The Scottish Rose

by Jill Jones

  In interviewing people for her stories, Taylor’s style was to ask one or two pertinent questions and then keep her mouth shut. She learned a lot this way, and exposed herself little. She placed the letter back on the desk. “What items is she referring to?” she asked, looking across at Gordon expectantly.

  After a long pause, he handed her a brittle piece of paper and a small, loosely bound book. “Be careful,” he warned. “Whether these are what Lady Agatha believed them to be or not, they are very, very old. I have scarcely touched them since she gave them to me, thinking that one more opening might break them apart.”

  Taylor scrutinized the letter. The penmanship was antiquated in style, and the language stiff, like a very old form of English, but the content was remarkable. “Who was Elizabeth Douglas Ogilvy?” Taylor asked, looking at the scrawled signature at the bottom. “And what is this all about?”

  Gordon explained that in the year in which the letter was dated 1652, Governor George Ogilvy and his wife Elizabeth Douglas, along with some other brave Scots, saved the “Honours” of Scotland—the royal crown, sword and scepter—from the hands of Oliver Cromwell’s army. “It all took place just south of here, at Dunnottar Castle, just outside of Stonehaven.”

  “She mentions here ‘another relic, a secret member of the Scottish regalia.’” Taylor ran her finger on down the difficult script of the letter. “The Scottish Rose, this rose-shaped golden chalice that she claimed once belonged to Mary Queen of Scots.” She looked up at Gordon. “Have you heard of it?”

  “Never.” The lawyer steepled his fingers. “She also mentions a letter written by the queen, expressing her wish that this so-called Scottish Rose become part of the Honours. There was no such letter in the envelope your aunt gave to me, and to my knowledge, no such chalice has ever been associated with the Honours. That’s why,” he said, with a significant pause, “I am inclined to doubt the authenticity of these items.”

  Taylor gingerly picked up the little book, and understood Gordon’s concern for its condition. The hidebound cover was very fragile, and it cracked even as she opened it with utmost care. The handwriting on the pages was elongated and elegant, the words written in French.

  Taylor glanced at Robert Gordon. “But this could be the diary she mentions?”

  “It could be, madam. I have not yet translated it nor had it examined by experts.” He raised his shaggy brows and his shoulders simultaneously. “I told you that Lady Agatha was quite an eccentric. As a Keith, she could have inherited these two items exactly as she said, and they could be authentic.” His lips twisted in a mirthless smile. “But then again, she could have been playing a joke on me.”

  Robert Gordon helped the young American woman into the taxi and waved her off before deciding where to proceed from here with this most unusual business. Returning to the gloom of his offices, he sat heavily on the arm of a chair and picked up the slender volume he’d convinced Taylor to leave in his custody until she was through with her exploring in Scotland.

  He should have translated it before now, but he hadn’t expected her to show up so soon, if at all. Now, he hadn’t much time, and there was much he had to consider before making certain decisions.

  He took the book to his desk and flicked on a high intensity lamp. Then he laid a legal pad next to it and found a pen that worked. He must first discover if the letter, but more importantly, the diary were authentic. If the dated entries met the parameters of history, his next step would be to call on John Doggett, a shrewd antiquarian he knew who could validate it forensically.

  And then…well, time would tell.

  Carefully opening the diary, he turned to the first page and squinted at the letters inscribed on paper as thin as a wafer:

  24 August 1561

  Holyrood Palace

  My native land continues to disappoint me. I have been upon this soil less than a single week, and already I have felt the sting of prejudice that the new religion has put upon those of us who still practice the old. I have vowed upon the Scottish Rose to defend the right of all to worship as they please, that neither Catholic nor Protestant should come to harm for the practice of their religion, but this very day, as my priest said a private Mass in the Chapel Royal, we were attacked and would have been injured, perhaps murdered, had not my brother James interefered. I will write a proclamation tomorrow and have it posted at the Mercat Cross that any future attacks will be punishable by death. My life and those of my servants will not be endangered by these foul haters.

  Even though I gave my word to the Holy Father upon accepting the rose chalice that I would work toward returning Catholicism to Scotland, His Holiness could never understand from the distance of Rome the brutal facts of my reign. I arrived to find my realm in shambles. My nobles fight for power among themselves like snarling dogs after miserable scraps, and Knox’s Reformers spout hatred from the pulpits. How I ache to help this poor country, my native land, but I understand more clearly as each day passes the concern of my uncle toward my lords, and I wonder how I can ever reign successfully in a land so bitterly divided…

  There it was. Mention of the Scottish Rose in the very first entry. Robert Gordon reached for his handkerchief and blotted the beads of perspiration on his brow. This diary couldn’t be authentic, he thought, frowning. If Queen Mary had had such a chalice, it would have been recorded somewhere in history, and not just on the pages of her most private journal.

  He pushed his chair away from the desk. On the other hand, he argued, maybe he was just ignorant of its existence. Gordon looked at his watch. There was still time. Quickly, he closed down his office and headed toward the university library to which Queen Mary had once bequeathed a collection of Greek and Latin volumes. If there were mention anywhere of the Scottish Rose, it would be here.

  Chapter Three

  Stonehaven, Scotland

  The dart hit the mark with a thud, and the crowd in the smoky pub cheered the venturesome American woman who claimed she’d never thrown darts before. Taylor Kincaid allowed herself a small, gratified smile and chalked up her score.

  It was about time something went right for her today.

  She had left the lawyer’s office more than a little troubled, feeling as if she might have made a mistake in allowing him to keep the intriguing letter and diary. Not that she didn’t trust him, but because the artifacts might provide her with just the story she had come to Scotland to find. Not so much Elizabeth Ogilvy’s letter, for Gordon had said it was history, not legend. But she was intrigued by the mention of the “Scottish Rose.” Gordon claimed he had never heard of such a chalice, supposedly once owned by Mary Queen of Scots, if the letter proved to be authentic, perhaps the vessel would provide a legend she could investigate.

  She was anxious to know if the diary supposedly written by the queen contained references to the rose chalice, but since she couldn’t read French, and Robert Gordon claimed to be fluent in it, it seemed like a good idea to let him translate it and have it evaluated for authenticity while Taylor explored other story options. Maybe she’d get two segments out of this trip.

  She’d made a photocopy of the letter and obtained a written receipt acknowledging her ownership of the artifacts, but as she’d prepared to leave, Gordon made a statement that had curiously unsettled her. It wasn’t anything sinister. He’d merely emphasized how he had loyally attended to Lady Agatha’s every wish and whim, which had not always been easy. But Taylor knew instantly that he considered the letter and the diary to be his, and that he resented her intrusion on his claim. She also got it that for all his assurances that these were likely a hoax, he didn’t believe that.

  She started to change her mind and take the items, but it occurred to her that her search for other Scottish legends would likely take her into the wild countryside with only backpacks and camera gear. No place to stow relics that were literally crumbling away from age.

  Scolding herself for being foolish and paranoid, Taylor left them in the lawyer’s care afte
r all. She zipped the photocopied letter along with the rest of her valuables inside the pouch strapped around her waist and headed back to the airport.

  From there, her day had gone completely downhill. Their baggage and equipment did not show up for several more hours, during which time, her young film crew proceeded to sample the many varieties of Scottish ale, which rendered them witless in short order, leaving her to handle everything alone. The car rental agency had screwed up their reservation. There was no minivan available, so the three of them had jammed into the only car left on the lot, a tiny Ford Escort, and headed south, the bulky gray metal cases that contained cameras, film and other gear crammed beneath their feet and piled on their laps.

  Taylor had hoped to have time to take a look at one of the nearby Pictish standing stones, but with all the delays, it was late afternoon before they arrived at their destination, the small town of Stonehaven. They had barely made it inside the quaint old inn they had booked in the heart of town when the clouds that had threatened all afternoon let loose with a violent storm. Taylor craved the warmth of a cozy room and a peaceful nap, but her room was freezing cold. When she’d complained to the innkeeper, he’d looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “But ‘tis spring,” he’d said as if that would explain away her discomfort. “There’ll be no need for heat again ‘til November.”

  A hot bath at last warmed her bones, but when she tried to nap, she was too tired to sleep. And too hungry. She’d had nothing to eat since the plastic breakfast on the airplane. Feeling responsible for her crew, she knocked at the door to their room and invited Barry and Rob to come along, knowing they’d be worth more tomorrow if they fed their hangovers tonight. The inn, however, had no restaurant.

  Maybe there was such a thing as luck. Bad luck.

  The innkeeper directed them to the nearest eating establishment, the Hook and Eye lounge bar around the corner. Undaunted by the lightning that streaked across the darkened sky and the rain that poured down in sheets, the trio made a run for it.

  Now, with a satisfying supper and a couple of lagers in her stomach, Taylor felt better about the world. She was especially pleased about winning the dart game.

  Maybe her “luck” had changed.

  She’d bested the local champion, a large fellow with blond hair and ruddy skin who grinned at her with a good-natured but somewhat perplexed expression. “Your next pint’s on me then,” he said in a thick Scottish accent. “Not bad, for a woman.”

  She brushed off the sexist remark with a patient smile, tucking a strand of long, blunt-cut blonde hair behind her ear. “Thanks,” she replied. “A half pint’ll do.” She’d learned long ago not to take offense at such comments, which were often dropped inadvertently by men who found her abilities surprising “for a woman.” She’d also learned the value of making friends with the locals, for they’d saved her backside more than once in unpleasant situations in countries where the language and customs were foreign to her.

  The bartender brought her a half pint of a golden brew, and the chilled beer felt good against her throat. She smiled at her defeated opponent and raised the glass in thanks, but a sudden blare of loud music made further conversation difficult. With a silent toast to the jukebox gods for rescuing her, Taylor excused herself. Experience had also taught her what to expect any time she let a man buy her a drink.

  Some things were universal.

  And any involvement with a man, other than on a casual basis, was not in her game plan.

  “Nice going, boss,” Rob said, edging a chair away from the table for her with his booted foot as she joined her crew in the next room. “You sure you never did that before?”

  Taylor sat down, giving him a sardonic smile. “I’ll never tell.” She glanced out the window at the downpour. “I wonder when this is going to let up?”

  “Looks like we might be stuck here for days,” Rob observed, eyeing his beer glass with an affectionate grin.

  “And would that be such a terrible fate, lads?”

  Taylor looked up to find the dart player hovering above them.

  “The ale is plentiful and the food’s good,” he said. “Many’s a storm I’ve weathered in the Hook and Eye. Care if I join you?”

  Taylor wasn’t certain how to gracefully say no to the man, but she never had the chance. She watched, aghast, as both Rob and Barry leapt to their feet like two trained dogs, eager to give him a seat. But it wasn’t the boys his eyes were on as he took a chair. “Name’s Fergus,” he said, extending a hand. “Fergus McGehee.”

  “How do you do, Mr…McGehee,” she said, accepting his handshake, then withdrawing her hand again quickly. “I’m Taylor Kincaid.”

  “And I’m Barry Skidmore, and this is Rob Johnson,” piped up the young man with a beaked nose and sandy hair so curly it was almost kinky.

  “Americans, I take it?” The man’s gaze left Taylor’s face just long enough to acknowledge Barry’s introductions. “What brings you to these parts?”

  Before she could stifle them with a warning look or a swift kick under the table, the two young film makers, fresh from school and just a little full of themselves at being on this assignment with the almost-famous Taylor Kincaid, eagerly filled in Fergus McGehee about their job, their boss, and “Legends, Lore and Lunatics.”

  Taylor sent a die-now look at Barry and Rob, but it was too late. The burly Scotsman turned to her, new interest in his eyes. “Ah, so ‘tis legends you’re after then?” he replied, his words so heavily accented he was almost hard to understand. “So what’s brought y’ t’ Stonehaven? Th’ story of th’ rescue of the Honours of Scotland at Dunnottar Castle?”

  Taylor looked up at him sharply. “I thought that was history, not legend.”

  “Oh, ‘tis history for sure. Every child in school around here has t’ memorize that story,” he said with a laugh.

  Taylor paused. “Have you ever heard of something called the Scottish Rose?”

  “Scottish Rose?” He laughed. “Sounds like a woman, or a brand of whiskey. No, I don’t know of it. What is it?”

  “Just a legend I heard about today,” she replied, amused at the Scotsman’s bawdy humor, “but not from around these parts, I guess.”

  “Guess not. No, most tourists come t’ th’ castle because of th’ Honours story, but if it’s legends you’re after, real legends, then it’d be th’ Ladysgate that y’ want.”

  Taylor couldn’t recall having read about anything called the Ladysgate. “Is that the same thing as the Pictish Maidenstone?” she asked. “We’re going there tomorrow, if the weather lets up.”

  Fergus brushed the air with his large paw of a hand. “Nay, there’s nothin’ special about th’ Maidenstone, except ‘tis said to be very ancient. Have y’ not heard o’ th’ Ladysgate?”

  Taylor was suddenly aware that a few others had trailed into the lounge behind Fergus McGehee and were listening to the conversation. Her cheeks grew warm.

  “No. I can’t say as I have,” she answered, feeling suddenly tired again and not wishing to be in the spotlight. She finished the last of her lager. “What’s the Ladysgate?” she asked politely, hoping he’d make it short so she could escape as soon as possible.

  Another man pulled up a chair and sat backwards across it. “Some say ‘tis a haunted place,” the newcomer replied earnestly, but Taylor suspected he was jesting with her. “Others, they say ‘tis a gate to th’ land of th’ fairies.” Laughter tittered through the small crowd, but it had a nervous edge to it, and Taylor’s antennae went up.

  “The land of the fairies?”

  Fergus McGehee leaned toward her, his big arms resting on the table between them. “Haunts, fairies, who knows?” he said, his mysterious smile the perfect segue into his story.

  “Once upon a time there was a wealthy laird in this land, with a bonnie wife named Melinda. But he was a greedy sort, not content with th’ land he owned, although ‘twas already vast. So he set upon a plan t’ enlarge his kingdom. Now, th’ border between h
is land and that of his neighbor was a stream. So th’ laird ordered his vassals t’ divert th’ flow of th’ stream by diggin’ a channel through his neighbor’s property, enlargin’ his own by th’ size of a rich meadow.”

  “Augh, th’ villain!” one of the listeners said in mock horror, causing the group to erupt in merriment. Even Taylor was caught up in the laughter, not knowing if she was being fed a true legend or a line of baloney. One and the same, as far as she was concerned.

  Fergus let the laughter die down, then regained center stage. “But unbeknownst t’ th’ laird, his serfs had disturbed th’ bones of eleven ancient souls buried for centuries beneath th’ earth of his neighbor’s property. Druids they might have been. Or Vikings. And th’ souls, raised up from their slumber in th’ Land of th’ Dead, exacted their revenge upon th’ laird. They built th’ Ladysgate, a giant granite arch that now stands yon upon th’ shore, and through it, they called in enchanted voices t’ th’ lovely Lady Melinda. Bewitched, she followed th’ voices, and when she stepped through th’ portal, she simply disappeared, never to be seen again.”

  Fergus McGehee was a skilled storyteller, and even Taylor found herself spellbound. “Where is this place? Does it really exist?”

  “Oh, aye. It does indeed. But you wouldna want t’ go near it, even today.”

  Here comes the punch line, Taylor thought, bracing herself to be the gullible brunt of a local joke. “Why not?”

  “Because,” piped up a young woman from behind her. “Melinda is not th’ only one t’ have disappeared through th’ Ladysgate. There’ve been others…”

  “Others?” Taylor glanced across at Barry and Rob. Were they thinking the same thing as she, that maybe they’d hit upon their story? She gave them a discreet wink. “What others?”

  “Well, we dinna have all th’ names,” Fergus said in mock apology. “But down through th’ years, there’s been many a disappearance reported. Although some were men, most of th’ unfortunates have been women. That’s why it’s called th’ Ladysgate.”