Inverness, Scotland
Fiona MacDonald sat in her grandmother's rocker contemplating anarchy.
She’d nursed a mother through two strokes; the last one she'd blessedly not recovered from, taken care of her widowed father until two years ago when he’d died. No husband, no children, no other relatives to need her, she'd become the champion of the dead, the voice for all the long buried relatives resting in Scotland’s soil.
No one was listening.
She'd already written every member of the Scottish Parliament. Her letters had all been answered in the same way: carefully scripted words from ignorant politicians afraid to acknowledge the truth. She'd written to royals who had ties to Scotland, but all she'd received was a polite request to cease her solicitations. Finally, she’d written emails and letters to Scottish actors, comedians, any public figure who had any tie to Scotland. Not one of them had ever written her back.
America was where she might get attention. America was in love with Scotland. America was in love with all things British. Look at the adulation they'd given Princess Diana.
She stopped rocking as it came to her.
America was also in love with all things royal.
Her attention was fixed on the circular table at the far end of the room. Atop it was a crystal bowl rumored to have been purchased at the time of Queen Victoria's golden jubilee. Because it was English, she accorded it less respect than the other heirlooms in the house. But she kept it dusted because it had belonged to a member of her family. The past hundred years had granted it a patina of acceptability.
There was one royal, especially, who seemed to capture America's attention of late. A widower whose face was plastered across the pages of every newspaper on the stands.
If something happened to Richard Strathmore, that would get the world's attention.
She stood, walked to the bureau, and bent down to pull out the bottom drawer. A hand went to her lower back to brace herself. Ever since caring for her father – a bear of a man even in his illness – she'd had a bad disk. Or perhaps it was simply her arthritis making itself known.
Her mother had been one to save all the best pictures of the royals, putting them away in a brown leather scrapbook.
Some people left behind great works of art, some built buildings. Some saw their children as their legacy to the world. Fiona hadn't one bone of artistic talent in her entire body. She was beyond the age to have a child, even if she was willing to marry for one. The majority of her life had been spent caring for other people. It had been their demands that came first, their wishes she’d appeased before her own.
She’d heard someone say once that she had a servant’s heart. She didn’t. All she’d had were sickly parents and no one left to care for them. If she'd had her way, she would have left home long ago, living her own life. But wishes didn’t change the past and had no effect on the future. She’d learned that over the prayers at her father’s side.
It was action that counted.
As she stared down at Richard's picture, she realized that this might well be her legacy. People would know that Fiona MacDonald had been alive and had been a heroine as worthy as any borne of legend or tale.
Fiona MacDonald, a champion for Scotland's independence and freedom.
She stood and walked to the window. Her house was old, the smell one still of the sickroom. Two years past since her da's death and she couldn’t rid the place of that eternal odor. She opened the window, breathed deeply of air that was clean and cold and almost blue in its purity.
Across the way stood a misted hill. To her left was a craggy outcrop of shale; to her right, the small meandering brook she’d been forbidden to play near as a child. Some of the English came to fish it in the autumn, or tourists stood on the banks and took pictures of its rushing waters.
It was home to her, as it always had been. These tourists with their digital phones, cameras, and their flat voices would be surprised to note that the exact spot where they now stood was once defended by Kenneth I when this land was known as Dalriada. Beneath their feet were the bones of men who longed for a homeland long before the English learned to stand upright.
Scotland needed freedom. Scotland deserved her freedom.
Richard, Duke of Lancaster, would be the perfect tool to help that process along.
The duke was well protected, too much so for an act of vainglory. But the press always seemed to know where he was. She wouldn’t take the other members of the SFS into her confidence. It was evident they didn’t have the strength of purpose she had. Nor did they feel the call of the Cause with such deep commitment. They played at independence, those silly children. Too frightened to do more than stare at her, open-mouthed, at the first hint of her devotion.
It was all too clear that they weren't willing to die for Scotland.