Thorn in My Heart (2 page)

Rowena nodded, relieved to hear the woman's confident tone. Jean was a woman who feared the Almighty, not a common
mutch.
The silver pieces cast no spell; they were meant for good luck and the blessing of wealth. It seemed Jean expected the children to live. And so, please God, would she.

Rowena rose unsteadily to her feet, hoping the change in position might offer some relief. Instead it yielded another vicious kick from her hidden offspring and a jolt of pain at the base of her spine. Jeans passing comment crept into her bones like a damp mist, chilling her. “You said something is amiss?”

The midwife nodded slowly. “They're twins…but not the same.
Verra
different lads. One stronger than the other. By and by, the older will serve the younger.”

Rowena's mouth went dry.
Twins but not twins.
A bad omen after all. She would see them baptized by the parish minister at the earliest possible hour. But the older serving the younger? That was not the Scottish way of things. Staring hard at the woman's unblinking blue gaze, Rowena searched her lined face for assurance. “Is this a word from the Almighty?”

“Tis that, aye.” Jean's gray head bobbed slowly up and down. “Time will prove me truthful.”

“I've little doubt of that.” For the moment she would let the subject rest. Jean Wilson was the finest
howdie
in Galloway. Rowena knew she would be in good hands when the time came. “I'd best be home before Mr. McKie discovers I'm gone and frets himself sick. I slipped out the door without telling him where I was going.” She shrugged slighdy, knowing Jean would understand.
“Hesfiish
enough these days, watching my belly grow.” Rowena moved toward the door, gathering her light plaid about her shoulders. Summer or not, the evening winds blew a stout breeze across Loch Trool. “Don't stray far, Jean. I'll be sending my maidservant Ivy Findlay round soon enough. You'll be here when she calls?”

“I've not missed a birthin in the glen all these years, Mistress McKie.”

“Aye. By Gods mercy, mine will not be the first.”

Bidding her farewell, Rowena left the thatch-roofed cottage behind and picked her way along the winding path toward home. Awkward as she was of late, riding on horseback was impossible and a carriage out of the question, with no proper road and bogs at every turn.

Rowena slowed her steps, more exhausted than she could ever remember. And no wonder.
Twins! Mi
well and good for Alec, nearing sixty, to pray for an heir. He didn't have the burden of carrying the babes. “Nor the challenge of bearing them,” she announced to a wheatear that flew over her shoulder, its black-and-white tail flirting like a lass's fan.

She tilted her head back, taking in the steep slopes rising all around, so different from the rolling hills of east Galloway where she'd spent her girlhood. Mulldonach loomed on the right, where Robert the Bruce had claimed his first victory against the English troops by rolling great boulders down the steep slopes and crushing the army. Ahead rose Buchan Hill, once the hunting ground of Comyn, Earl of Buchan, now covered with McKie flocks. Rough and craggy at the top, the mountains gave way to slender stretches of grass and sparse, piney woods along the meandering loch.

At the heart of the glen stood the granite walls of Glentrool, the only laird's house for miles and her home for the last twenty years. Guests marveled at the imposing tower house with its round turrets and soaring chimneys that stood in the shadow of the Fell of Eschoncan. When asked how it had been constructed in so remote a setting, Alec borrowed a tale from the Bruce and insisted, “The stanes rolled
doon
the mountain, and the
hoose
built itself!”

When Archibald McKie, Alec's father, bartered a bride for his son from the distant parish of Newabbey, Glentrool had welcomed her with pine-scented arms.
Bartered
was not quite the way of it, Rowena reminded herself with a chuckle, but it was not far from the truth. Her brother, Lachlan, had urged her to marry Alec, and she'd agreed sight unseen. It was not merely the vast McKie lands that had appealed to Lachlan's greedy nature. The fine gold bracelets McKie's manservant
had slipped around her wrists were enticement as well. “A bonny bride is soon decorated,” young Lachlan had whispered in her ear, pocketing the silver McKie's man had pressed into his own hands. “Haste to his side, lass, and let him see what his coin has purchased.”

Rowena and Alec were married a fortnight later with their parents’ ardent blessings.

How young she'd been! Eighteen, green as Galloway grass in May. What had she known of marriage, of life in the lonely glen, far from village and friend? She'd learned to care for her older, steady-tempered husband, even to love him as the years passed. Respect had not come so easily. Alec gave in too readily to her wishes. He was more wind-bent willow than stalwart oak, good man though he was. Rowena shook her head, thinking of all the times her headstrong nature had overwhelmed his passive one. “Such a
heidiehss
I've brought under my roof!” he would say, then pinch her cheek a bit harder than necessary. Willful she might be, but before summers end she would present him with not one heir, but two. It was a secret too good to keep, yet too dangerous to tell until the babes were safely tucked in her arms and away from the fairies’ grasp.

“Och!
“Rowena yanked her skirts clear of a prickly blackthorn bush, imagining the seasons to come with two strong-willed young sons. Who would help her raise them when their father grew too old and weak to be of any use? Her parents were gone. And her brother lived in distant Newabbey, separated from her by mountains and moors.

“I'll be needing your help, Lord,” she whispered, stepping gingerly along the mossy banks. “If I'm to raise my sons worthy of their father's blessing, I canna do it alone.”

Rowena was anything but alone when her time came.

Haifa dozen women gathered about her birthing room to witness the birth of the McKie heir. Rowena vaguely recognized their faces through the pain that hung over her like a shroud, yet she could not think of a single one of their names. Was that McTaggart's widow in the stiff gray bonnet? Or one of the McMillans from Glenhead? Every one
of her neighbors would later insist that she was present at the birth. Rowena heard the women murmuring, felt their eyes on her. For the moment they offered more gossip than comfort.

She sat propped up in the midst of the enormous bed she shared with Alec, its heavy curtains drawn tighdy back. The autumn sun streamed through the casement window and across her pillow, warming the room. In the hearth a fire blazed, to be used for boiling water as needed and for staving off the chill the evening air would bring. For now the heat only added to Rowenas misery. “Jean,” she whispered, her mouth parched, her breath coming in gasps. “Thirsty.”

The midwife dipped her finger in a cup of cool water and ran it along Rowenas lips to moisten them. “I canna
gie
ye anythin’ to drink, Mistress McKie. Later, I promise, ye can have yer fill.” Jean put the cup aside, then leaned over her, almost singing in a voice low and rhythmic: “Breathe now. There ye go. And again. That's the way.” Jean smoothed Rowenas hair back from her brow and adjusted her pillow, then reached for a blue thread of spun wool stretched out on the bedside table. “Gie me yer ring finger, Mistress McKie.”

Rowena obliged, lifting her hand from the sheets bunched around her in a futile attempt at modesty. As instructed, she breathed as deeply as she could while Jeans nimble fingers wound the blue thread around her finger, above her thick silver wedding band.

“Keep her safe from the fever, Almighty God,” Jean intoned, tying the string in a neat bow, then squeezing Rowenas fingers against the knot. ” “I was your mither's and yer
granmitbers
thread before that, aye?”

Rowena nodded. Both her foremothers had bravely survived their labor without succumbing to childbed fever—spared, it was thought, by the common blue thread. Rubbing her thumb over the worn wool, Rowena prayed it would bring her good fortune as well. So little about birthing was within a woman's control. Jean had placed the family Bible under her pillow, as custom dictated, and an old nail under her bed for safe measure, lest a changeling be substituted for the healthy babe. God alone knew how the day would end.

The midwife eyed the women gossiping across the room, then
leaned closer and whispered in Rowenas ear, “Come midnight we'll see the lads born.” The two women had not breathed a word of their expectations to anyone, not even to Alec McKie. What, and bring ill luck knocking at the door? No, indeed.

Rowena studied Jeans face, hungry for more news. “Before midnight? Wednesday then?” The month, the day, the hour—every detail of the birth had a meaning. “Or will it be Thursday?”

“Hush now.” Jean reached down and pressed two gnarled fingers to her lips. “The Lord knows, Mistress McKie. Trust him.”

Before the hour ended, trust in God was all Rowena had left. Excruciating pain cleft her in two as the twins fought over who would appear first. Day dragged into evening. Eyes bleary, arms drooping at her side like broken wings, Rowena staggered around the room until she could walk no more. Drained of strength, she crouched in the bed, hands clutching her knees, and begged the heavens for mercy. At the end she could do naught but push when Jean demanded it, then fall back in an exhausted stupor, only to push again a moment later.

In desperation, the neighborhood women circled her bed, holding aloft their cherished family Bibles, pleading for the Almighty's enemies to be hurled into the Red Sea. “Help me,” Rowena pleaded again and again. It was taking too long; it was all taking much too long.

The starless sky was black as pitch and every candle lit when the midwife finally shouted with glee, “I see a tuft of
bncht
red hair!” A cheer rang about the room, then busy hands hastened to their duties. Everything moved at a faster clip. Drenched in tears and sweat, Rowena made a final effort to end her agony. One floor below, the workings of an ancient clock began to grind loudly, preparing to strike the hour.

A cry split the air first.

“He's here! Yer son is born!” crowed Jean.

One. Two. Three.

Rowena sank into the bed, barely conscious as the distant chimes rang.

Four. Five. Six.

She could hear the babe whimpering as Jean called out, “Och!
There's a second child, there is! Close on his brothers heels. Ye'll not be long deliverin this one.”

Rowena felt the urge to push again.

Seven. Eight. Nine.

Jeans voice rang out, louder than the chimes. “One mair push, Mistress McKie, and ye'll have twa bairns lyin in yer arms.”

Ten. Eleven. Twelve.

The whole gathering held its breath until another lusty cry rang out in the crowded bedroom. The clock was silent now, but all else was in an uproar.

“Twa sons, they are! Twins!”

Rowena fell back on her pillow in a faint, while all around the room merry bedlam reigned. Amid the clamor Jean made short work of the cords with a sharp knife, then fed each child a wee spoonful of salt to chase away the fairies and gave them a quick dunking in cool water from the loch to make them strong and healthy. Dazed, Rowena could do nothing but watch as every precaution was taken. A candle fashioned from the root of a fir tree, cut into thin splinters and seeping with turpentine, was carried around her bed three times. Rowan twigs were tossed on the fire. Prayers were said by each woman in turn before passing a dish of oatmeal and water and supping three spoonfuls. With two fragile lives hanging in the balance, this was no time to put aside the old ways.

Jean left the others to their business and tended to Rowena's needs, clucking and fussing as she helped her sit up. She propped a bolster behind her, then firmly pressed a shivering, squalling infant into the crook of each arm, their wet bodies tighdy wrapped in newly woven linen. “Nothin alike, yer lads,” Jean murmured, leaning closer as she pushed aside the soiled sheets. “See how the red one wears a hairy cloak, and the other has naught but a bit o’ goose down on his head?”

Rowena could not take her eyes off their tiny faces, pinched and wrinkled, their hungry cries piercing her soul. “My sons,” she whispered, brushing a light kiss on each head, fighting tears. Afraid to speak the names she'd chosen for them until the lads were baptized, she
pressed her cheek to their damp heads and in her heart lifted them to heaven in prayer:
Evan Alexander McKie
, the one with a full head of red hair and a lusty cry.
James Lachlan McKie
, his downy-capped younger brother. “May I love them both the same,” she said softly.

“ ‘Twill be a challenge, different as they are,” Jean agreed, patting her arm. “Not even born on the same day, these twa. But both McKies, no mistakin that.”

Rowena pulled her attention away from her sons long enough to meet the midwife's sympathetic gaze. “What do you mean they weren't born on the same day?”

Jean glanced behind her, then crouched down until they were eye to eye. “Did ye notice the clock chimin?”

“Aye, but…” Rowenas limbs suddenly began to shake uncontrollably. “Wh-what…”

“Not to worry. To be expected, this chill of yours. ‘Twill pass soon enough.” Ever efficient, Jean tucked woolen blankets around Rowenas legs and shoulders, then lifted a cup of tepid tea to her lips. “Now then, about the time of birth. This red and
birsie
son of yers was born when Wednesday was on the wane. But this smooth one came after all twelve chimes ushered in Thursday. D'ye see how it is?”

Rowena stared down at their damp heads. “ Wednesday's child is full of woe,'” she whispered, a rhyme spoken by every Scottish mother from time out of mind.

Jean nodded, her jovial expression growing more serious. “Aye, so it is. And ‘Thursday's child has far
tae
go.’ ”

“Oh, but not yet, wee one.” Rowena swallowed hard, horrified at the mere thought of the younger, smaller twin being taken from her side.
Jamie.
The look of his sweet, brown-tufted head had already stolen her heart. “Please, not yet.”