Whence Came a Prince

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  “I know, lass.” He tugged on her braid. “Sometimes a stramash can be a blessing. Amid all the clamor, we’ve been able to store our own trunks in the barn without anyone noticing.”

  “If you say so,” she said, sounding unconvinced. “Auchengray hardly feels like home anymore. I thought taking a book along might boost my spirits.”

  “Naughty Rose.” His exaggerated scowl was meant to make her smile. “Have you forgotten what I told you Monday?”

  She mimicked his shepherd’s stance—shoulders square, head thrown back, feet spread apart—and repeated in her deepest voice, “ ‘Do not take a single thing that is not rightfully yours.’ Aye, Jamie, I heard you.” She held up the pilfered volume. “ ’Tis only a book—”

  “That belongs to your father.”

  “And I mean to keep it.” Lachlan swaggered into the room, then plucked his book, from her grasp and slid it back onto the shelf in one effortless motion.

  Jamie’s mouth went dry. How much had the man heard?

  “Sonnets.” Lachlan studied the spine of the book she’d chosen. “ ’Tis not a week for reading poetry, young Rose. You should be making your brothers feel at home. Organizing the front parlor for them. Helping the maids unpack my wife’s many kists.”

  “I have done those things, Father.” Rose had yet to abandon her proud posture. If anything, she’d thrust out her chin farther. “And what have you done for my birthday? Come Lammas, you and your new sons will be halfway to Lockerbie, leaving only the three of us to celebrate my seventeenth summer.”

  Jamie shot her a warning glance. Careful, Rose. Lachlan was not a man to be baited like a sea trout. He could yank her into deeper waters before she discovered her feet had left the banks.

  “As it happens, Daughter, I’ve arranged for a present to appear by your breakfast plate on Sunday morning.” He crossed the small room, hands clasped behind his back. “Though I’ll not be here, I trust your husband will see the anniversary of your birth duly celebrated.”

  “I shall indeed.” Jamie circled his arm round Rose’s waist, hoping to soften her belligerent stance. Now was not the time to provoke the man’s anger. “Uncle, I see you have a new thrifite.”

  “A larger one with a larger key.” The wooden money box, fitted with an elaborate brass lock and handles on each side, was twice the size of his old one, surpassing the dimensions of the family Bible stored in the box by the hearth. Lachlan produced a key dangling from a silken ribbon round his neck and opened the box with a flourish, inviting their appraisal.

  The mound of gold and silver coins sickened Jamie. Years of avarice and selfishness had produced a fortune that would benefit no one but Lachlan McBride. Jamie stared at his uncle’s treasure and realized he was looking at the man’s heart.

  Rose leaned forward for a closer inspection. “You have kept that knotted cord, I see.”

  Lachlan snapped the lid shut. “A worthless charm.”

  “Lillias Brown once told me you were quite pleased to have it.” Though Rose’s countenance was docile, her words carried a note of challenge.

  “It means nothing to me.” He turned the key with a sharp flick of his wrist. “Nor do I care what the auld wutch believes. She gave me that gold cord unbidden sometime ago. What of it?”

  “As you say, Father.” Rose ended their parry, her voice as smooth as a tempered blade. “ ’Tis worthless.”

  “Indeed.” The ruddiness in Lachlan’s face began to ease.

  Jamie’s pounding heart slowed as well. Rose was surely her father’s daughter, taught to spar at his own knee. Jamie tightened his hold round Rose’s waist, a mute signal for her to hold her peace. “Tell me, Uncle. Will you be taking the Edingham lambs to Lockerbie?”

  “Nae. They’re the runts, the smaller of the twins.”

  Jamie bristled. Though they were smaller, the lambs were no less hardy. Had he not chosen every one of them?

  “Rather than drive that flock all the way north from Dalbeaty,” Lachlan said, “I’ve decided to let them feed on Edingham’s good pastureland a bit longer. Fill out their hind legs, get some meat on them. Then I’ll sell them at the September market in Dumfries.”

  And keep the silver. Jamie gritted his teeth, forcing himself to ask what he needed to know. “Will the new owner of Edingham not object to their grazing on his property?”

  “When I’m paying two months’ rent for a useless parcel of land? Thomas Henderson was happy to take my silver for his troubles.”

  Jamie filed the information away. “And what of the lambs bound for Lockerbie? Have you a plan for them, too?”

  Lachlan seldom missed an opportunity to boast. “I’ve fee’d a dozen herds, one for every fifty lambs. Duncan will oversee things, of course. The men have twenty miles to cover—half on Friday, the rest on Saturday.”

  “Ten miles each day? ’Tis not prudent to drive the lambs so hard to market.”

  Lachlan reared up. “Nephew, I have bred, raised, and sold sheep for more years than you have drawn breath. If I want my lambs on the road Friday at daybreak, so they shall be. If I want to leave for Lockerbie on Saturday and take my sons and wife with me so they might see for themselves my standing among Galloway’s landowners, it will be done.”

  Jamie hung his head, if only to hide his elation. All the details he required, served to him as neatly as a leg of mutton on a platter. “When shall we expect you home, Uncle?”

  “Late Tuesday afternoon,” he grunted. “With my purse bulging if the buyers are generous.”

  When Jamie looked up, Lachlan was already at the door. “The men I’ve fee’d are gathering in the steading tonight, preparing to leave at first light.” He waved his hand as if he were brushing off a swarm of midges. “Feel free to make their acquaintance, Jamie. They’re penniless shepherds. Like you.”

  Fifty

  For friendship, of itself a holy tie,

  Is made more sacred by adversity.

  JOHN DRYDEN

  I am not ashamed of being a shepherd, Duncan.” Jamie shoved his dirk inside the cuff of his boot with a fleeting thought of plunging the sharpened blade into Lachlan’s black heart instead. “But I’ll not be called poor.”

  The evening sun hung low on the horizon, gilding the steading in a bronzed glow. Inside the barn, Jamie and Duncan were gathering the last of their belongings before they met with the drovers.

  “Thar’s nae shame in poverty. Only in pride and greed.” Duncan tightened the rope round the bundle he’d packed, then threw it over his shoulder as if testing the weight of it. “Yer uncle is a wickit man,” he said plainly, laying his bundle by the door. “He doesna seek after God. Which is why I’ll not mourn whan I leave this place. For I dinna mean tae come back.”

  Seeing the telltale sheen in Duncan’s eyes, Jamie blinked hard, bridling his emotions. “Will we not see you again after the morn?”

  Duncan wagged his head, his features grim. “Whan the lambs are sold in Lockerbie, I’ll head south for Kingsgrange and start wark there on Wednesday next.” He glanced toward the open barn door and the world beyond it. “ ’Twill be strange not turnin’ toward Auchengray as I pass by the road.”

  Jamie sank onto a wooden stool, the weight of his decision growing heavier by the hour. “This is my fault. All of it.”

  “Nae, ’tis yer uncle’s doin’. From the day ye arrived, he had his mind set on swickin’ ye.”

  “And so he has.” Many times. Jamie had lost count of the promises made and broken by Lachlan. But was it right, what they were planning? Was it justice … or revenge? “The Almighty has told me to return home, Duncan, and to take my family. He did not mention my lambs.”

  “But yer uncle did.” Duncan’s tone brooked no argument. “He said they were a blissin o’ God and called them yers. Ye’ve earned these lambs by the sweat o’ yer brow. We’ll take back what Lachlan McBride pledged tae gie ye—nae mair, nae less—and send ye hame tae Glentrool wi’ yer flocks. Ye’ve nae reason tae fear. The Lord is wi’ ye.”
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  Jamie stood and grasped his friend’s arm, determined to know the truth. “You are certain this is God’s will? For me to claim these lambs? And for you to risk helping me?”

  “I am,” Duncan answered at once. “ ’Tis the Lord’s wark I’m doin’. Not for yer sake, Jamie. For the sake o’ his halie name. The Buik doesna lie: Many sorrows shall be tae the wickit. But he that trusteth in the LORD, mercy shall compass him aboot.”

  Jamie chewed on the man’s words like meat. Like bread. He did trust the Almighty. And had been wrapped in his mercy from the hour he had left Glentrool. “But what of Neda?” Another worry. “Asking her to move, uprooting her from her home—”

  “Och! Hame is whaur the woman hangs her apron. Forby, she’ll be wi’ our dochter Mary from dawn ’til dusk.” Duncan pulled off his cap to dust the plaid wool across his breeches, watching Jamie all the while. “I canna call meself yer freen and not help ye, lad.”

  “You are …” Jamie looked away. He could barely speak for the tightness in his chest. “A … good friend.”

  No one had ever been kinder to him than Duncan Hastings.

  They stood in silence for a moment, face to face, the air filled with evening birdsong and the muted sound of men’s voices in the bothies next door. Jamie tried to ignore the heartache inside him, but it would not cease. “I will miss you, Duncan.”

  “And I ye, lad. Mair than I can say.” Duncan wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Weel I recall the day ye came here. Green as spring grass and fu’ o’ oats. But ye warked hard and were willin’ tae learn.”

  Jamie snorted, his spirits lifting. “With you as my teacher, I had no choice.”

  Duncan grinned, though his eyes were moist. “I’m a for a guid day’s wark. But we’ve also caught a fish or twa. Swapped herd lore standin’ on the braes. Rode tae Keltonhill Fair thegither. Bought ye a horse—”

  “And named it after you,” Jamie reminded him, glad to see the man’s face redden if it meant he was pleased. “My gelding will ne’er be the friend you’ve been, Duncan. But I’ll be proud to tell folk why my mount bears the name Hastings. That I will.”

  Duncan merely nodded, clearing his throat, then started toward the bothies at the end of the steading—small, dirt-floored cottages, sparsely furnished, reeking of the nearby midden. “Time tae meet anither freen or twa wha’ll do richt by ye come the morn’s morn.”

  They knocked on the thick-paned window to announce themselves, then were welcomed inside by a motley assembly of men of all ages. Jamie greeted the ones he recognized, including the few shepherds he knew by name: Rab Murray, Davie Tait, Geordie Currie. To a man they’d been roughened from years spent on the hills, their faces etched by wind and rain. Though their teeth were stained, their smiles were honest, and the grip of their hands sure. These were men Jamie could trust; he would need their trust as well.

  “Lads,” Duncan began, raising his hands to quiet them, “ye’re a’ from the neighborhood, so ye ken the ill-scrapit nature of Lachlan McBride.” A low murmur circled the crowded bothy. Aye, they knew. “Twa months ago he promised Jamie McKie twenty score lambs for his labors. Ye’ll believe me whan I say he’s earned them. Last week Mr. McBride changed his mind for nae guid reason but greed. I canna stand by and see a man swicked oot o’ twa years’ wages.”

  As the murmuring grew louder in Jamie’s favor, Duncan pressed on. “Whan we leave here in the morn’s morn, the unmarked lambs will be driven north, as planned. I’ll take seven o’ ye wi’ me tae Lockerbie for the Lammas Fair. The spotted lambs will be driven tae the glen o’ Loch Trool by the northern route. I’ll need five o’ ye for that lang raik. Ye’ll be in guid hands wi’ Auld Nick as yer topsman.”

  A graying man of some years stepped forward, offering his hand. “Mr. McKie? Nicholas Donaldson of Balmaclellan.” Whatever his age, his back was straight and his grip was solid, like clasping an iron handle. “Dinna let me name worry ye, sir. I may be Auld Nick, but I’m not the de’il himself.”

  The herds chuckled, but Jamie noticed none of them slapped the man on the back. Donaldson was well liked but also respected. As tops-man, he would ride ahead, arranging for grazing and lodging, seeing to the needs of the drovers and their beasts. An important role, not lightly assigned.

  Jamie nodded at him. “I trust you’ll see my lambs home. You and the other herds will be well paid when you reach Glentrool.”

  “Mr. McKie’s a man o’ his word,” Duncan said. “Rab and Davie, ye’ll be travelin’ wi’ him. As for the herds comin’ wi’ me, I’ll see ye’re paid whan we arrive in Lockerbie, then send ye tae the hills.” Duncan smiled, but Jamie saw the tremor in his chin. “Whan Lachlan McBride jalouses half his lambs are missin’, I’m the ane wha needs tae face him. Alone.”

  Fifty-One

  Haste thee, haste thee, to be gone!

  Earth flits fast and time draws on.

  SIR WALTER SCOTT

  Are they truly gone?” Rose leaned out the second-floor window, watching the ebony carriage disappear down the drive. A pewter sky loomed over the landscape, and the air was pregnant with rain. Minutes earlier the McBrides and McKies had exchanged farewells on the lawn. A cluster of relatives with little to say. No tears, no tender embraces. Perfunctory well wishes. Morna nervously fiddling with her sleeve. Jamie sullen.

  Lachlan’s final words had been as callous as ever. “Without Duncan here, the management of Auchengray rests on your shoulders, Nephew. I do not imagine much will be accomplished between now and Tuesday.”

  “On the contrary,” Jamie had said, his tone as sharp as his gaze, “while you are gone, I will spend every hour taking care of your property.”

  Rose smiled now, remembering. My canny husband.

  As she turned away from the window, Jamie came up behind her, his arms full of bedding. “Lass, come tell me what you need from the nursery.” Since they finally had the house to themselves, the traveling party could finish packing their belongings without subterfuge. Willie and the others would be apprised of their plans shortly, then pressed into service loading Jock Bell’s borrowed wagon. Rose spied it clattering up the drive at that very moment, Rab Murray at the reins, two barking collies by his side.

  She followed Jamie into the nursery, grateful Leana had spirited away Ian to feed him a stout breakfast. The lad might have to live on cold porridge for a week. Would he behave himself in the wagon? And how would they keep him dry when it rained? Her long list of worries expanded by the hour. So did a seething resentment toward the father whose greed forced them to flee like vagabonds.

  Lachlan McBride had promised to leave a small present for her.

  She had a parting gift for him as well.

  “Decide, Rose.” Jamie did not bother to mask his impatience, though she would excuse him anything on so tapsalteerie a day. “What’s to be taken, lass?”

  She scoured the nursery, considering each item. “Ian’s crib, which Willie made for him. And the oak cradle that belonged to my mother.”

  “ ’Tis fair.” Jamie had insisted on approving every item, determined not to be branded a thief. He dropped his armload of tattered bedding—rescued from the rag pile—into the empty crib, then wrestled it into the hall, calling for Hugh to help him carry it down the stair. All at Auchengray would turn into beasts of burden before the morning ended.

  Rose waited until she heard Jamie’s voice fade out the front door, then collected the old kitchen apron she’d hidden in the bottom of their clothes press and slipped down the stair, hoping to reach the spence unseen. On Thursday last, when Jamie had found her studying her father’s bookshelf, the volume of poetry in her hands had been a ploy. Her true reason for visiting her father’s private abode was about to bear fruit.

  The apron tied round her waist swung to and fro as she walked, weighed down by the strange collection of items hidden deep inside its pockets. Rose clutched them against her, lest someone come round a corner and ask too many questions. Once inside the spence, she swiftly latched the
door.

  The room was bathed in shadows. Without a candle, her progress to the fireplace was slow and cautious, though her eyes soon adjusted to the meager light from the window. She knelt before the hearth and emptied her pockets with care. Though she’d heard of stone fires, she’d never had cause to assemble one. If a person left his farm because of some grievance, building a stone fire brought ill luck to the homeowner when he returned and crossed his threshold. Rose had never imagined a day when such a custom would be useful. That day was here.

  She laid twigs of green hawthorn, freshly cut, on the hearth, then carefully deposited bits of glass from a broken bottle discarded behind the byre. Atop the glass she put handfuls of small, sharp stones gathered from the drive. Finally she placed several flat stones on top, covering the whole of it.

  Rose sat back on her haunches, admiring her work. If there was some cantrip required, she did not know it. Instead she remembered the words Jamie had once shared with her, spoken by his father the night Jamie left Glentrool. Cursed be anyone who curses you. “Aye,” she said softly, holding her hands over the stones as if she were warming herself at a fire. “Curse you.” She could not bring herself to say her father’s name; ’twas bad enough to think it.

  Rose was on her feet at once, anxious to get away from whatever she’d wrought. She opened the casement window, easing the panels of glass out as far as they would go. Aye, the width was sufficient, and the ground rose to meet her just below the window, offering a safe landing. That would come later, when she turned her back on Auchengray forever. If she departed by the window now, any innocent soul who came through the front door would be cursed.

  As she turned away from the yawning opening and the menacing clouds it framed, her gaze fell on her father’s thrifite. Boldly displayed on his desk. A silent dare. Unlock me. Lachlan had the only key, far beyond reach by now. She could not resist touching the wood. Sliding her hand across the old pine, sanded and polished by a carpenter from the village, Rose pictured the coins and bank notes heaped inside the wooden box.