Whence Came a Prince

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  Leana tipped back her hat in greeting. “Who’s this you’ve found?”

  “This is Mr. Lang!” Rose blurted out. “He can tell you all about the kirk. I … I’ve left something behind.” She turned and practically ran across the kirkyard, the door not closing behind her before she was out of doors again, looking greatly relieved.

  Mr. Lang assisted Rose into the wagon and did indeed tell all four women more than they cared to know about the history of the parish kirk and the ancient thorns that marked the glebe boundary. When he started describing the bridge over the Tarff Water leading to Twyneholm, Leana saw her chance.

  “That is precisely where we’re bound, sir. You have our thanks for sharing your … store of knowledge. God be with you.” The horses moved at her command, and Mr. Lang’s gray head faded from view.

  Rose sat wrapped in a silence thicker than her plaid. Leana slipped an arm round her sister and planted a light kiss on her forehead, then gently released her and guided the wagon onto the road bound west for Burnside Cottage.

  “If there is something specific I might pray for, Rose. Something I might do …”

  “Nae.” Her voice was small. “ ’Twill be over soon.”

  “Our journey, you mean?”

  Rose nodded but said nothing more.

  The sharp tang of salt filled the moist air as they crossed a bridge no wider than their wagon and entered Twyneholm parish. Two more miles, most of it uphill, and they would reach the village. How good it would be to see Aunt Meg! She was not expecting them; there’d been no way to let her know they were coming. But she seldom vacated her cottage for long. Leana was certain that when they knocked on Burnside’s door, Meg would be there to welcome them.

  Indeed she was.

  “Leana? Och, Rose! Can it really be you?” Aunt Meg swept them through the door like pennies spilled from her purse, not wanting to miss a single one. “This must be Ian. What a braw wee lad! And who are these bright-eyed lassies? Such lovely red hair you have, dearie.”

  Burnside Cottage was suddenly bursting with women. At Meg’s insistence, they each found a creepie or a stool or a chair. She, however, claimed Ian, who stared at the older woman with a look of confusion.

  “Do you ken what you’re staring at, laddie? I’m your mother in forty years.” Aunt Meg winked at Leana. “She’ll be holding your sons and your grandsons the same way I’m holding you. With this silver hair and these blue gray eyes.”

  Leana blinked away tears, amazed at the thought of holding her son’s children someday. Aye, even his granbairns, if she lived to see such a blessing. When Ian began to fuss, Meg handed him over, then loosely embraced mother and child. “You look wonderful, Leana. How I’ve missed you.”

  “And I you, Auntie.” Leana drank in her familiar scents: honey from her hives and coal from her cooking hearth and yeast from her baking. “We’d hoped to stay ’til the morn’s morn. Might we bide for one night?”

  “Will you not stay two?” Meg looked them over, counting heads. “I’ve kept your hurlie bed made up just in case you hastened back to me, so we’ll put Rose in that. You can share my bed, Leana, and I’ve blankets and heather ticks for your maids. We’ll set up Ian’s crib in this corner, away from the window.”

  The sleeping arrangements for her tiny cottage sorted out, Meg next saw to supper. Sharp cheese and oatcakes baked fresh that morning were served on her good silver plate, taken down from its place of honor over the hearth. Her table was so small that two women at a time took their turns eating supper. Rose excused herself to take a short walk—“for a bit of fresh air,” she said—and soon returned, flushed but smiling.

  “Now that I’ve fed you properly,” Meg said, “and promised you a place to lay your head, I expect to be paid in full.” She held out her hand as if waiting for their coins. After an awkward moment, Meg cackled the way a woman of sixty years might. “Not in silver; mind you. In stories.”

  Leana sagged to a chair in relief. “We have plenty of those. Why don’t you start, Rose? I’ll warrant you’ve an interesting tale to share. Has anything happened to you since we left Newabbey?”

  “Someone else go first.” Rose’s smile faded. “I’m not … feeling well.”

  Fifty-Seven

  Fear is an ague, that forsakes

  And haunts, by fits, those whom it takes.

  SAMUEL BUTLER

  Drink this, dearie.”

  Rose stared at the steaming cup of tea, wrinkling her nose at the bittersweet scent. “Betony, you say?”

  “From the old Celtic words meaning ‘good for the head.’ ” Leana pushed the cup closer. “ ’Tis said to calm the nerves and chase away fear. I’ve only given you a bittie of it in your tea, Rose. When it comes time to deliver your babe, we’ll see you have plenty.”

  They sat across from each other at Aunt Meg’s table, the first light of morning filtering through the curtains. Round the cottage the others were still fast asleep, burying their heads beneath their plaids to escape the dawn. Leana often awakened early; Rose seldom did. Fear, like a rooster’s crow, had stirred her from bed.

  It was Tuesday.

  Half the gold was blessedly gone. Four heavy bundles, each the size of a man’s fist, remained hidden in the wooden cradle with the dreaded gold cord. Yestreen’s furtive visit to Twyneholm kirk had unfolded more smoothly than the earlier one to Tongland. Och, that Mr. Lang! When his gray head had popped up from behind the pews he’d been cleaning, Rose had almost swooned. Did he discover the coins soon after they’d departed? Might he try to learn who’d left such a fortune for the poor of Tongland? Please God, he would not.

  The same errand in Twyneholm had been easier to manage. Having worshiped in the parish before, she remembered precisely where the collection box rested. She’d climbed the hill from her aunt’s cottage, then crept inside the empty kirk, deposited the coins, and returned to Burnside Cottage before anyone missed her. Though it would be easier to leave all the gold in one place, such a sum might also catch a sheriff’s attention.

  It was Morna Douglas’s treasure too, she reminded herself. On that count, Rose felt very guilty indeed. She consoled herself with the thought that, in her father’s keeping, the money would have been as far beyond the woman’s reach as it was in the Twyneholm parish poor box.

  Rose hid behind her teacup, certain no one suspected a thing. Not even her sister.

  “When Father finds out …” Leana began, sending Rose’s heart into her throat. “When he realizes we’ve all left Auchengray, which do you suppose will vex him more: Jamie taking the lambs that were rightfully his or Duncan making that possible?”

  Rose waited for her wildly beating heart to ease. Neither one, my sister. She knew what would vex Father most.

  “Dearie?” Leana reached across the table to brush back a tendril of her hair. “Please tell me what’s wrong. You’ve not been yourself since we left Auchengray. Deliriously happy one moment, dowly the next. Are you … in pain, Rose?”

  Aye. She hung her head. More than you know.

  Leana said nothing for a moment, though Rose still felt the light touch of her hand against her hair, comforting her. “I am concerned for your health and that of your bairn. Though Twyneholm village has no physician, Aunt Meg tells me a midwife resides not three doors down. Would you mind if we asked her to examine you? Just to be certain?”

  All at once Rose felt lightheaded and queasy. When Dr. Gilchrist had examined her throat, she’d nearly fainted from the pain. “Will she … will it … hurt?”

  “You’ll find no gender hands than a midwife’s,” Leana assured her. “Once the others are busy nibbling on bannocks to break their fast, we’ll pay a visit to Aggie McNeil’s cottage. Trust your older sister in this: You’ve nothing to fear.”

  Rose slowly lifted her head. I have everything to fear.

  “Aggie has delivered many a bairn.” Aunt Meg beamed at the neighbor not much younger than she. “Folk say she’s the finest howdie in three parishes.”

/>   Rose sat in the woman’s cottage, her knees pressed together to keep them from shaking. Her apprehension was somewhat eased the longer she regarded Aggie McNeil. On the brief walk from Burnside, Rose had pictured a wizened auld woman like Lillias Brown living in an eerie bothy full of eldritch herbs. Instead Aggie was clean scrubbed and tidy. So was her one-room cottage. Perhaps the midwife might be trusted.

  “Come, Mistress McKie.” Aggie smiled, her face as round as her body, her cheeks firm and smooth, like a well-fed bairn. “This will not take long.” She motioned Rose toward a hard-backed chair. “Sit here, if you please.”

  Rose did as she was told, grateful when Leana stood beside her clasping one hand and Aunt Meg the other. Aggie pulled up a chair and sat across from her, then lightly placed her hands on Rose’s belly, bending her pepper-colored hair closer. For a moment naught was heard in the room but the stiff fabric of Rose’s gown being massaged by the woman’s hands as she followed the contours of her womb.

  “ ’Tis your fourth month?”

  Rose exhaled with a smile. “Aye.” It seemed Aggie knew her craft well. “Though I’ve not felt any movement yet.”

  “ ’Twill not be much longer.” Aggie’s face grew still. She leaned forward as though listening for something.

  Rose regarded her with awe. “Can you … hear my babe?”

  The midwife laughed softly. “ ’Tis not your child I’m listening for. ’Tis the Lord. Sometimes he gives me a … sense of things.” She shrugged, making light of her gift, but Rose knew better. Aggie had a goodness about her. Like Neda. Like Leana. A measure of grace not meted out to many.

  Meg prompted her. “What sort of things, Aggie?”

  “When the bairn might be born. Whether ’tis a lad or a lass.”

  Rose exchanged glances with Leana, then confessed, “My sister is certain she bears a girl. And I believe I’m carrying a boy.”

  “A mother who kens such things is usually right.” Aggie pressed Rose’s middle again, more firmly this time. Her features, drawn into a knot, suddenly gave way to a smile. “Tell me, Mistress McKie: Would you mind two sons?”

  “Twins?” Rose could barely say the word. “Are you … certain?”

  “Think of it, Rose!” Leana squeezed her hand. “We’d each have two children.”

  Aunt Meg’s grin was so broad it threatened to reach her ears. “Do you remember coming to Burnside Cottage one December week and drinking water from the kirk burn?”

  “Aye,” Rose breathed, not remembering it at all. Could the midwife be right? Oh, Jamie. Twin sons!

  “As I told you then, Twyneholm parish had five pairs of twins in two years. You have the burn water to thank, lass.”

  Aggie laughed. “ ’Tis her husband, not the water, she ought to thank.”

  Leana reminded them, “Jamie is a twin.”

  “Well, there you are.” Aggie leaned back, a look of satisfaction on her face.

  “And all his ewes bore twins this spring,” Rose said, “though I don’t suppose that matters.”

  The other women laughed as Aggie patted Rose’s cheek. “It mattered to the ewes that gave birth to them. I do wish I could attend you when your time comes. Your husband’s family will ken a fine howdie in Monnigaff.”

  When your time comes. The words sank into Rose’s heart like a stone. Frightening enough to think of giving birth to one child. But two?

  Like smoke from a smoldering fire, another woman’s prediction circled back to haunt her. Ye must have twa sons tae win Jamie’s heart. Lillias Brown’s words, spoken on a Sabbath morn, offered with a green knotted cord. ’Twill save ye from barrenness and bring ye twa bairns.

  But Rose did not take the cord. The twins she bore were not a gift from a witch but a gift from God. Bethankit! Rose looked at Leana and Meg. “Promise me you will not speak a word of this to anyone. Not our maids, nor the herds, and definitely not Jamie.”

  “A wise decision,” Aggie agreed. “Such news is better heard from the birthing bed rather than from a howdie months in advance, only to be proven wrong.”

  Rose had yet another reason: She’d done enough to threaten Jamie’s future. If she dared not tell him dreadful news, then blithe news was best kept a secret as well. At least until the gold was gone and Jamie was safe.

  “Rose …” A cloud seemed to cross Leana’s face. “What of the pain you’ve been having?”

  The midwife eyed her. “In your lower back, I’ll warrant. ’Tis not unusual with twins. Your body is making room for two. Fear not.”

  Almost giddy with relief, the three women started back to Burnside, heads together, whispering about the glad tidings, when Aunt Meg chanced to look up. “Who is that standing at my cottage door? He is your Ian from head to toe.”

  “So he is.” Rose sighed as Jamie turned toward her. “But bigger.”

  Fifty-Eight

  Life is arched with changing skies:

  Rarely are they what they seem.

  WILLIAM WINTER

  From the moment he met Rose, Jamie had realized whom she might favor in her later years: her Aunt Rowena. Dark hair streaked with silver. Sparkling eyes, deep as onyx. A clever tongue, barely tamed. Now he had a fine notion of whom Leana might resemble: her Aunt Meg. Silvery hair like a halo. Pale gray eyes, glowing like beacons. A kind face, full of wisdom.

  “James Lachlan McKie, at your service.” He bowed to the three women approaching him.

  “And I am Margaret Halliday.” The older woman curtsied, then cocked her head. “Aunt Meg to you, lad.” She slipped her hand round his offered arm and directed him across the threshold of Burnside Cottage with a sweep of her plain cotton gown. “The lasses tidied up the place, I see. Will you be needing some breakfast?”

  He ducked beneath the doorframe and entered her two-room home. “The herds and I have eaten, though we’ll not refuse a bannock for our pockets.” Jamie eyed the cramped cottage with its flagstone floor and rough beams. He imagined Leana seeking refuge within these humble walls, sleeping in the small hurlie bed. If not for the bairn she carried, might she still be here?

  As if drawn by his musings, Leana hurried through the door, eyes shining, arms outstretched. “Here’s the lad I’ve longed to see.” When she breezed past him, headed for Ian, Jamie nearly bit his tongue. What did you expect, McKie?

  Rose came in next, reaching toward him for certain. “My husband.” She slid her arms round him and rested her head on his chest with a blithe sigh. “And the father of my children.” She hesitated for a moment, then simply added, “I’ve missed you.”

  “And I, you,” he said, pulling her closer still. Sleeping beneath the stars with his flock had little to offer except peace of mind. Perhaps different arrangements might be made for this evening. They only had a few miles to cover, and the destination had promise: a comfortable coaching inn surrounded by a vast estate.

  Since Rab and Davie had already started west with the lambs, farewells were brief, with Jamie promising to bring the sisters back to Burnside for an extended visit.

  “Not until their bairns are well delivered,” Aunt Meg insisted, helping them pack the wagon. Curious neighbors leaned against their opened doors to watch. Twyneholm was a quiet village; a wagon full of visitors sufficed for entertainment.

  The maids found their places and kept Ian out of trouble while Jamie strapped the crib to the back with a stout rope, then lifted Leana into the driver’s seat. Rose sat next to a cradle full of blankets, draping her arm across it perhaps to keep it from rocking.

  “Here, lass.” Jamie climbed in next to her. “Let me move that cradle for you.”

  “Nae!” She quickly pushed a basket of linens against the rockers. “ ’Tis fine where it is.”

  “What a kittlie wife I have,” he teased her. Rose smiled up at him, though her eyes conveyed something else. Surely not fear?

  “Pardon me, Jamie. I confess, I’m tired of traveling.”

  He did not tell her they had nearly forty miles of hills and moors yet to co
ver. “I’ll see that you sleep in a comfortable bed tonight.” And join you, if I can. He bent down to kiss her brow, then vaulted over the wagon side, anxious to be off. ’Twas Tuesday. The farther away from Auchengray, the easier he, would breathe.

  Jamie mounted his horse and led them out of the village, casting a troubled glance at the changing skies above them. An hour ago thin clouds had stretched across a watery blue horizon, boding a hazy but dry day ahead. Now thicker clouds were moving in from the west at a steady clip, piling up like waves approaching the shoreline. Someone on horse-back or on foot had little to fear from a rainstorm, but wagons were a different story.

  As they climbed toward the crossroads, Jamie watched Leana out of the corner of his eye, relieved to note her confidence with the reins and her quiet strength. If a hard rain turned the roads to mud, Leana would know to seek stony ground and wait out the storm.

  She caught him looking at her. “Something concerns you, Jamie.”

  He lowered his voice, lest he frighten the others, Rose in particular. “ ’Tis only the skies that worry me. Stay to the graveled military road, and maintain a brisk pace. You’ll find a shelter of trees at Littleton Farm, should you need to take cover.” Judging by her calm expression, none of his words alarmed her.

  Leana tugged on her kid gloves, gazing at the road ahead. “Kindly tell me where I am bound.”

  “Follow the signposts for Gatehouse of Fleet, then watch for the Murray Arms. ’Tis the only inn the village boasts, built round the old gatehouse of Cally Park. I’ll ride ahead and arrange lodging, then see to the lambs.”

  Leana’s smile was like sunlight on a gray day. “You make a fine tops-man, Mr. McKie.”

  He tipped his hat, pleased by her words. “And you, Leana, a fine wagon master.”

  Bidding her Godspeed, Jamie galloped ahead, his scabbard slapping against his thigh. He had yet to reach for his sword. Or his dirk. The only time he’d brandished his useless pistol was the dark morning he’d found Rose leaning over the wagon. What had the lass been doing? She’d never bothered to explain.