THE ROSES OF CARTERHAUGH

  MELISSA WIDMAIER

  Copyright © 2026 Melissa Widmaier

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 979-8-9877992-9-1

  Cartography by Fred Kroner at whiskeynink.com

  Cover illustration and design by Lisa Errico, Little Forest Cat

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, digital or printed, without the written permission of the author.

  No generative artificial intelligence (AI) was used in the writing of this work. The author expressly prohibits any entity from using this publication for purposes of training AI technologies to generate text, including without limitation technologies that are capable of generating works in the same style or genre as this publication. The author reserves all rights to license use of this work for generative AI training and development of machine learning language models.

  DEDICATION

  For my grandmother, Ann, who gave me rhymes and riddles, stories and songs.

  And for my children, that they may carry her bright soul, as I have, and let it live on eternally in the tales.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I am forever grateful to Anthology, Inc., Indie Visible Events, and the Indie Author Collective. These groups of stalwart creatives provide boundless support and encouragement for indie authors, and I’m honored to be a part of them.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  GLOSSARY

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  OTHER WORKS

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Many years before the plague, I was a bard.

  In the early 2000s, I stood before an audience of fellow medieval reenactors, a novice bard, and recited a Scottish ballad.

  The ballad, recorded by 19th-Century anthologist Francis James Child, bears the name of the young man trapped by the faeries. But he is not the hero of the story. Our hero is a lass, a lass who bravely saves the knight from an untimely and gruesome end.

  She’s gone by a few names in the many versions of the tale—Janet, Margaret, etc.—but some things never change, our heroine refuses to play by anyone’s rules, and she always gets what she came for.

  I forbid ye maidens all who wear gold in your hair...

  Their first mistake was forbidding me. I don't take direction well and I guard my affections. Perhaps that was why I ignored the warnings, why I found myself pulled into the affairs of the Daoine Sìth.

  PROLOGUE

  The knight was aware of his status. He sat tall in the saddle of his white mare, bold and sure in his dashing blues. Though young, he was well-tested and feared little. A favorite of the king, he was a determined, golden contrast to the smirking, silver-brown elder riding beside him.

  “You’re staring, old man,” the knight snapped, forcing his voice into a steady baritone.

  “May a laird not stare at his son?” Thomas Lynne blushed at the flash in those grey eyes. Her eyes. He looked down and stroked his horse’s neck. “Roxburgh has been lonely since you joined the king in Selkirk. I’m just happy to see you again, Tam.”

  Hearing his childhood name, the yellow-haired one grumbled and turned away. He was a strong, capable youth, but still a youth, nonetheless.

  Laird Thomas snickered, rubbing his tongue over his crooked tooth. He remembered mornings when he could barely pull Tam away from his bed. Now look at you, full grown and bursting with purpose. Purpose made everyone a champion of their own life. It was a great re-shaper. “Sir Thomas,” he amended returning the look of disgust with too much mirth.

  “I am a knight, Da,” Tam whined, adolescence trickling through cracks in his façade.

  “Aye. You’ve done well in the skirmishes at our border. And you’ve made me proud.” The old man smiled wide, trying to hide his shiver. He was a warrior himself, and he knew the dangers his precious child faced. “But you’ll always be my Tam.”

  The household guards riding behind them chuckled. All were old enough to remember a lanky child who liked to sit in trees and chatter at birds.

  Tam pouted and tugged at his bonnet.

  They rode in silence as they neared the confluence of the waters known as Ettrick and Yarrow, a place called the Meetings Pool.

  “Do you think we can trust Douglas?” Tam asked, clutching his reins. “This gathering makes me nervous. Cousin or not, that man is barmy.”

  Laird Thomas shrugged. Clan leaders held themselves to a code, albeit a sometimes violent one. “He’s a bitter sort, but practical. It’s probably over another kine dispute and he doesn’t want King Raibeart involved.”

  He made faces, hoping to see his son smirk.

  “This coo belongs to yon man and this coo to another,” he added, demonstrating wildly with his hands.

  Tam snorted but kept his jaw taunt. “Hardly think he needs us to resolve another reiving. He’s a hellcat at court, spitting and scratching.”

  Old Thomas slumped in the saddle. The ears at court were more dangerous than a dirk in the dark. “What does he say?”

  This time it was Tam who shrugged. “Nonsense. Douglas claims our family is stained by faerie blood. Raibeart just laughs.”

  Laird Thomas quivered. The last king who had taunted the faerie folk and their wisdom had met a violent end in a sea storm, but that had been a century ago. “The Daoine Sìth are nothing to laugh at. Our king, and Douglas, should have more care.”

  “They’re bairn’s stories, Da. Nothing more.” Tam turned away, the rise of his shoulders implying shame in his father’s fervor for ancient magics.

  Laird Thomas summoned that charmed gaze back with the touch of a hand. He pulled up short when the sun caught water glinting in those sacred pools. “And what if they weren’t?” he whispered, praying that for once Tam could see the wondrous too.

  “Then, I would stand against them. The Daoine Sìth are unseelie devils.” The young knight wriggled away from his father and pressed his horse forward.

  Midday darkened with an impending storm. Soft lightning pulsed overhead.

  Old Thomas caught up to his son and stared for some moments, aged body slumped in the saddle. “Is that really how you feel?” he finally croaked.

  Tam’s face colored. He made a fist over his thigh. “I’m a god-fearing man. I won’t tolerate spirits of darkness.”

  The world wept softly. Spring rain combed over them, undulating gently. It invoked a memory of beautiful Leofwenne raking slender fingers through soft, golden waves.

  Old Thomas wiped all evidence of woe from his face. “Ah lad, some of the Daoine Sìth are troublesome, but most are decent enough.”

  “What do you mean?” Tam shivered as a large raindrop splattered into his collar. He blinked away the blur in his eyes and looked back.

  The old man was stopped in the center of the muddy road, hand raised in command; his good warriors were at attention and ready.

  “Da?”

  An arrow cut through gentle waters, fortunately glancing off of a guard’s chainmail. Several more buzzed past a silver birch, finding no purchase. Dark shadows advanced from the south.

  “Ambush!”

  The noble party instinctively turned northeast toward Selkirk, their laird in the lead. Tam had to push his mare hard just to catch up.

  “Douglas is more daring than I thought,” his father shouted. “Hie ye to the woods, lad. Go to Carterhaugh! Hurry!” He gestured to his men. They dismounted in a flurry and took up defensive positions near a green-grey thicket of spindle.

  The young knight tried to join them. Old Thomas shoved him back into the saddle before his foot could leave the stirrup.

  “I fight beside you!” Tam hissed, wincing as another shaft knocked into an aged poplar.

  Laird Thomas set his silver jaw. “Lad, for love of your mother I made a vow, and I will not break it for all the joy in Christendom! Ride to Carterhaugh. I command it!”

  A son might disobey his father, but a knight could not defy his laird. Tam wiped his eyes and didn’t look back as he pushed his mount up the road, north and then west into the trees.

  Carterhaugh was a place he knew well. His mother had always loved the wild, white roses there. She would take him to the pretty glade whenever they were summoned to court from Roxburgh, singing and laughing as they went.

  There was nothing to be merry about now. There hadn’t been for a long while.

  Tam’s mare stumbled on the
rain-slick stones as they crossed the Yarrow. Her foreleg shied when they touched the shore.

  “Come on, lass. Come on, Hereswith. Almost there.” He vaulted from the saddle and dragged her through the bramble.

  The woods were a riot, green and deep, and ancient. With the storm intensifying, a man might think night had already fallen.

  Relying on rooted memories of his youth, Tam caught the sweet scent of his quarry on the breeze and hurried to it. The roses were full and fair in high spring.

  He settled into the small clearing, centered in a patch of still-dry earth, and looked around. Rain pattered like a lullaby.

  “Now what?”

  A familiar, cat-purr sound tickled his ears. “Are you in peril, lad?”

  Tam jumped and whirled, shocked to see a withered old woman wondering the wet woods. “Grandmother? You shouldn’t be out here!” He embraced the gentle lady and looked deep into her muted eyes. “Da was ambushed,” he told her, trying to keep the fear from his tone. “We must go to the king. He will send someone to help.”

  Grandmother looked up and smiled her usual loving smile. She stroked a lock of yellow hair that pushed out from under his bonnet. “I am here to help, child.”

  Before he could inquire, she knelt down without even a grunt and put her hands to Hereswith’s flank. The horse jolted, placing pressure onto its formerly sore leg.

  Tam stumbled back, gazing into eyes that now seemed to glow with purpose. “How did you...?” He crossed himself with a shaking hand. “Holy Father, Blessed Virgin protect me.”

  The old woman smirked, wild pride radiating from what he once thought a humble matron. “They have no jurisdiction here.”

  His other hand found the hilt of his sword. “You’re not my grandmother. Are you?”

  Lightning struck near the river. Sparks of colors danced through the woodlands like fireflies. A great beauty radiated from their center. The old woman had vanished.

  Tall and breezy, a new lady wore a gown of green gossamer. She had radiant grey eyes—very like his mother, very like his own.

  “The truest thing I know, Young Thomas, is that you are of my flesh.” She beckoned, a flame dancing on a taper. “Come. I’ll take you to safety.”

  The slick road full of men and their weapons seemed a better option. Tam knew how to handle those things. What was before him was unearthly and unknowable.

  “I cannot abandon my father,” he stuttered, stepping back into the roses, thinking only of escape.

  The lady was beside him faster than the lightning flash. She placed a gentle hand to his arm and squeezed. Warmth danced through his chilled skin, radiating to his toes. “Do not worry, child. Old Thomas knows where we’re going.”

  A woman, a horse, and a knight disappeared. In the little clearing, deep in the woods of Carterhaugh, all that remained were the trees, the rain, and the roses.

  ***

  An old man wept in the dark, wet woods, white rose petals circling his slumped body as he moaned and pleaded. An empty jar of milk rested on its side, next to a pouch of gold and silver. The usual tokens and spells had not worked. He could not summon her.

  “Please, Ercel,” he whimpered. “Let me see him. You’ve kept your part of the vow. Leofwenne smiles on us. Now return my son.”

  An owl hooted in the tickling breeze.

  Thomas Lynne pulled his cloak tight. “Please. Please, Ercel. Do not keep him from me. Please. I’d relinquish this mortal life just to look into his eyes again.”

  The king’s guards found him two days later, delirious and mumbling into the roses.

  “Ercel? Do you hear me?”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Marcail’s hand was warm, but the world was ice—a dreich day.

  Draped in white to honor the innocence stolen from us, my sister and I stood in the rain and watched as they put Charlie under the protection of a great yew. There was a small stone at his head, engraved with the evidence of a small life.

  I’m not sure if you could call it mourning, though there was a deep sense of loss. The child had seen only seven months when the fever took him. His mother had never known his bonny smile.

  I had. I'd held him close for those months and whispered to him prophesies of my own invention. Now, those promises were gone, covered in clay.

  Da pressed into us, resting his frail body on our backs, wrapping his kind arms around our shoulders. His voice was hardly a whisper past his grief, but it fell tenderly on our ears. “I’ve lost two good wives who tried to bear me sons. I've lost two sons who struggled to come into this world. But God has been gracious. He gave me two loving daughters in whom I couldn’t be more pleased.”

  Pretty, dark Marcail kissed his right hand. I leaned my golden head into his left. We three sighed as one. “We’ll get through this, Da.” The lie caught in my throat. My loss was great, too.

  Long, loving fingers stroked down my back, deepening the chill in my spine. “I know, girls. Come. Let’s take shelter. It’ll do us no good to join Charlie today.”

  Da coughed ferociously into his sleeves as we marched from the kirkyard back to the manor house. Marcail and I exchanged glances while we scraped mud from our shoes at the door.

  “I’ll have a tonic sent up,” I declared, answering her worried heart. “He just needs rest.”

  My sweet sister bit her lip until it bled and wrung her hands all night.

  We rested for three months, pacing the halls, avoiding each other and the pitying stares of the servants. The babe’s death had been another blow, an indication that something wasn’t right in the Earl de March’s household. We were cursed to lose everything.

  Marcail spent her time staring out our window at Selkirk and sewing a green mantle. I did not ask what it was for. I knew. It was her way of dealing with our coming separation, giving me something to take to my marriage that was solely about us.

  She knew I favored green for its wildness, for the mystical aura it produced. I doubted any magic—real sorcery or familial love—could save me from my fate, however.

  There were several suitors. Many vowed to keep my father and sister in comfort. An easy pledge as they would have the means to do so. All lands and fortunes would revert to them once I was in their bed.

  None was more favored than Sir Moris, my father’s youngest and best knight. He already stalked the halls as if he owned them. The men deferred to his might and the maids giggled in his wake. I loathed him more than parsnips, but then, I loathed most men.

  None compared to Da. As a child, I followed him everywhere, even on dangerous, wild hunts. Many said I was spoiled, but Da called me clever and strong of mind—not of will, mind. He never scolded.

  I knew it would be difficult to find a husband as true and kind as that, but I still held out hope that Sir Moris would fall from his horse or lose his manhood in a brawl. Something. Anything to keep that dog at bay, to give me more time to find a better match. Such fantasy!

  It was Moris who suggested a boar hunt in my father’s hall one chilly evening, dark eyes lit with longing as he waited, not for his laird’s approval, but mine. There was no question about what he was after.

  Da smirked at my stubborn silence and hard jaw as he tapped on the table. “Why not?” he returned. “We could use some sport and more meat for our bellies. I’ve yet to survey our borders. Will you join us, Jonet?”

  Our nurse maid, Mistress Finnola, almost opened her mouth, but my father’s quick glance forced her haughty tongue to still. That switch-thin crone had been my jailer as much as my caretaker since my mother’s death, and she didn’t approve of my rough, outspoken behavior. She could not, however, stand against her earl—when he was watching.

  The chance to fluster her was tempting. Even so, the old man was offering me freedom again, just as surely as the young man was trying to ensnare me forever. I agreed to come, knowing I would have to watch my back within and without my father’s walls. There was always a price for any joy I might covet.

  The foggy morning nipped noses and eyes, knives between our ears. Still, our grey lymer, Fyndewell, scented boar easily and our other eager hounds gave chase.

  Sir Moris took up the lead, looking back often to give me a telling smile.

  Though I enjoyed these pastimes, I only ever let him see my disinterest, and I never met his eye. After a while, he gave up that pursuit and focused on the one at hand.