The Thorn & the Thistle

by Julie Moffett

  “I have no one now. I’m all alone.”

  Robbie drew her head into the hollow of his throat. Resting his bearded chin on top of her cold windblown hair, he dared a kiss against the dark strands. “’Tisn’t so, Meggie, and ye know it. Ye’ll always have me.”

  She sobbed again and Robbie tightened his embrace, wishing he didn’t feel so helpless. He had seen her behave in many different ways, wildly independent, brash and reckless. But he had never seen her this vulnerable and afraid. It frightened him that he didn’t know what to do.

  “Dinna cry, mo graidh.” He whispered the Gaelic endearment, awkwardly patting her back with his large hand. “I’ll take care o’ ye. Ye know I will. Come wi’ me as ’tis cold here.”

  She stood and allowed him to lead her back to the large tent that she shared with her father. Robbie held the flap open, and she stepped inside. The large tent had animal hides stretched across a wooden frame to make a space large enough to hold five men. A crude wooden table with two long benches sat in one corner. In the other corner were two piles of furs, one for Megan and one for her father. Robbie saw that Geddes had tossed the black wolf pelt onto Robert’s bed and now sat behind the table, his head in his hands.

  “Megan, lass?”

  Geddes’s words echoed in the tent as she stood motionless, staring at her father’s bed. Robbie resisted the urge to sweep her into his arms and shelter her from the ugliness of their new world.

  Robbie cleared his throat. “Are ye all right, lass?”

  She blinked. “I’m...I’m all right. I just can’t believe that hours earlier my da slept here peacefully, no’ knowing what fate held in store for him. And now he’s gone.”

  “I’m so sorry, lass.”

  “So am I.” She unfastened her plaid and cast it to her pallet. “But ’tis no’ the time for sadness. I must see to your wound.” She dropped to her knees at his side.

  “Saints preserve us, it looks as if it hurts something fearsome.”

  “Och, I’ve had worse.”

  “Let me have a look at it then.”

  Geddes moved his hand from his leg. Her hands skimmed across his leg, brushing the dirt and torn material away from the wound. “If ye only knew how much I wish ’twas me who would have fallen instead o’ him.”

  “Don’t say that. Ye know that God has our lives planned out for us. ’Twas simply no’ your time.”

  She glanced up at Robbie and his heart constricted at the pain in her eyes. “Robbie, I’ll take care o’ your da now. There are others who need your help. Tend to them and I’ll be around as soon as I can.”

  “Nay Meggie. Ye are in no condition to treat others.”

  The willful, independent woman he knew had returned and it gladdened him, while at the same time he ached to take away her pain.

  “I’m fine, Robbie Kincaid. Please, just do as I ask. Your da will be all right.”

  “’Tis no’ my da that I’m worried about.”

  “I know. I’m no’ about to fall apart just yet. Please see to the others.”

  He wanted to stay, but knew he could help elsewhere. Robbie exchanged a glance with his father. When the elder Kincaid shrugged, Robbie lifted his hands in resignation.

  “As ye wish, Meggie. But I’ll be back soon.” He lifted the tent flap and stepped out into the cold.

  * * *

  A gust of cold air rushed into the tent and Megan shivered.

  “Ye’re hard on the lad.” Geddes lifted his leg so she could examine the wound further.

  “I don’t need coddling.”

  “He’s in love wi’ ye, ye know.” He winced as she prodded his wound. “Ye canna blame him for wanting to comfort ye.”

  Megan sat back on her heels, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. “I know. I don’t blame him. ’Tis just that now is no’ the time for grieving. We must think o’ what to do without my father. The English must pay for what they have done.”

  Geddes was silent for a long moment before speaking. “Ye plan to seek revenge? How long can we keep living like this, Megan?”

  She looked up at him in surprise. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “I mean that we live in the forest like wild creatures. We are confined to uncomfortable tents in unbearable conditions. We are cold, restless and starving. The future is bleak for all o’ us. Is this really the life ye want to live? Have ye forgotten that ye are a young lass wi’ your life still in front o’ ye?”

  Anger slammed into her. “I’ve forgotten naught. But that doesn’t change anything. I’ll resist the English as long as I have a breath in me.”

  Pushing herself to her feet, she lifted her skirts and walked over to a wooden chest. Rummaging around, she pulled out a small pouch containing herbs. She measured out a small amount, and poured it into a wooden bowl with some water. “I have no intention o’ giving up.” She stirred the mixture. “I hope I speak for the rest o’ the clan as well.”

  “Ye sound remarkably like your father, lass. Proud and stubborn to a fault.”

  She looked up, her mouth tightening. “Are ye implying that our fight is no longer worthy?”

  Geddes sighed. “Worthy, ’twill always be. Wise, I’m no longer certain.”

  “Well, I’m certain ’tis the right thing to do.” She dipped a clean linen strip into the bowl. “I’d rather die than give up my land to the English without a fight.”

  “Have ye considered that it might come to that?”

  “Dying? O’ course, I’ve considered it. Do ye think I fear my own death, especially now that I’ve lost everyone I’ve ever loved? If ye do, ye are wrong. ’Twould be worse than death to live under the heavy hand o’ the English.”

  “Ye understand so little, Megan. ’Tis oft the blindness o’ the young. Life is precious.”

  She frowned. “Life without freedom is worth naught. I’ll fight the English to the death if I must.”

  “And give Farrington the satisfaction of killing another MacLeod?”

  She felt as if someone had punched her in the stomach. “Are ye saying ’twas Farrington himself who killed my father?”

  “Aye, ’twas him. His men caught us in an ambush. ’Twas little we could do. Robbie managed to wound two o’ Farrington’s men, permitting some o’ us to escape, but they chased us anyway. I saw Farrington put a sword through your father in a clearing a wee bit from the village. But the man is a fool. He didn’t know who your father was. After Farrington and his men left, I tried to help your father, but ’twas too late. He died in my arms.”

  Megan closed her eyes, tears trickling past her eyelids. “Farrington is the spawn o’ the Devil himself. How has it come to this? We are forced off the land o’ our ancestors, while those too poor to leave are starved into submission. Curse his black English soul. I swear by all the saints above that I’ll make Farrington pay, Uncle Geddes. I will.”

  “Just how will ye do that, Megan? Your da is gone. Who will lead us in the attempt?”

  At the sharp reminder of her father’s death, Megan felt an aching stab of emptiness. She dashed the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand, her eyes taking on a hard light.

  “I’ll find a way. Did my father leave any final instructions? Had he ever talked wi’ ye about what to do if something happened to him?”

  “Nay, ’twas never the right time to discuss such a thing. Saints above, I wouldn’t even have such thoughts. But now I wish I would have. Och, what an old fool I am.”

  “Hush.” Megan placed her hand on his shoulder. “Don’t blame yourself, Uncle Geddes.”

  “At the end, he spoke only o’ ye, Megan. Even wi’ his dying breath, he was thinking o’ your future. He made me swear I’d help ye and then asked me to take and bury his body so no one would know he’d been slain.”

  Megan lo
oked up. “Bury his body so no one would know? ’Twas an odd request.”

  Deep lines of sadness stretched across the older man’s cheeks. “Mayhap his mind was failing him in those last moments.”

  Megan withdrew into a thoughtful silence, setting the bowl with the salve on the table. Her mind sorted through the possibilities. “Perhaps ’tis no’ as ye think. There may be a reason to his request to hide his body. ’Tis a rumor that the neighboring clans o’ the Chisholms and the MacDonnells are near ready to join forces wi’ us. But if they learn that my father’s dead, they’ll never agree to it. Mayhap my da was trying to tell ye that in order to unite the clans, we must keep his death a secret.”

  Geddes’s mouth fell open. “A secret? Have ye lost your senses, lass?”

  She shook her head, a new light of determination coursing through her body. “Nay, in fact I think I have a plan.”

  “A plan? Just what are ye plotting, Megan MacLeod?”

  She set her hands on her hips. “I’m planning a way to outfox the English. But we must first swear our clansmen to secrecy about my father’s demise, at least temporarily. Then we will negotiate for the support o’ the Chisholms and the MacDonnells. If they ask where my father is, we’ll tell them that he has gone to the Lowlands to gather support for us. We’ll then present ourselves as his proxy, negotiating their aid on his behalf.”

  “His proxy?” Geddes gasped in horror. “Good God, child, I canna negotiate. I am a simple man. I’ve no’ the words nor knowledge to do what ye ask o’ me. I canna fill the shoes o’ your father, no matter how I wish I could.”

  Megan gripped her uncle’s hand. “But together we can. We can’t give up, Uncle. At last our movement is gaining in strength and numbers. Words o’ our deeds are spreading throughout Gairloch. People are once again beginning to have hope that mayhap all is no’ lost for us. But what will happen if we let the legend o’ the Black Wolf die wi’ my father? ’Twill mean the end for all o’ us. We’ll live in fear in our own glens, subjugated to the whims o’ English bastards like Farrington. I won’t let it happen. No’ while I have a breath o’ life still in me.”

  “Megan, even if we wanted to, we could no’ keep your father’s death a secret forever.”

  “’Tis no’ forever that I am concerned about. I need only to bring a few other clans into the fold. Then we’ll reveal my da’s death.”

  “Saints preserve us, child, ye’ll bring naught but strife to the clan. Without a laird, ’twill be a bloody struggle for leadership. ’Twould be different if your brother were still alive. But without a MacLeod heir, ye’ll have your cousins from the Isle o’ Skye feuding wi’ the MacDonnells and Chisholms for control o’ the clan.”

  Megan took a deep breath, steadying her hands so they would not tremble. “When the time comes to reveal my father’s death, I shall take a husband. ’Tis my right. As I am the last MacLeod o’ my father’s line, the man who marries me shall have the strongest claim to the lairdship.”

  Geddes’s mouth opened in surprise. “For as long as I’ve known ye Megan MacLeod, ye’ve avoided the issue of marriage. Ye’re an independent spirit who has stubbornly resisted your father’s every attempt to bind ye into a union not of your choosing. For ye to offer yourself as a sacrifice for clan unity is as stunning as it is admirable.”

  “It is necessary.”

  He sighed. “’Tis a noble proposal, lass, but I still don’t think we can do it.”

  “We can and we will. Until I marry, by all rights o’ our laws, I am now legally the laird o’ the MacLeod clan.”

  “Ye know full well that law was designed only to protect the clan line if the last surviving member was a female. ’Twould be expected o’ ye to marry immediately.”

  “Mayhap under normal circumstances, but we both know that revealing the death o’ my da at this time would only throw the clan and our entire effort into confusion. We must first protect our own and continue the success my da reaped as the Black Wolf. When the time comes, I shall take a husband. I promise ye that.”

  Geddes snorted in disbelief, running his fingers through his graying red hair. “Saints’ mercy, Megan, do ye understand what ye are proposing? As laird, the responsibilities will be fearsome.”

  Megan lifted her chin. “I’m ready for that responsibility. I think I always have been. I know that bringing the other clans into our effort against the English ’twill take some work, but ’twill no’ be impossible. I know every detail o’ every plan o’ my father’s. I’ve watched him plot raids and learned strategy from him. He used to say that the English know little o’ our ways. ’Tis this very thing that makes us strong, Uncle Geddes. I can be the Black Wolf in all ways except battle. In that manner, I’ll defer to ye and Robbie. Ye must only trust me.”

  “Trust ye?” Geddes threw up his hands. “’Tis no’ just a matter o’ trust, lass. What ye ask o’ me, what ye ask o’ yourself is sheer madness. By God, I implore ye to cease such foolish talk.”

  “’Tis neither foolish nor idle talk. Of all people, Uncle Geddes, ye know that Father would have found a way to thwart the English. Search your heart and tell me that ’tisn’t true. We must continue wi’ our struggle. We canna give in to the likes o’ Farrington. ’Twould only make the deaths o’ Jamie, my father and the many others of our clan but a mockery.”

  Geddes moaned, putting his head in his hands. “God’s mercy, lass, ye talk circles around me, just like your da did. Ye surely share his gift for words.”

  “Aye, and ’tis what shall make us successful. Please, Uncle Geddes, do as I ask. We are family. My mother was your sister and her blood runs in my veins, as does yours. We cannot let the hopes o’ our clans die here at the hands o’ men who have no regard for our way o’ life. We must fight back. Please, I canna do it without ye. I need your help.”

  Geddes exhaled, tugging on the thick curls of his beard. His gaunt face was troubled and tired. “’Tis little I can deny ye, Megan. Ye are like my own child. And although ’tis against my better judgment, I will agree to help ye. I warn ye, though, that Robbie will no’ like it. I only pray ’twill work. If no’, may God have mercy on both our souls.”

  Megan threw her arms around her uncle, hugging him. “He must have mercy, Uncle Geddes. For He has no other choice. ’Tis little misery left for Him to allow us.”

  Chapter Two

  London, England

  December 1751

  A light snow swirled and eddied as Rolf St. James guided his black stallion along the darkened streets of London. He realized as the horse’s muscles tightened beneath him that he should have summoned his carriage to take him to court in style. But he needed the fresh, crisp air to improve his mood. The cramped and stuffy space of a coach always made him edgy and tonight he didn’t want anything to affect his humor.

  Sliding a gloved hand beneath his expensive cloak, he touched the parchment that contained the king’s summons. His pulse quickened with anticipation. The request for an audience had been most mysterious, but Rolf was hopeful it was the beginning of something new or at least a welcome distraction. He only prayed that the summons meant he would be called upon to serve somewhere in a new venture that would take him away from London and its despicable court politics.

  He frowned, the hard, square lines of his jaw tightening. God, how he hated this city. His court responsibilities were loathsome, the petty bickering of his fellow noblemen, intolerable. A soldier by training, he much preferred to meet honorable opponents on the battlefield than mingle with pompous idiots of the court. Being forced into discourse with them for any length of time was worse than taking a sword wound in battle.

  Scowling, Rolf slapped the reins against his beast’s neck, urging it on as the royal estate came into view. Upon entering the gates, he was barely given time to dismount and shrug out of his travel-stained cloak before being ushered in to see the king. Astonish
ed, he realized that he was being led to the king’s own bedchamber. As soon as he stepped across the threshold into the room, the servants withdrew, leaving them alone.

  King George II, dressed for bed in a long gown of dark blue velvet, sat in a high-backed chair.

  His pudgy face was white and drawn, but he still wore a wig of thick brown curls that hung to his shoulders. A blazing fire roared in a large hearth and the king had stretched out his bare feet to the warmth. The scent of hot-spiced wine filled the air, and Rolf saw a pitcher and two goblets sitting on the table. Quickly, Rolf walked over to the king and knelt to one knee.

  “Your Majesty, how may I be of service to you?”

  King George waved a pale hand, urging Rolf to rise and sit in a chair opposite him. Rolf obeyed and settled himself on the rich, thick cushions.

  “I received this parchment only hours ago.” The king’s thick German accent deepened, indicting to Rolf that something upset him. He pointed to a scroll sitting on an adjoining table. “It is yet another example of how many disloyal subjects I must contend with. The heathen Scottish refuse to obey me and I grow weary of their behavior.”

  Rolf nodded his dark head. “It is a most difficult situation, sire. The Scots are a proud people. Their location makes it hard for us to regulate their activities as we should.”

  The king pressed a hand to his brow, the brilliant jewels on his fingers sparkled in the fire’s glow. “Hard, indeed. Over the past six months, one man has exhibited positively odious behavior against the crown. He is a Highlander by the name of Robert MacLeod. Two years ago when he refused to sign an oath of fealty to me, I had him cast from his land. I wish now that I had taken his head.”

  The king frowned, and Rolf felt an immediate stirring of concern. “The MacLeods of Skye?”

  A grudging smile stretched across the king’s face. “I can see you did not dally the last time I sent you to Scotland. No, Rolf, he is a MacLeod from the region of Gairloch. I am informed that the MacLeods of Skye are distant cousins. As far as I can tell, the clans are not particularly close. None of the other MacLeods stepped forward to help their cousin when I had him permanently removed from his land.”