The Thistle and the Rose(61)

The outrage of the Highlanders' treachery was expressed strongly and openly by Lord Hugh. Torquil Macleod was vying for power, just as Argyll was. The Gregors were in it simply for the money.

Hugh's greatest concern, however, a concern that he tried to hide from Celia, regarded the sheer numbers that Colin might be facing there. The message gave no information about that.



That afternoon Celia walked with Bear in the courtyard of the castle, all the time thinking of Colin, fearing for him. These past days he'd been all she thought of. In the long hours of night he had been all she dreamed of. She had found herself praying as she'd never prayed before. Walking by the open drawbridge of the fortress, she found herself praying now. Praying for his success. Praying for his safe return.

But Celia's meditations were interrupted when, from the castle gates, a child hesitantly approached her. She recognized him immediately as the nephew of Eustace, the woman who had saved Celia from her husband's Gregor clan kinsmen.

“M'lady,” the lad mumbled nervously. “My aunt...My aunt's been hurt. I was sent to ask for your help...to bring you.”

“What happened?” Celia asked, crouching before him and peering into his face. “Is she badly injured?”

“I cannot say, m'lady,” he responded. “They just said to come and get you.”

Without another word, the boy broke away from Celia and ran out the great castle gates.

“Shall I get your horse, m'lady,” Runt said from behind, startling Celia with his presence.

“I can get it, Runt, thank you,” she said quickly.

“It may not be a good idea going out alone, m'lady.”

“Runt, I'm just going to the cottages outside the village,” she said reassuringly. “I'll be back in an hour.”

“I do not know if Lord Hugh will—”

“Besides, I'm always armed,” she said, patting a sheathed dagger that she was wearing inside the waist of her belt. “But if it will make you feel better, I'll wear a short sword, as well.”

“Let me go with you, m'lady,” he suggested.

“Runt, I really prefer that you check in on Ellen and Kit for me.”

“Aye, m'lady!” he responded cheerfully. “If that's your wish, I'll be going up there right away.”

A few moments later Celia was riding toward the village. Since Eustace’s arrival at Kildalton, Celia had visited with her a number of times and had been happy to see her settling into her younger sister’s home. Her sister was a widow who was now sustaining herself by working at the clothworks in the village. Celia knew that Eustace hoped to do the same.

But as she rode to the cottage, something in the boy's face bothered Celia. There was a hint of something—fear, perhaps—in his eyes.

The cottage sat on a knoll overlooking a quiet inlet away from the village. When Celia called at the door, the timber plank swung inward. Going into the semi-darkness, her eyes took a moment to focus on those within. Across the room beneath a shuttered window, the boy sat huddled with his mother, their eyes openly displaying terror. On the floor beside them lay a battered heap that Celia recognized as Eustace.

With a cry, she stepped into the room, suddenly aware of the shapes that were surrounding her from the dark corners. Turning back as the door slammed shut, Celia looked into the ugly face of Eustace's husband.

Leaping back toward the frightened group, Celia whipped out the short sword, facing the five thugs who were approaching carefully.

“You promised to let my mama go!” the boy sobbed behind her.

“Shut your trap,” Eustace's husband sneered. “You think we would let any of you live to tell what you've seen?”

“Laddie,” Celia ordered. “Open the shutter behind you, and you and your mother go out...NOW!”

The boy scrambled into action, and as light flooded the room from the opening shutter, the assailants stepped forward, only to scurry backward before the slashing arc of Celia's sword blade.

The ugly sneer turned to concern on the leader's face as the mother and son clambered through the window. “Get her, before they come back with help,” he shouted, lunging at Celia.

With a short stroke, Celia drove the point of her sword into the hollow at the base of his throat. Before Eustace's husband hit the floor, however, Celia had spun sharply, slashing another attacker beneath the ear.

But this was to be her final act of self-defense before the crashing blow from the right exploded in her head a shower of yellows and reds, shutting down the conscious functions of her brain. And then, all was in darkness.



Celia knew she was in a boat before her senses fully cleared. The throbbing in her head was aggravated by a loud roaring noise that gradually settled into the sound of three arguing voices. Listening to the voices, she slowly began to piece together what had happened.

“Are you sure this is Loch Etive?” one voice growled in English.

“No, I'm not sure,” another responded in the same English accent. “The bitch killed that thieving Gregor scum, and he was the only one that knew the way, for certain.”

“That dirty Scot surely enjoyed beating his woman,” a third English voice chipped in, his voice betraying an attitude of loathing.

“We should have killed her anyway. She'll live to tell a tale or two,” the first one answered.

“We're here to do a job,” the third replied with disgust. “Although some of us have forgotten, we're not here to kill women and children.”

The other two laughed the inhuman laugh of the monsters they were.

“What have you been doing the last six months?” the second soldier spat out.

“I wouldn't mind putting my hands on this fine lady,” the first man said lecherously.

Celia heard the sound of a sword being drawn.

“You lay one finger on her, and Lord Danvers will have you impaled and left for the crows,” the third soldier warned. “She's the hostage that we'll use to get the baby king.”

The two others laughed again. “Where do you get your information from, Sergeant High and Mighty?”

“Aren't we still under orders of King Henry?” he snapped.

While the other two cursed under their breaths, Celia shot a glance at the third soldier. It was good to know that at least all English soldiers were not like Danvers and the other two. With this man aboard, she had a chance of surviving this trip, at least.

“Is this Loch Etive or not?” the first voice asked angrily again.

“We'll know by nightfall...if the wind holds,” the second man growled in response, as the three lapsed into silence.

Celia knew that Loch Etive was a long, watery wedge snaking far into the mainland in the area south of Benmore Castle. If these pigs were taking her into that area, then the marauders had obviously divided their forces. Some were attacking Benmore, and the rest, under Danvers it seemed, were waiting farther to the south.

Lying in the belly of the boat, Celia became acutely aware of one of the craft's ribs pressing against her shoulder. She tried to move ever so slightly, so as not to draw the attention of the soldiers. Realizing that her hands were tied in front of her, Celia carefully felt the material of her dress beneath the cloak. Her dagger was still in its sheath. They had not thought to see if she was carrying another weapon.



It seemed as if an eternity passed before the boat bumped ashore. The sun had set a good hour earlier, and Celia had been surprised that the soldiers continued to sail in the dark. But the darkness had covered Celia's movements, and she'd been able to shift her position from time to time, even feeling the lump and the drying blood on her face.

Why do these louts always go for my aching head? she thought to herself. Well, when Colin gets a hold of them, they'll prefer Danvers's impaling.

As they reached the stony shoreline, Celia realized why they'd been able to sail the past hour. The blazing light of a bonfire atop a nearby hill and the torches that the troop of waiting soldiers held must have provided quite a beacon for her captors, she thought. There was no longer any reason to pretend unconsciousness, and Celia pulled herself to her feet before rough hands dragged her out of the boat and across the strand to a waiting horse.

After a few hours of hard riding, it began to rain on the dozen or so soldiers who were taking her to Danvers. Celia was nearing exhaustion, and her head felt as if it were going to split in half, but she was determined to remain strong in the eyes of the soldiers, and to be ready for her chance.

When they reached a gushing river only to find the timber bridge swept away by the swollen waters, the leader, amid a string of curses, called for the troop to stop for the night. They would have to wait until daylight to find another crossing.

Celia huddled under her cloak beneath a tree, soldiers posted all around her. She had decided to remain awake through the night, but her eyes closed within moments of dismounting. She awoke as the dawn broke gray and steely, only to find the soldiers being roused for the day's ride.

A few moments later, as Celia was pushed up onto her horse, she wondered if by now Colin could have been notified of her abduction. But would he know where she was being taken?



Lord Danvers and the earl of Argyll hunched over the map in Danvers's tent. The rain had been pounding down for most of the morning, but was just letting up as the dripping messenger standing by the entrance slipped out into the muddy camp.

“It would figure that Macleod couldn't take a single fortress,” Danvers sneered. The two allies had just received word that the Macleod and Gregor forces had been smashed the previous day. The word was that Torquil Macleod had been captured and was locked up in Benmore Castle's dungeons.