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Summary
When Meg first came to Scotland, her husband handed her a flower she’d never seen before, an ugly, prickly thing with a rounded purple head.
“This is a thistle,” he’d told her. “It’s the flower of Scotland. It’s not a pretty thing. It’s coarse and prickly, as it needs to be to grow here. The land is harsh and unforgiving, and not for the weak. You are a Tudor rose, Meg, pretty as they come, but you must be strong, too, if you are to be queen.”
She had held her head up high at that. “Even roses have thorns, my lord.”
He had laughed that great booming laugh of his. “That they do, my lady. That they do indeed.”