Thistle and Flame - Her Highland Hero (2 page)

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“W
arm today, no? I expected to freeze myself half
to death with the cows this morning.” Kenna pushed in the door, hands covered
in grass and straw.

“Kenna, just the face I needed to see on such a
nasty morning,” Old Man McCraig said as the fiery-haired Moore girl pushed in
the door, shaking off the mist. “Where’ve you been, girl?”

“The cows, they get irritable if they don’t get
themselves drained of a morning. And Pa gets cranky if he doesn’t have his
milk.” She shook the bucket and then set it on the table between the two men,
opposite where her mother sat.

House Moore was not a rich place, nor a poor one,
just like the rest of Fort Mary. William expected to build it by himself when
they moved to town, and had a very simple plan in mind, but when it came time
for construction, the whole population had showed up, shovels and hammers in
hand, ready to help the newcomers. The habitually cranky William thought that
for a certainty, they turned out to inspect the new family, make sure they were
good enough for the old town.

In reality, they were just happy to have a new
bunch, all under a half-century of age, move to the village. And without
exception, every single one of the town’s boys was very happy to have Lora, who
even as a girl had a mop of flaming red hair that she tossed back and forth,
and a face full of the tiniest freckles dancing across her nose. The girl’s smile
was enough to charm even the dourest of faces, and her antics – her favorite of
which was juggling, followed closely with imitating farm animals – never failed
to entertain.

The house, when it was finished, had four small
rooms and one in the middle where the family spent most of their time and took
their meals. The townspeople had built it larger than William had planned,
because “why, what’s a house without room for new little red-haired babies?”
Madge from a mile down the road had said. As it happened though, the fourth
room was never filled with any babies, red-haired or otherwise. It was by turns
a sewing room, a place for Lora to practice her various artistic endeavors in
the dark hours by candlelight, and a place for she, the girl, and William to read
and talk about politics, the scandalous books coming out of Paris, which her
father had to teach her to read French to understand, or the stirring poetry
that William so loved to recite for his two girls, as he called them.

Time was largely still in Fort Mary, a place that
moved with the seasons and the harvests rather than with political issues, or
wars. It was just so far away from everything, the townspeople figured, that it
seemed a whole other world. And it was until the Bonnie Prince called the Highlanders
to his banner once and then again. William always opened his house, and Lora’s
drawing room, for any soldiers that happened to be passing through, either
going or coming, and Kenna learned from her mother how to care for the men,
many of who had bodies that were bruised and hurt and broken.

A town on the fringe of the Highlands, Fort Mary
had stayed out of the battles between the Bonnie Prince and the English Crown
until the very end when the town’s able men went south. Miraculously, most of
those who went also came back. Only one man was lost in the battle out of Fort
Mary, and it was the one whose loss broke Kenna’s heart.

“Will, have you heard?” McCraig said in his deep,
red brogue. “Have you heard about the ghost?”

“Ghost? What’re you on about, McCraig? Only ghost
around here is the one who shows up of a morning and drinks my porridge.” He
reached over and slapped the old man’s belly, and both of them laughed for a
moment. “Other than that, no ghosts what I know of about these parts.”

“No, no, isn’t me.” He pulled the sleeve of his
tunic and tightened his trouser lace. “Down south, down Edinburgh way, they
say.”

“Edinburgh? What of it? Everyone knows that
castle’s been haunted for centuries. Who is it this time? Robert the Bruce?
Arthur? Sir Gawain returned from the dead?”

“You laugh and you joke, Will, but I’m serious. Do
you remember the Macgregor pair, that father and son that left here before the
uprising in forty-five?”

“Aye of course,” William said. “Robert and his
son. Strongest boy I’ve ever seen for his age.”

“Gavin,” Kenna said in a quick, high-pitched
voice. “Gavin Macgregor!”

William laughed. “Of course you remember him,” he
said. “I remember the way you cried when he left. You didn’t leave your room
for a week, seemed like.”

Kenna flushed so deep crimson she might have gone
purple. “It wasn’t like that. He was just a friend.”

“A friend she says,” Will elbowed his daughter in
the ribs and she punched his arm. “Well, anyway, what of them? Robert came back
with the rest of the men, aye? Never did know what happened to Gavin.”

“He was killed or captured. Don’t you remember Mr.
Macgregor going around and telling the news?” Kenna said with a hitch in her
voice. “He-”

“Isn’t dead,” old man McCraig interrupted.

“What?” Kenna and her father said at once.

“Not dead. Everyone thought he was. Even Robert
thought him to have died. But he didn’t. Or at least that’s what they say.”

“What who says? This story is ruining me with
confusion,” William said.

“The papers,” he said. “The papers say that since
the uprising ended, someone’s been playing Robin of the Hood down near
Edinburgh. But instead of stealing from the rich and giving to the poor, he’s
stealing from the English and giving to the Scots. Of course, that works out to
be stealing from the rich and giving to the poor.”

“How do they know it’s Gavin? That just doesn’t
make any sense, McCraig,” William said. “His own father thinks he’s dead.”

“I can only tell you what I heard.”

“It’s just such a damned curious story. Two years
gone, and now he shows up stealing from the lords? It’s hard to believe is
all.”

“Aye,” the old man said, “I’ll not deny that. And
it’s not even certain. There’s just so many similarities.”

“What you mean?”

“Well, the story I read told of a man from Fort
Mary. As we know, he’s the only one whose gone missing. Except for Filo, that
strange fellow who took to drink and wandered off, anyway.”

“But how would they know he’s from town? And do
they not give a name?”

McCraig shook his head. “He calls himself
something else. He’s a highwayman after all.”

William Moore sucked his teeth.

“Now wait just a minute,” Lora said. “All we’ve
got are stories, right? Circumstances? Are we sure that whoever this fellow is,
and he seems a fine sort,” she said with a smirk, “are we sure he’s not just
making up a convenient tale to explain his past? Maybe he’s just a freedom
fighter from down south, but cooked up a story to cover his family.”

“Could be, aye,” McCraig said. “But I don’t think
so. For one, they say he’s got a particular look about him that sounds like
Gavin from the description. As well, they say he doesn’t speak like he’s from
below Loch Katrine. Says he sounds like a Highlander. And those Macgregor boys
certainly have a touch of the Highlands in their tongue.”

For a long moment, Kenna watched her parents study
each other’s faces as though they were speaking without words. She didn’t know
why they both seemed so affected by this news, as the boy in question had lived
on the other side of the town, and his father never particularly got on with
anyone else. He wasn’t disliked by anyone; the Macgregor family just kept apart
is all. Or so she thought.

Finally, she couldn’t take it any longer. “What’s
got you two so concerned? You never said much about Gavin or his Da while they
were here. Didn’t even say much when they went south, but now you two look
positively beside yourselves.”

Lora gave William one last sidelong glance.

“It’s nothing, dear. Really, it’s just a curious
story. Very curious. For me anyway, I’m imagining how strange it must be for
Robert to find out his dead son isn’t quite so dead. He grieved for a year over
the boy. And now for him to be alive again?”

“That’s the short of it,” William agreed. “But,
we’ve got things to do. We’ve got a farm to run and I’ve got milk to drink.” He
filled the mug he’d just drained of tea with fresh milk and quaffed it at one
go. “We’ll find out about the boy when we find out. Hopefully it turns out
though. Wouldn’t that be something?”

“What’s that, Will?” McCraig said.

“A Fort Mary Robin Hood. We’d finally have a claim
to fame besides the cows.”

––––––––

“W
hat’s this, then, Gav? Another purse? You’re on a
tear these days. Better look out or the Sheriff is going to get serious about
bagging you.”

“You think I don’t know that, Two-fingers?” The
young man shook his head to jostle the sleepiness from his eyes. It had been
two days, maybe three, since he’d met a bed and at least one since he laid his
head on a nice patch of moss and caught a few winks. “Aye that’s a purse, and
to answer your next question, it came directly from Alan’s coffers. Getting in
that house was a bit of a trick, what with all the walls and guards and guns he
keeps around. You’d think he was afraid of something.”

“No. No, are you speaking true? You stole this
from the Sheriff?”

“And waved to him as I left. And maybe showed him my
moon.” He laughed.

“I don’t believe you. I just don’t.”

“Check the notes,” the young thief said. “Not only
did I steal a purse full of gold crowns, I also managed to lift a few letters.
One of them from King George himself. That should be a good souvenir for
someone.”

“I just can’t believe it,” John said, pulling the
three letters from the pouch Gavin handed over to him. Sure enough, the top one
bore the king’s seal in broken wax on the back. “I’m looking at this thing, and
I still don’t believe you.”

He laughed and ran his hand backward through his
black, wavy hair. Underneath the shaggy mane, his eyes showed a pale blue in
the candle by which his friend-turned-first lieutenant examined the parchment.

“Go on, read the thing. I think you’ll enjoy
having been written about by a king.”

“Me?” John’s voice was a whisper as he scanned the
paper. “John, the one they call ‘two-fingers’,” he said with a laugh, “forced
robbery...burgling from the church...stealing from royal coffers...endangering
the children.”

“I don’t remember that part,” Gavin chuckled.
“When did we endanger any children? They should be thanking us for feeding the
little things so they don’t have to. Not like they would anyway.”

“Shut up, I’m getting to the good part. Says here,
we’re a danger to proper society, we’ve done more harm than anyone since
William Wallace and Robert, Earl of Bruce, to the union of England and
Scotland-”

“I’d say those men who starve our people and
refuse to give us any sort of rights or representation to be more responsible
for that, but, then again, I endanger children.” Liam interrupted.

John nodded absently and continued. “Anyway,
there’s just a list of things, some of which we’ve done, but most of which are
made up. We’ve never murdered anyone, for one thing. And never once do I
remember stealing from the kirk.”

“No, we never stole from our church. On the other
hand, I’ve taken plenty from the Anglican bishops that wander through here
trying to turn us all into English people.”

“That’s fair enough,” John replied. “Oh it goes
on.”

“Aye it goes on for quite some time, listing the terrors
we’ve visited upon the poor, unfortunate souls of Edinburgh. Funny how it says
we’ve done all this horror and yet the people of this city seem to welcome us
with open arms.”

“The thought had crossed my mind as well,” John
said. “But look here, where the King puts our little rabble in the same ranks
as Wallace and The Bruce. That can’t be true, can it?”

“No, of course not. We’re small time crooks who
steal a bit of coin for the poor who got thrown off their land and starved out
after the war ended and the Bonnie Prince went off to France. We’ve done
nothing so exciting as single-handedly wage a war against the crown.”

“But Gav isn’t that where this is going? I mean,
isn’t the whole point to irritate the English so badly that they just up and
leave?”

“That won’t happen. No matter how much I might
want it to, that’s not a possibility. My only goal is to help some. Help anyone
who can’t help themselves. I’m not Robin Hood, you’re not Little John. Although
the humor of your namesake hasn’t ever been lost on me, times like those are
gone and dead. We’re just trying to make as much of a difference as we can.
But, you’re still not done with the letter.”

“Right, right,” John said with a chuckle. “And
I’ve never fought with a big stick. At least not very skillfully.”

The two men laughed for a moment.

“Keep going,” Gavin urged. “What I want you to
read is at the very bottom on the back. Skip the rest of the list of our crimes
that we never committed.”

“I, King George II of England,” John read in a
dramatic voice, “do hereby confer upon Liam, the Ghost of Edinburgh, and all
his fellows, the sentence of death. Alan, acting Sheriff of Edinburgh, is
hereby ordered to cease all activities not pertaining to the apprehension and
arrest of the aforementioned knave. Upon his arrest, he is to be hanged by the
neck until dead.”

John looked over at Gavin who was grinning with a smile
that could have disarmed the foulest-tempered tough.

“You seem pretty happy about getting a death
warrant put on your head.”

“I’ve got to admit that I’m a little proud of
being mentioned by the king, even if it is a death threat.”

“You’re one of a kind, you know that, right?”

“I try.”

After the exchange, Liam and John sat in silence
for a moment, the tiny candle in the attic room above the Lion & Eagle pub
playing shadows across both of their faces. John was the first one to speak.