanities that
got even McCraig’s attention.

“Finely cultivated guest you’ve got there. Where’s
he taking Kenna? And who is he, anyway?”

Tears streamed down Kenna’s red-flushed cheeks as
she led the servants first into her room, then followed them out. Her mother
embraced her and began to cry as well, and her father held her tight, told her
that he loved her and to write soon because he would do the same. Before she
turned to leave, Lora pressed something hard and round into Kenna’s palm.

“What’s this?”

“Something you’ll remember. I had it put into a
pendant for you. Now, go, Kenna, before he gets irritated.”

At Laird Macdonald’s insistent bellow, she trotted
down the path, and stepped up into the carriage which was quickly off.

“What’s happening, William? Why won’t you answer
me?”

“That was Kenna’s betrothed,” he said with a
shudder in the back of his voice. “That...was Laird Macdonald.”

McCraig stared after the carriage as it bounced
down the road, and the Laird let out a shout at the jostling. He dropped his
newspaper.

In the carriage, Kenna Moore stared at the man in
front of her, who was furiously scribbling a letter. She slipped her hand
inside the satchel she had thrown around her shoulder where she’d packed a pair
of books of fables. She opened the cover of one, and fondled a folded up sheet
of newspaper. One she’d managed to whisk out of her trunk at the last moment.

Gavin
, she thought,
I hope it’s true. I
hope you’re the ghost.

––––––––

G
avin Macgregor’s boots cracked the dry dirt and
the crispy grass under his feet as he drove himself faster and faster up the
hill towering above ground north of Edinburgh, far from his life, from his
worries, from his friends and his single enemy which had, with the events of
three days past, become two enemies. Three if he counted King George, although
he was fairly sure some minor theft in Scotland didn’t much trouble the
Hanoverian prince.

Blowing in wind so strong even his big, fat
kilt-pin didn’t keep the cloth down, the gusts against his legs bristling
Gavin’s spirit. Up, up, up he went, past a small family with three boys
throwing a ball and a man and woman embraced against a rock.

Up, up, he went, pounding the earth so hard that
each time he stepped, shocks crawled up the tight muscles of his calves. He
sucked a deep lungful of clean air, the sort that it was hard to find in a
city, even in Edinburgh.

The rocky hill disappearing around him was said to
be the place where Camelot once stood, back when the Britons weren’t British.
Back when his people were free and the only lords who demanded tribute of their
peasants were decent, because if they weren’t, some noble knight came around
and lopped off their heads. At least that’s how it was in the legends. Maybe
how it should be, no matter how savage that might be.

Up further, he looked down to see the family
already disappeared into the misty fog that hung heavy, a cloud settled down
around the ancient mound. As he looked all around, he noticed there was only a
little ways to go until he reached the summit of his brief climb.

The air, cool and thick, seemed to pulse against Gavin’s
flesh and permeate him when he breathed. Somewhere off in the distance, he
heard pipes. The sound of a funeral procession, perhaps, or the sound of a
celebration, he wasn’t quite sure. In either case, he thought about the past
two years and then thought about Fort Mary.

Back there, far away from London, far away from
kings and their squabbles, those had been happier times. The few encounters he
had with little Kenna Moore and her warm smile, and the way she’d opened her
eyes wide when he pressed the thistle into her palm warmed his heart.

Gavin’s boots scraped over a little pile of bones,
the remains of some small bird. Below him, the pipes were joined by a pair of
drums playing slightly different rhythms. He thought he recognized it, but
couldn’t be sure.

He imagined the great hump he climbed actually
being Camelot. Over here, a wall and back there, the entrance to the keep,
where Arthur sat, resplendent and decent, surrounded by knights tall and short,
fair and foul. Lancelot of the lake to his left, Guinevere to his right, when
she chose to come, was stealing glances behind his back at her lover. He knew
all the stories. Loved them as a boy, and he kept right on loving them as a man
grown, Gavin did.

“Loyalty,” his father told him as he closed the
dusty pages of a book so old the cover was gone. He knew it used to say Mallory
though. “Loyalty and honor, boy, that’s what makes a man. Lancelot had both,
then he lost them to his lust and then he got them back. What you lose, is only
lost forever if you let it be. Do you understand?”

He remembered his father’s huge beard, braided
down either side of his mouth. His da’s mustache was dark brown but the hair on
his chin was the color of rust, so the braids looked like a frame about either
side of his chin.

In Gavin’s mind, he sat on big Robert Macgregor’s
knee and thought about what words like honor and loyalty meant.

Without realizing it, Gavin had hopped up to the
rock jutting from the top of the hill, and was staring down over the city below
him. If he turned to his right, he knew Macdonald’s mansion was somewhere off
in the trees, though he couldn’t see where exactly. And he knew that somewhere
along the road snaking off behind that great, greedy house was a carriage
trundling along, filled up with fat Laird Macdonald.

And then, he thought about the girl who was in the
carriage with him. Taken by some half-forgotten oath spoken before she was
born, and given up, taken away from the only place she’d ever really known.

Gavin turned south, toward the city. He stared at
Edinburgh castle, and thought about Robert the Bruce, who led an army that was
raised as a simple act of revenge. The Bruce led an army and made his people
free, he remembered his da telling him as he read poem after poem about the
Bruce, and about William Wallace, the fallen martyr who died to make Scotland
free.

Far below, the pipes swelled. Gavin finally
recognized the slow lilt of a funeral dirge. He wondered if the person who died
had lived a good life, a long life. Something, blown on the gusting wind,
thumped against his foot and he bent to pick it up.

His fingers closed around a hard, spiky ball
fringed with purple.

“Thistle,” he said to himself. He wrapped his hand
around it, and made a motion to hurl the flower off into the mists below, but
stopped short. His hand fell to his side.

“Honor and loyalty, boy. Two things no one can
take from you. No matter whether you’re rich, or poor. Starving or fat. The
lord of a castle, or lying half dead in a gutter, you can have them, or you
can’t. Do you understand what I mean?” The words vibrated in his chest.

Gavin started down the side of the hill opposite
the one he’d come up. He clenched the thistle in his fist, so that the spines
pressed into his palm.

“I think I do, Da,” he whispered. “I think I
understand.”

––––––––

A
s soon as Gavin pushed open the waist-high door to
where he and John had made their headquarters underneath the Prince John Tavern
on Rose Street, he heard booming laughter.
Someone new
, he thought,
someone
come to join our little band?

“Gavin!” Red Ben Black’s voice boomed through the
room and took Gavin off guard. “I thought you’d got lost out on your walk!”

“Didn’t expect to see you, Ben.” Gavin said with a
smile.

“Call me Red. Me wife does, and I’ve got used to
it.” He laughed again and slapped himself on the belly before drinking an
entire mug of the tavern’s thick, black beer in one go. “Good,” he said,
dragging the back of his hand across his lips.

“Red Ben here has come to give us some news that I
thought you’d find interesting.”

“Oh? Why’s he drinking beer?”

“His preference, friend. I offered him real
drink.” John held the bottle with two fingers, and poured the amber fire into
Gavin’s hardened clay cup.

“Red Ben Black,” Gavin said. “What can we do for
you?”

“Well,” the big man said, “you know how I said
that the lord of the manor had gone north to Fort Mary to fetch his bride? He’s
come back. Or rather, is on the way back. The house got a missive from him this
morning informing us to have a – I quote – sufficient banquet – end quote – for
him upon his return, which should be tonight. Assuming, of course, his lordship
doesn’t break his carriage again.”

“How would that happen?” John said as he grabbed a
haunch of unidentified burned meat. “Roads aren’t that bad between the Lochs
and here.”

“They are when you’re as wide as Laird Macdonald,”
Red laughed. “But listen boys, we should go.”

“Go? Where?” Gavin sat down and took a drink. “I
just got here.”

“Aye, but there’s something you’ll want to see.
Get up! No time to explain. Oh, and Gavin? Here.” Red Ben tossed a bundle of
something that Gavin grabbed out of the air.

“What’s this?”

“We’re going to a party, aren’t we?”

“Are we?”

Ben pursed his lips. “Suppose I didn’t tell you
that bit, ah?”

“Suppose you didn’t.”

“Well you seemed so interested in the lass that I
thought you might like to see her. And anyway, Macdonald is a nasty, cruel man,
the sort that could stand a chopping down.”

A grin spread across Gavin’s face.

“Oh wait, wait, no, no, no, Gavin!” John said.
“You can’t be taking this seriously. You’re going to a party at the house of a man
you just robbed? Twice?”

“We,” he said. “We just robbed.”

“Right, of course, that’s what I meant. This is insanity.”

“And not just me.”

Gavin grabbed the wadded up fabric and stood. He
stretched it out and held it up in front of John.

“Do you have another of these for John? I think
he’d look just wonderful wrapped in some of that Macdonald red and green, don’t
you?” He made his hands into a square frame and laughed.

“Aye, I do. But you’ll both need to be ready. I
doubt getting in will be as easy as it was when the house was empty. You’ll
have to at least be clean enough to pass for nobility.”

The three men nodded to one another, threw back their
drinks, and gathered their things.

Red Ben stepped in front of the other two men in
the doorway and turned back to them. “One more thing, Gavin,” he said.

“We’re to run all the way there?”

“No, no,” the big man laughed. “Although it might
be just as bad. After tonight, I’m leaving Macdonald’s employ. Tired of the
abuse. Instead, I’m your new man.”

Gavin and Two-fingers exchanged a couple of cocked
eyebrows.

“You’re sure about that?” Gavin said. “It’s a
dangerous road we travel. And you’ve got Alice and the children-”

“Alice,” Red Ben said, “is more dangerous than
Macdonald could ever manage to be.”

––––––––

K
enna’s morning was a jumble of arriving at Laird
Macdonald’s estate in Kilroyston, slightly north of Edinburgh, and almost
immediately being shoved off on the Sheriff, who was to show her around town,
as the carriage rumbled down the rutted street, she found herself looking at
Alan, and trying to figure out exactly why he was so sour.

“Give me the plug, Rodrigo,” Sheriff Alan said.
“Quickly, you awful Spaniard.”

Dark-skinned, dark-eyed Rodrigo unflinchingly
pulled the black square from his belt-pouch and handed over the tobacco, which
he never chewed, only carried. Without a word, because he refused to speak, or
couldn’t – Alan had no idea which – Rodrigo settled back into the uncomfortable
chair in the back of the coach that bumped along the rutted streets of old
Edinburgh.

Alan fished the remnants of his last chew from his
lip and flung it, dripping, out of the window, wiped his moist, brown lips with
a handkerchief in the single display of manners he possessed. Kenna watched in
horror as his jowly mouth opened and Alan’s brown teeth closed around the
second lump of tobacco and then turned her eyes back to the old buildings as
they rolled past.

“Laird Macdonald says you’ve never been here
before,” the Sheriff said. “Seems a shame. Even I’ve seen Edinburgh castle. Why
is it that a good Scottish girl like you has never been?”

“I, uh, my family is from quite far north, so just
never had the chance. My father’s traveled but I’ve never done much going
around.” Kenna refused to look at him in his absurd powdered wig with the brown
streaks where he adjusted it with his juice-covered fingers.

Alan grunted in response.

The carriage rolled to a stop, and the driver
swore.

“What’s going on?” Kenna said.

“Probably an overturned carriage or someone hurt
in the street.” Alan said.

“You can’t be serious.” Kenna stuck her head out
the window and gasped when she saw an injured man in the road and a number of carriage
drivers standing around him shouting for him to move. “Why don’t they help him?
He’s got a broken leg! How can those people expect him to move if he’s been
hurt?”

“Because he should,” Alan said. “The people
telling him to move have every right. They’re important. They’ve got things to
do. That creature in the road is just holding things up.” He spat out the
window and took a look.

Alan pursed his lips.

“Rodrigo, go help the man. At least get him off
the road and make sure he’s not dead.”

With a sigh, Rodrigo looked to Kenna, nodded
slightly and trotted over to the man in the road. A few moments later, he’d
helped him to the side of the road, and was on his way back.

“Wait just a minute,” Kenna said as the carriage
started to move again. “That man needs help and no one’s got any idea what to
do. If you don’t set that, he’ll die. Let me out of here.”

She moved so quickly that Alan didn’t have time to
block her, though he tried as soon as he realized what she was doing. He let
his drooping, heavy eyelids fall halfway closed while he watched her talk to
the man, get some swatches of cloth and sent a couple of people from the crowd
to find boards, then splinted his leg.

When she returned, Alan scowled at her.

“We’re on a schedule, girl. You’ve to be back and
Macdonald’s in only a couple of hours. People like Ramsay Macdonald don’t
wait.”

“What’s the hurry?” she said. “I want to see the
town and taking a few moments to help someone isn’t going to do anything to
ruin tonight’s party.”

“Often times, girl, life is one awful thing after
another. You’re noble now. Or will be soon.” Juice dribbled out of one corner
of Alan’s mouth. “It’s not all bad though.”

Kenna turned back to the window and stared out of
it until the carriage pulled to a stop.

“We’re on foot from here,” Alan said. “Easier to
get to the castle without a bunch of horses along.”

A few blessed moments passed in silence as the
carriage let them out at the foot of the hill leading to the castle and the
three began to walk. The smells of vendors selling roasted meats, sweet
shortbreads and pasties had Kenna’s mouth almost watering. They passed another
vendor, one selling trinkets and fragrant, spice-filled haggis wrapped in old
newspaper.

Kenna waved him down as they passed, and asked
Alan to pay him. Alan, in turn, commanded Rodrigo to hand over money.

“Thank you, ever so much, milady,” the
crook-backed vendor said. “Is there anything else the beautiful lady would
like?”

“Aren’t you a flattering man,” Kenna said.

“They all do that. Don’t be fooled.” Alan said.
“Street people will do anything for attention.”

Kenna couldn’t help glaring at him.

“I’ll also take one of those pins, the one with
the rose on it.”

She fumbled with the backing for a moment before
the man asked if he could help. He fastened it to her collar, and bowed deep as
they continued.

“You must stop talking to them,” Alan said.
“You’ll find yourself a target.”

“Of what, exactly? Of kindness and people offering
me snacks? How horrible.”

Behind the two of them, Rodrigo chuckled to
himself.

“Can we go in? I’d love to see the inside. I’ve
never actually been to a real castle before.”

“None at all? Isn’t there a manor in that
backwater where you live?”

Kenna’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. That doesn’t mean
I’ve been inside of it, though.”

“You Scots are all the same. Entranced by wealth,
always wanting to see things you can’t have. You’re to marry the Earl of
Kilroyston. You’ll live in a nice manor, have servants to do everything for
you. Why can’t you just be satisfied with that?”

Kenna’s cheeks flushed. She stared at Alan for a
moment, then began to speak, but calmed herself.

Rodrigo bit his lip.

As she looked at him, the Sheriff wiped his hand
across his lips and smiled as though she’d done something amusing.

“Have I once insulted you today, sir?” She said to
Alan. “Have I – even one time – said anything about England or wherever you’re
from, or your people? Have I?”

Alan ran his tongue along the back of his lower
lip, pushing the black plug further back in his cheek.

“And yet, here you are, doing nothing but
complaining about where you are, the people of the country that pay your wages,
and-”

“King George pays my wages.”

“And you interrupt me, sir! You haven’t even the
courtesy to listen to me before spitting venom.” She took a breath. “If you
hate living here so much, then leave.”

“I’d love to, lass. I really would. Do you think I
want to be stuck up here with all you hooting savages?”

“Then what in the world are you doing here? You
must have petitioned the king for your post.”

Alan laughed. A dribble ran down his chin, into
his stubble. He pushed it away and then adjusted his sagging wig.

“I don’t expect you to understand. A little girl
from a simple people, you are. An insignificant part of a powerful empire. You
wretched creatures are lucky we English have decided to take care of you. If
not for us, where would you be?”

Kenna chewed her lip and looked at Rodrigo as Alan
resumed his plodding, tired steps up the road. The kind-eyed Spaniard shrugged,
and tilted his head to indicate she should follow the sheriff.

The next minutes passed again in silence, with
Kenna fuming and Alan hitching his trousers up around his belly and holding
them in place as he dragged his feet up the cobblestones.

“Oh look,” Alan said. “The men in skirts up there,
they’re getting ready to fire the cannon. Must be nearing mid-day. We’ll need
to return to the carriage soon. Your bridegroom will expect you to be dressed
as best you can for the party tonight. As reasonable as Laird Macdonald is,
even he can’t escape your people’s delusion that you can be refined.”

Kenna didn’t hear him. She watched with
fascination as the finely-kilted soldiers prepared the bank of cannons, saluted
and fired. When they shot, she stuck her fingers in her ears and giggled,
jumping at the noise.

“Why do they do that?”

“The cannons?”

“Yes, why do they fire them like that?”

“Same reason you people do everything else.
Because you’re convinced you matter. You’re convinced you’re free.”

As he spoke, Kenna’s thoughts were already
somewhere else.

She thought of the party, of the lecherous and
aggressive Ramsay Macdonald, she thought of the repulsive sheriff, and she
thought, finally of Gavin as she touched her chest where the thistle he gave
her all those years ago hung, as it always did, preserved in a piece of glass.

Her mind was so distant that even when Alan moved
near her, pulled one of her locks between his fingers, rubbing and smelling her
scent, she didn’t notice.

“Women,” he said, looking at Rodrigo. “They’re
still women, no?”

Alan flashed a brown-toothed smile. Rodrigo
squinted, frowned, and turned away from the sheriff, his eyes focused on the
carriage.