The Thistle and the Rose Page 33

  “They were only fighting other Scots, and cowardly turncoats at that,” Danvers spat, his insinuation stinging Argyll. “I've carved and burned my way across this miserable country of yours, and there's no Scot alive who can stop me.”

  “Then why are you looking for a way to retreat through the Grampians?” Argyll muttered tensely.

  “Once I have my...bride...you can all rot to hell in this stinking perch you call the Highlands.”

  “You cannot just take her and go,” Argyll responded, his voice rising in surprise at Danvers’s intention. “You cannot back out on our deal. Henry wants the Crown Prince in our hands, and I want him, too.”

  Danvers strode arrogantly to a chest and drew out a parchment, tossing it carelessly at Argyll. “If you can read this message I received a while ago, it appears that your earl of Huntly has come to an agreement with King Henry. That half-breed brat will be King of Scotland after all, and you, my dear Argyll, will have nothing.”

  “You bastard,” Argyll paled, reading the document. “This is weeks old. You've known this and said nothing. This says for you to return to England. You've been killing and looting, not in your king's name but just to satisfy your own twisted desires.”

  “You'd better be careful how you speak to me, Scot.” Danvers laughed, the evil in his voice showing in his face. “Because I am the only one keeping you alive. So make sure you remain useful to me.”

  The pounding of hooves outside broke into the conflict within as a dozen soldiers and their captive splashed up to the commander's tent.

  When Celia entered the tent, Danvers and Argyll were glaring at each other across the table at the center. For the fifth time since dismounting outside a soldier tried to take Celia's arm, and for the fifth time she yanked her arm out of his grasp. Her hands were numb and her wrists bleeding from the chafing cords that bound her hands before her, but she held herself erect.

  Looking from Argyll's bloodless face to Danvers's ugly sneer, Celia knew that they'd come in the middle of an argument, an argument that Danvers was clearly winning.

  Danvers turned his hulking body toward Celia, and the sight of her bloody, rain-soaked figure brought a gleam into his eye.

  “Lady Muir,” he said with a malicious smirk. “How nice of you to finally come to me...to your rightful husband.”

  He held his hand out to her as if expecting her to walk to him. At Celia's failure to respond, she felt the soldier shove her from behind. But she only moved the half step that she was pushed, looking steadily and meaningfully into the butcher's pig eyes. That look was a look of sheer hate, the result of all the long years of pain, intimidation, and suffering—not just Celia's, but that of the innocent men, women, and children of Scotland who had felt the scourge of Danvers's barbaric cruelty.

  And Danvers saw it. He had expected fear; however, there was none in her eyes. But he would enjoy watching fear replace all other emotions in Celia Muir. At last, she was at his mercy. At last, she would feel the lash of his supreme mastery over her. Before he was finished with her, she would crawl to him on her knees.

  “You will come to me...NOW!” he shouted, his face flushed with rage.

  Celia stood coolly before him. She knew what she had to do.

  Turning away from Danvers, she strode across the tent to Argyll. Argyll's shocked expression quickly turned to a look of satisfaction as Celia stopped in front of him.

  “I'm so glad you're here, m'lord,” she said calmly, her voice the embodiment of sincerity and control. “I've been looking forward to meeting with you for months now. As you know, I was given the task of delivering your nephew into the safety of your hands. But the vile activity of the scum in this room has gotten between us.”

  Argyll nearly laughed aloud at this woman's audacity. No wonder Huntly had entrusted her with the future of Scotland. No wonder so many men wanted her. No wonder Danvers wanted to crush her.

  Looking at the raw flesh of her wrists, Argyll drew the dagger from his belt. At his action, Celia held her bonds up to be cut and was soon freed from the cords that held her.

  “It's a pleasure to finally meet you, as well, Lady...Campbell,” Argyll said as the two of them shared a conspiring look.

  “She's NOT Lady Campbell,” Danvers screamed, smashing his fist on the table. “She'll never be Lady anything...because she's mine.”

  “I'm not yours,” Celia shouted back, her eyes ablaze as she wheeled to face him. “I'm not now. I never have been. And I never will be.”

  “Your king has commanded your rightful place,” Danvers spat. “And you will abide by that.”

  “That king is dead,” she replied. “But Henry was never my king.”

  “You crossbreed traitor,” he sneered. “You think that because you've slept with some cowering Highland oaf, you now have a country that will claim you? A home that will accept you? You have nothing! You are nothing!”

  “What I have, you will never understand,” Celia answered disdainfully. “What I am...will never be yours. I am Scottish, proud and free. I have a king that I fight to protect. I have a home that I honor and will serve. I have a husband and a family that I love. These are things that you will never have nor ever know.”

  “Husband,” he jeered. “Where is your husband now? Where will he be when you are begging me for mercy? Begging me to kill you rather than take any more of what I have planned for you.”

  “Long before I beg you for anything, my husband Colin Campbell will cut out your heart,” Celia vowed.

  Danvers laughed, but there was something hollow in it, and Celia knew that something in her words had struck home.

  A horse galloped to a halt outside the tent, and a soldier entered with the breathless rider.

  “M'lord,” the horseman cried, waiting for permission to address his commander.

  “SPEAK!” Danvers shouted angrily.

  “M'lord, they're coming,” he panted. “Only hours away. A force from the west, and Campbells and Macphersons from the north.”

  “How many?” Danvers demanded.

  “We cannot tell. They're spread across the hills, moving slowly and combing the countryside.”

  Danvers shouted for his subordinates outside. “Break camp now,” he shouted. “We're going through the mountain pass to the south.”

  “We cannot go south now,” Argyll bellowed, moving to the table. “We cannot outrun Campbell. Our only chance is to cut a deal with him while we have his wife.”

  “And give up what I've waited so long for?” Danvers retorted. “There will not be any deals. I'm leaving with my troops, and I'm taking her with me.”

  “She's not yours to take,” Argyll replied, turning back toward Celia. “She is a woman of great value. She will never be an object for your sadistic pleasures. I'll not order my men south, and I'm keeping Lady Campbell here. You can run all the way to England...or to hell if you please.”

  As he strode back to Celia, his broad, gaunt frame blocked Danvers from her vision momentarily. But that was all that was required for Danvers to follow from behind. Argyll smirked and gave Celia a wink as he came up to her, but then his expression abruptly changed. Shock registered on his face as his opponent's sword blade slid between the ribs in his back, and cut a path through the vital organs before protruding from his chest.

  As Argyll sank to the floor in the agonies of his final moments, Danvers braced his foot against the bloody back and withdrew his sword. The look of bloodlust was in his face as he eyed Celia over the twitching body.

  “This is what happens to any that defy me,” he sneered, his lecherous eyes raking her body. “And now I'll take you as I please.”

  Celia stepped back, her eyes quickly scanning the surroundings as she assessed the situation. Not too promising, she thought. Two soldiers stood at the entrance, observing the spectacle. Danvers stood leering, enjoying his moment of murderous power and intimidation, waiting for the total impact of Celia's powerlessness to descend upon her. Judging from the shouts and movement outs
ide, the camp was already a mad rush of activity. Her hand edged closer to the dagger hidden inside her dress belt.

  She might possibly kill Danvers, but she would not be able to escape the two guards. I will turn this knife on myself, she vowed silently, before I let this pig touch me.

  Suddenly bedlam broke out in the camp. The sound of hooves and the uproar of voices drew Danvers's attention to the entry of the tent.

  “What's going on out there?” he shouted at the guards. Before either could move, though, one of the captains entered.

  “M'lord, they're here,” he rasped hoarsely, his face ashen at the prospect of being the bearer of the news.

  “Who's here?” Danvers screamed, moving back to his subordinate, his dripping sword still in his hand.

  “An army of Scots, m'lord. To the south,” he replied, his eyes riveted to the body lying on the ground.

  “No, you idiot,” Danvers hissed, taking hold of the captain's throat. “They're coming from the north! We're going south!”

  “I know, m'lord,” the captain choked out. “But the vanguard of our troops met a force under the earl of Huntly's banner not two miles to the south. They've cut off our escape, m'lord!”

  Danvers went to the map on the table, but before he could look at it, the sound of fighting broke out in the camp. Another soldier ran breathlessly into the tent.

  “Lord Danvers, the Scots are attacking from the north!” he cried. “And there's another army coming over the hills from the west. They're in the camp, m'lord! They're fighting in the camp!”

  As soon as Celia saw Danvers move to the captain, she edged backward to the corner of the tent. Ignored in the sudden furor that ensued, she drew her dagger and quickly cut a slit in the thick cloth wall.

  As she slipped through the opening, she heard Danvers bellow after her.

  “Get her,” the giant butcher shrieked, fiend like in his fury. “I want her!”

  Without turning back, Celia ran toward the battle roar of shouts, horses, and clashing steel. It had to be Colin coming from the north. But who would have followed her from the west? Edmund, she thought, coming from Kildalton.

  But there was not much time for thinking. Danvers and his men were in close pursuit. As she rounded a grove of trees into a cluster of lean-to huts of earth and sticks, she caught a glimpse of Danvers and the others pounding ever closer behind her.

  In a hilly clearing beyond the huts, Celia saw a battle being waged. Hundreds of men fighting in close and bloody combat were throwing themselves at one another. As she ran down a small knoll to the right between two huts, a sudden roar came from behind. A hand grabbed her hair and yanked her off balance.

  As Celia fell to the side, she managed to turn and slash at her attacker's face. As she rolled clear, she saw Danvers's hand clutch his cheek as blood streamed through his fingers. As they faced each other breathlessly, Danvers's malignant sneer fixed itself on his prey. He shouted to the others at his back.

  “Join the fighting,” he barked, never taking his eyes off of Celia. “I'll be there in a moment.”

  The sound of the fighting was moving away. And as the soldiers ran off, he spoke directly to her. “I can see that we are not going to have a long...honeymoon,” he leered malevolently. “But at least I'll have the pleasure of gutting you here and now.”

  “Then you made a mistake sending away your helpers,” Celia taunted, putting as much courage as she could muster in her voice as she whipped off her heavy cloak, holding it in her outstretched hand.

  “Ha! Ha!” came Danvers's surprised and admiring response as he moved a step toward her. “Still the fearless and haughty young woman. Still Celia Muir!”

  Celia saw Danvers raise his sword, and prepared herself to jump, duck, or roll and to strike back with her dagger if she could. If she still lived.

  Suddenly the devil’s eyes looked up, and Celia saw irritation turn to recognition, and then a flash of fear.

  “That's Celia Campbell now, you cowardly swine,” the voice behind her growled. “You may address her as Lady Campbell, once before you die.”

  Celia had to restrain herself from turning and facing Colin. He had come for her. He was here.

  She didn't dare avert her eyes from Danvers. She knew it would be a mistake, a fatal mistake, to allow him even an instant to strike.

  Suddenly he moved, lunging toward her, sword upraised, hand outstretched.

  But Celia was too quick for him. Leaping backward with the agility of a cat, she was beside Colin in a flash. Her hero moved forward to meet the onrushing madman, shielding her with his arm and then his body.

  The clang of steel rang out in the mist enshrouded camp. The two men swung their heavy swords at each other with matched ferocity, and sparks flew from their weapons as they struck over and over again with sheer might and deadly determination. Watching them, Celia saw the wild look in Danvers's eyes, which was so different from the cold fury of Colin's glare.

  Slowly Colin began to drive the Englishman up the hill, and Danvers's blows started coming more and more quickly. The demon was now lashing out at the Highlander frantically. Celia knew that her enemy was losing control.

  Driving his body back into Colin, though, Danvers was able to gain a momentary respite, and he was breathing heavily as the two giants clinched. Then, with a mighty heave, Colin sent his adversary crashing through the side of the hut, losing his sword, though, in the fierce explosiveness of the action.

  Never taking his eyes from the dark shape that was Danvers, Colin drew his dagger and plunged after him into the murky and narrow structure. Celia picked up the sword from the tall grass beside the lean-to and ran around the hut in time to see the two great men struggling hand to hand in the shadowy interior of the hovel.

  She watched in a cold sweat as Colin and Danvers fought, the two warriors holding nothing back in this fight to the death.

  And suddenly they stopped. Celia watched as Danvers backed slowly out the front of the hut. She raised the sword to cut him down, a fury coursing through her that she had never before felt, when his arm reached up to steady himself on the post by the entry. Then, with a half turn, the Scourge of Scotland fell lifeless to the ground, the ebony handle of Colin's dagger protruding from the base of his throat. The black sapphires set in the hilt flashed in silent testimony that justice had been finally, at long last, served.

  Colin came to the opening of the hut and looked out at his beloved. Celia rushed to him, and tears of relief washed her cheeks. The two lovers embraced each other, and Colin anointed her forehead with a kiss. Feeling his lips pressed against her skin, Celia felt a great chain slip away—the chain of oppression and intimidation that she had unwillingly carried from the moment of her father's death in England. And as they both turned to look at the body of the madman, a speech that Edmund had once taught her came into her mind. ”As long as a hundred of us remain alive, we will never be subject to the English; because it is not for riches, or honors, or glory that we fight, but for liberty alone!”

  Standing in the gray mist on the rain soaked hill, Celia wrapped her arms tightly about the man she loved. And looking down into Danvers's unseeing eyes, Celia knew she had found her liberty. Finally, she was free of the evil that lay in the mud at her feet. Finally, after so long, after so much, Celia was completely and truly free...to love...to live.

  Chapter 17

  Finally the spring planting is done. As I watch the children herding the cow back toward the shed, I can hear them singing. By the cottage, my wife is standing with her hands on her hips, and I know she can hear them singing, as well. She turns her head and smiles at me across the newly-turned field.

  This is a season of great promise.

  The June sun was shining down on the huge crowd that had gathered to celebrate the coronation of Kit as King James V of Scotland. Foreign dignitaries, archbishops from Rome, clan chieftains, burghers, and peasants all rubbed shoulders in the grand festival that had descended on what had once been the thriving cit
y surrounding Edinburgh Castle. Everywhere the signs of rebuilding were visible, and the coronation reinforced that sense of renewal. Once inside, invited guests admired a Great Hall festooned with the tartans of every clan in Scotland.

  Made regent by the deal struck between her brother Henry VIII and the Scottish nobles led by Huntly, Queen Margaret, arrayed in a gown of English cloth of gold, sat beside the infant Kit, who was propped on pillows on the ancient throne of the Scottish kings. The earl of Huntly stood nearby with two other earls, each holding a velvet pillow. A crown, a scepter, and a sword rested on the pillows, and the line of Scotland's elite stretched into the Outer Hall and beyond.

  Gripping Colin's arm as they made their way to the dais, Celia fought back the tears that were welling up in her eyes. For nearly eight months, Kit had been hers, to love and care for. Now he was the King of Scotland, and safe at last.

  Queen Margaret and Celia had made their peace in the weeks following the defeat of Lord Danvers. Celia and Margaret had talked of the child and about the ways each had tried to preserve the Crown Prince's safety in the days following Flodden. To Margaret, the English court had always been home, and the safest place she knew. That was why she had arranged to have Kit taken there.

  But after the prince's disappearance, the queen had heard reports of the horrifying activities of the man to whom she had tried to deliver her child. It was only then that she realized the magnitude of the error she had nearly committed. After that, Margaret had pressed for a speedy settlement to the negotiations insuring her son's safety, and her gratitude to Celia was evident in the words she had spoken when they met.

  Colin placed his hand over hers, gently stroking it as they stepped closer to the front. As they reached the dais, the earl of Angus looked at the couple and introduced them.

  “Lord and Lady Campbell...the earl of Argyll.”

  In recognition of Colin's success in defense of Scotland against the barbaric invader, Lord Danvers, and Celia's heroic protection of the Crown Prince, the nobles of Scotland, with the full support of Queen Margaret, had made Lord and Lady Campbell Peers of the Realm, bestowing on them the earldom of Argyll.