The Thistle and the Rose(66)

Nanna knew that through these past two years, Margaret had clung to the certain knowledge that she was loved by the man who had fathered her child. Time had passed, though, and the Nanna often wondered if he had changed.

But now...now he was about to make Margaret’s dreams come true. Their dreams, Nanna thought. All of their dreams.



The sound of the door’s latch startled the old woman from her thoughts, and she sat bolt upright. The door opened and Margaret rushed into the room, pushing the heavy oak door closed behind her. Her eyes flickered across the room in search of her child. Finding her on Nanna’s lap, Margaret’s face visibly registered her relief. Fiona leaped up and ran into her mother’s arms.

“Mama, is it time?” the little girl asked hesitantly, sensing something was wrong.

“Oh, my poor baby,” her mother responded in anguish, hugging the child tightly to her. In an instant she turned her troubled eyes toward the older woman. “Nanna, we have no time. Take the back stairs down to the Great Hall. Find Sir Allan and have him come up here immediately. Then go out to the stables and have them ready three horses.”

“What’s wrong, m’lady?” the older woman asked, rushing to her mistress’s side. Margaret’s bright eyes flashed toward her daughter; loose tendrils of blonde hair fell around her perfect face, now filled with obvious distress. “What I have feared for the past few weeks has finally happened,” she answered quickly, struggling to fight back tears. Her face was flushed with her effort to restrain a thousand emotions. “You must take Fiona away from here. But first go and do as I have said. I will send her down with Allan. And please hurry.”

The older woman was torn between the desire to know more of her lady’s distress and the need to comply with the urgency of her command. But one look at the fear in Margaret’s eyes catapulted her into action, and she bustled quickly out the small door at the rear of the chamber.

As the door closed behind the retreating woman, Margaret’s hand went to the leather purse in the pocket of her dress. Wrapping her fingers around it, she could feel the dead coldness of Andrew’s broach, and, beside it, the ring, its heat burning her fingers through the leather. She had to hide them, and she had to hide them now. Her eyes swept around the room.

Oh, God, she thought. Oh, God! But where?

And then she remembered. With a sharp cry, she ran across the room to the fireplace. Counting several stones over from the opening, Margaret pulled one from the wall. Fiona just stood there in the middle of the room, confused, but knowing deep within her heart that something was wrong, terribly wrong. She could see the small dark space behind the wall and watched her mother yank a small leather purse from the pocket of her dress, jamming it into the hiding place. Quickly, Margaret shoved the stone back where it had been and whirled on her daughter.

“Fiona, my love,” she said, crossing the floor quickly. “Run and get your heavy cloak and the leather purse I gave you.”

“But Mama,” the girl protested. “What is wrong?”

“Go, child! Hurry!” the mother said quietly, trying to control the panic in her voice. “I will explain in a moment.”

Fiona ran to the pegs by the door and pulled down her winter cloak. As she turned back, she could see her mother writing furiously at the small study table. Tripping to the chest by her bed, Fiona took out the purse. By the time the little girl reached her side, she had folded her letter and tipped candle wax onto the paper, which she then sealed, using her ring.

“Give me the purse, Fiona,” Margaret said, reaching for the bag. She stuffed the letter in the purse and removed the ruby and emerald-encrusted cross that was hanging from the gold chain around her neck. Drawing Fiona to her, Margaret placed the chain around her neck and discreetly tucked it inside her dress.

“Mama!” Fiona looked wildly at her mother. For as long as she could remember, her mother had worn the cross close to her heart. “You said Papa gave you this.”

“Aye, my love,” Margaret answered, tears now coursing freely down her cheeks. “But I’ll not be needing it, and you shall.”

“But Mama! I don’t understand! Papa is coming!”

Margaret looked at the bewildered daughter. She was hardly more than a bairn. How would she survive this?

“Listen to me, child. We have only a moment.” Margaret looked around furtively. Time was running out, but where were Nanna and Allan? She continued. “An evil man has come into our home. Not your papa. Do you understand me? Your papa does not even know of the evils that surround him. He is innocent of this.”

Fiona tried to understand her mother’s words. What did she mean? The words swirled through her head. Papa was not coming. Innocent. Of what? Why did her mother no longer need her cross? Who was this evil man?

Fiona began to cry, hiccupping and sobbing as her mother tucked the leather purse inside her clothes. Margaret then wrapped the heavy cloak over Fiona’s shoulders and tied the leather thongs at her neck.

“Listen to me carefully, Fiona,” Margaret continued. They were both weeping now, and she wiped her daughter’s tears from her flushed face. She cupped the innocent young child’s face with her shaking hands and looked intensely into the worried eyes. “I need you to be very brave. You have to go away...to a place where you will be safe. And you have to stay away until your papa comes to get you.”

“But why isn’t he here?” Fiona cried. “Where is Papa now?”

“I wish I knew, Fiona. But the evil men are already here. These men will hurt us, my love. It is too late. You must go. They...But, listen to me, this is most important.” Margaret knelt beside her child and held her tightly with one arm as she pointed to the wall where she had hidden the packet. “When your papa brings you back here, show him what is behind that stone. He will punish the evil ones who have come here tonight! I promise you, he will!”

Margaret hugged Fiona fiercely, and the little girl clung to her mother.

They both jumped at the sound of the gentle knock at the small rear door.

Holding her sobbing child against her, Margaret called for her knight to enter.

Sir Allan entered the room, his face dark with concern.

“M’lady...should you not...should I not be down with Lord Andrew...” he began courteously.

“NO!” Margaret interrupted. “You must take Fiona far away from him...away from here. He...”

With a resounding bang, the heavy oak door of the room burst open, and a half dozen soldiers rushed in, drawn swords in their hands. Instinctively, Allan pulled his own sword from its scabbard, stepping in front of his mistress.

Margaret gripped Fiona’s hand and started backing toward the rear chamber door. As her heart slammed in her chest, she knew that it was not her own life that she feared for, but the life of her own precious child.

Holy Mother, Fiona is an innocent, she found herself praying. Please help her. Please save her.

“What is the meaning of this outrage?” the knight bellowed.

Instead of answering, four soldiers charged at him.

Gallantly, Allan parried the first blows of the onslaught, managing to shove one of the assailants clear across the room. Slashing at the soldiers, Allan managed to plunge his brand into one of the men where the shoulder meets the neck, but before he could pull his sword out of the dying man, two of the other soldiers found their chance; their swords pierced his chest and his back, the blades crossing somewhere between his ribs.

The valiant knight was dead before he hit the floor.

The assailants then turned on Fiona and Margaret, who watched in horror as the killers approached them.

Quickly recovering, Margaret drew Fiona behind her as she pulled a small dagger from her belt. Slowly, they continued backing toward the door.

“Stay behind me,” Margaret commanded in a voice that shook with emotion. “These animals will not dare to harm—”

Suddenly, Fiona felt herself being lifted high into the air. Twisting her body, she tried desperately to dive toward her mother. But a huge man, bigger than Sir Allan, held her with a viselike grip that sent shockwaves of pain shooting down her arms. Turning her head, she glimpsed the ugly, scarred face and the wild, unkempt beard of the grinning madman who held her.

From the corner of her eye, she saw that another man had taken hold of her mother’s arms and wrenched the knife from her hand.

Reacting to her mother’s cries, Fiona felt her body stiffen with anger. Suddenly something snapped within her, and all her fear vanished. She was a whirlwind of motion, arms and legs flying in all directions at once. Wildly, Fiona kicked hard at the man’s stomach, sinking her teeth into his massive paw at the same time. Her attacker snapped his hand away, and Fiona swung loose for a moment. Twisting her arm, she kicked again hard at his midsection, this time causing the man to throw her away from him.

“The devil…”

Fiona landed on her hands and knees, but quickly scampered to her feet, eyeing the ugly man defiantly.

“Are you going to let this wee thing best you, m’lord?” one of the soldiers sneered.

“She is a demon,” the Goliath roared, taking a step toward the girl.

Fiona looked around her wildly. She could see that both doors were blocked. There was no way out. Running to the window, she picked up the stool and rushed toward the men who were holding her struggling mother. Throwing the stool at one, she bit down on the hand of the other before being grabbed by the hair from behind.