The Last Rose

Prologue

GLENCOE, 1692

The snow still hadn't let up. For as far as she could see it was white, covering stone, ditch and heather so that the glen was one thick sheet of ice.  She couldn't remember the last time it had snowed for this long. Sleet, yes; they got a lot of that, but never snow that fell on frozen ground and built higher and higher until it was almost to her knees.

The wind was bad too. Just in the few minutes it took for her to trudge from the chief's house to her own she had been whipped by its icy touch. Not only did the bottom of her skirt become wet and cold, but the strands of hair brown sticking out from under her scarf were slick to her forehead.

Her biggest concern was the baby. A baby born in winter was always the weakest, but a winter like this was worse ten fold. Before she left she had wrapped her in as many blankets as she could find and held her close to the peat fire that crackled in the middle of their house. How she wished she didn't have to leave her while she worked. There were plenty more girls that would rather fraternise with the Campbell's who were made to stay at home this night. Luckily she had managed to sneak away amongst all the drink and smoke that the soldiers were bathing in. That wee girl was all she cared for now.

She often thought back to the day she gave birth to her, and always she felt a swell in her chest. She was a beautiful baby, with her mothers curly chestnut hair and her fathers forest green eyes. Her father would not so much as look at her, the bloody bastard. So she took it upon herself to give her as much love and more than her could ever give her.

She picked up the pace. Her feet were sodden already, numb and aching, but she hurried home. She kicked hidden stones, snagged her skirt and almost tripped more than once, anything to get home sooner. The small stone house came into view, dimly illuminated by the moon that was loosely wrapped in cloud. The fire was still burning, good. Her sister hadn't managed to let it go out this time.

Mairead had been wary of the baby at first, a baby born out of wedlock was not something one wanted to be associated with. But as soon as she saw her she fell in love with her just as the baby's mother had.

Mairead was a second mother more than she was an aunt, looking after her when her mother had work to do. She sometimes complained of being used, but she knew her sister was smitten with the wee girl.

She had named her Peigi after her grandmother, and it suited her entirely. She was hers, entirely hers, and she wouldn't have changed her for anything.

A few minutes and she'd be safe and warm. A few minutes until she had Peigi in her arms again. The thought made her light up.

A deathly scream halted her in her tracks. It came from behind. She spun around and her jaw slackened in horror. The chief's grand thatched roof was burning. The flames engulfed it in seconds. To the right another house went up. More screams followed.

In the light of the flames she saw people running around trying to put the fire out.  Why weren't they throwing water on it?  Then she realised.  They were fleeing for their lives.  Men with swords drawn and guns cocked chased them.  

A gunshot and a blood-chilling scream revived her from a horrified trance.  She gathered her skirts, held them as tight as her numb hands would allow and ran.

'Mairead!' she screamed. The cold air burnt her throat. 'Mairead!'

Her scarf flew off her head. Her toes were battered. She fell into the damp snow.

'Mairead!' she shouted in tears, pulling herself up. A sharp pain ricocheted through her leg.

Suddenly the door opened and a silhouette appeared.

'Ceitidh?' She called. She ran frantically towards her. Peigi's cries wrenched her stomach. The screams were coming closer.

'No!' Ceitidh shouted back. 'Run. Keep her safe!'

She tried to move but the pain intensified. A sob erupted from her throat.

Mairead stopped. 'I promise I'll look after her,' she called, voice wavering. 'Ceitidh, please, let me-'

'Go! Run!' Ceitidh screamed once again. Her sister's figure stayed for a few seconds more then sped into the dark.

Ceitidh wailed.  Her girl. Her poor baby girl.

Heavy boots crunched through the snow behind her.  The Campbell soldier she'd cooked meat and poured whisky for less than an hour ago grinned wickedly at her hunched form.  His green-blue tartan was dyed red with blood.  

She swallowed a sob and turned to face him.  She needed to give Mairead time to get away with Peigi.  

She stared him in the eyes.  There was no humanity in them.

'You will burn in Hell the way you burnt our houses, and I will dance to your screams,' she spat.  Her clenched fists shook at her sides as the sadistic grin fell from his face, replaced with fury.

A rough punch in the jaw sent her sprawling on the wet ground.  With the thought of her sweet daughter energising her she let out a battle cry and pounced on the man.  She scratched at his face and kneed him between his legs with all the might she had.  He doubled over and groaned, and only then did she realise he had dropped his sword in the snow.

With strength she didn't know she possessed she elbowed him in the nose, basking in the crack it made on impact and the cry that he howled like a hurt puppy.

She squinted in the limited light for a gleam, for anything.  In seconds she saw the long sword lying not three steps from where she stood.  Ceitidh lunged for it and grabbed it by the hilt.  Her red fingers had only tightened around it when an excruciating pain ripped through her back.  She looked down and saw the small tip of a dagger sticking out of her right breastbone.  Bile rose in her throat.  

He snatched the dagger back and she fell forward.  Hot blood soaked her clothes and the pristine snow around her.  She heaved with pain and felt her eyes falling like snowflakes.  

He laughed.

His sick cackles were the last drops of whisky on a flame.  Ceitidh breathed a scream and pulled herself onto her front, a weak hand desperately trying to lift up a heavy sword.

'MacDonald bitch,' he snarled. Blood dripped into his smile.  His knife gleamed red with her blood by the moon's light.

He stood over her, kicking the sword out of her hand.  She could barely keep her head straight on her shoulders, the pain and exhaustion consuming her.

She glared into his eyes when he stabbed her straight through the heart.  

-

Peigi pronounced PEG-ee
Gaelic form of Peggy

Mairead pronounced MY-rut
Gaelic form of Magaret

Ceitidh pronounced KAY-tee
Gaelic form of Katie

Glencoe Massacre: glen in the Scottish Highlands where 38 MacDonalds were killed as they fled on 13th Feburary 1692 by Campbell soldiers who they had fed and sheltered for three days. Forty more women and children died of exposure after their homes were burnt.