13
A MARRIAGE IS ANNOUNCED
I sat at a table in the taproom below, gazing into a cup of milk and fighting off waves of nausea.
Dougal had taken one look at my face as I came downstairs, supported by the beefy young corporal, and strode purposefully past me, up the stairs to Randall’s room. The floors and doors of the inn were stout and well constructed, but I could still hear the sound of raised voices upstairs.
I raised the cup of milk, but my hands were still shaking too badly to drink it.
I was gradually recovering from the physical effects of the blow, but not from the shock of it. I knew the man was not my husband, but the resemblance was so strong and my habits so ingrained, that I had been half-inclined to trust him, and had spoken to him as I would have to Frank, expecting civility, if not active sympathy. To have those feelings abruptly turned inside out by his vicious attack was what was making me ill now.
Ill, and frightened as well. I had seen his eyes as he crouched next to me on the floor. Something had moved in their depths, just for a moment. It was gone in a flash, but I did not want ever to see it again.
The sound of a door opening above brought me out of my reverie. The thud of heavy footsteps was succeeded by the rapid appearance of Dougal, followed closely by Captain Randall. So closely indeed, that the Captain appeared to be in pursuit of the Scot, and was brought up short when Dougal, catching sight of me, halted suddenly at the foot of the stairs.
With a glare over his shoulder at Captain Randall, Dougal came swiftly over to where I was seated, tossed a small coin on the table in payment, and jerked me to my feet without a word. He was hustling me out the door before I had time to do more than register the extraordinary look of speculative acquisitiveness on the face of the redcoat officer.
We were mounted and moving before I had even tucked the voluminous skirts around my legs, and the material billowed around me like a settling parachute. Dougal was silent, but the horses seemed to pick up his sense of urgency; we were all but galloping by the time we hit the main road.
Near a crossroads marked with a Pictish cross, Dougal abruptly reined to a halt. Dismounting, he seized the bridles of both horses and tied them loosely to a sapling. He helped me down, then abruptly disappeared into the bushes, beckoning me to follow.
I followed the swing of his kilt up the hillside, ducking as the branches he pushed out of the way snapped back across the path over my head. The hillside was overgrown with oak and scrubby pine. I could hear titmice in the copse to the left, and a flock of jays calling out to each other as they fed, further on. The grass was the fresh green of early summer, clumps of sturdy growth shooting out of the rocks and furring the ground under the oaks. Nothing grew under the pines, of course; the needles lay inches thick, affording protection for the small crawling things that hid there from sunlight and predators.
The sharp scents made my throat ache. I had been up such hillsides before, and smelled these same spring scents. But then the pine and grass scent had been diluted with the smell of petrol fumes from the road below and the voices of day trippers replaced those of the jays. Last time I walked such a path, the ground was littered with sandwich wrappers and cigarette butts instead of mallow blossoms and violets. Sandwich wrappers seemed a reasonable enough price to pay, I supposed, for such blessings of civilization as antibiotics and telephones, but just for the moment, I was willing to settle for the violets. I badly needed a little peace, and I felt it here.
Dougal turned suddenly aside just below the crest of the hill and disappeared into a thick growth of broom. Shoving my way in after him with some difficulty, I found him seated on the flat stone edging of a small pool. A weathered block of stone stood askew behind him, with a dim and vaguely human figure etched in the stained surface. It must be a saint’s pool, I realized. These small shrines to one saint or another dotted the Highlands, and were often to be found in such secluded spots, though even up here, tattered remnants of fabric flapped from the branches of a rowan tree that overhung the water; pledges from visitors who petitioned the saint, for health or a safe journey, perhaps.
Dougal greeted my appearance with a nod. He crossed himself, bent his head, and scooped up a double handful of water. The water had an odd dark color, and a worse smell—likely a sulfur spring, I thought. The day was hot and I was thirsty, though, so I followed Dougal’s example. The water was faintly bitter, but cold, and not unpalatable. I drank some, then splashed my face. The road had been dusty.
I looked up, face dripping, to find him watching me with a very odd expression. Something between curiosity and calculation, I thought.
“Bit of a climb for a drink, isn’t it?” I asked lightly. There were water bottles on the horses. And I doubted that Dougal meant to petition the patron of the spring for our safe journey back to the inn. He struck me as a believer in more worldly methods.
“How well d’ye know the Captain?” he asked abruptly.
“Less well than you,” I snapped back. “I’ve met him once before today, and that by accident. We didn’t get on.”
Surprisingly, the stern face lightened a bit.
“Well,” he admitted, “I canna say as I care for the man much myself.” He drummed his fingers on the well coping, considering something. “He’s well-thought of by some, though,” he said, eyeing me. “A brave soldier and a bonny fighter, by what I hear.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Not being an English general, I am not impressed.” He laughed, showing startlingly white teeth. The sound disturbed three rooks in the tree overhead, who flapped off, full of hoarse complaint.
“Are ye a spy for the English or the French?” he asked, with another bewildering change of subject. At least he was being direct, for a change.
“Certainly not,” I said crossly. “I’m plain Claire Beauchamp, and nothing more.” I soaked my handkerchief in the water and used it to wipe my neck. Small refreshing trickles ran down my back under the grey serge of my traveling gown. I pressed the wet cloth to my bosom and squeezed, producing a similar effect.
Dougal was silent for several minutes, watching me intently as I conducted my haphazard ablutions.
“You’ve seen Jamie’s back,” he said suddenly.
“I could hardly help doing so,” I said a little coldly. I had given up wondering what he was up to with these disconnected questions. Presumably he would tell me when he was ready.
“You mean did I know Randall did it, then? Or did you know that yourself?”
“Aye, I kent it well enough,” he answered, calmly appraising me, “but I wasna aware that you did.”
I shrugged, implying that what I knew and what I didn’t were hardly his concern.
“I was there, ye ken,” he said, casually.
“Where?”
“At Fort William. I had a bit of business there, with the garrison. The clerk there knew Jamie was some kin to me, and sent me word when they arrested him. So I went along to see could aught be done for him.”
“Apparently you weren’t very successful,” I said, with an edge.
Dougal shrugged. “Unfortunately not. Had it been the regular sergeant-major in charge, I might ha’ saved Jamie at least the second go-round, but as it was, Randall was new in command. He didna know me, and was indisposed to listen much to what I said. I thought at the time, it was only he meant to make an example of Jamie, to show everyone at the start that there’d be no softness from him.” He tapped the short sword he wore at his belt. “It’s a sound enough principle, when you’re in command of men. Earn their respect before ye do aught else. And if you canna do that, earn their fear.”
I remembered the expression on the face of Randall’s corporal, and thought I knew which route the captain had taken.
Dougal’s deepset eyes were on my face, interested.
“You knew it was Randall. Did Jamie tell ye about it?”
“A bit,” I said cautiously.
“He must think well of ye,” he said musingly. “He doesna generally speak of it to anyone.”
“I can’t imagine why not,” I said, provoked. I still held my breath each time we came to a new tavern or inn, until it was clear that the company had settled for an evening of drinking and gossip by the fire. Dougal smiled sardonically, clearly knowing what was in my mind.
“Well, it wasna necessary to tell me, was it? Since I kent it already.” He swished a hand idly through the strange dark water, stirring up brimstone fumes.
“I’d not know how it goes in Oxfordshire,” he said, with a sarcastic emphasis that made me squirm slightly, “but hereabouts, ladies are generally not exposed to such sights as floggings. Have ye ever seen one?”
“No, nor do I much want to,” I responded sharply. “I can imagine what it would take to make marks like the ones on Jamie’s back, though.”
Dougal shook his head, flipping water out of the pool at a curious jay that ventured close.
“Now, there you’re wrong, lass, and you’ll pardon my saying so. Imagination is all verra well, but it isna equal to the sight of a man having his back laid open. A verra nasty thing—it’s meant to break a man, and most often it succeeds.”
“Not with Jamie.” I spoke rather more sharply than I had intended. Jamie was my patient, and to some extent, my friend as well. I had no wish to discuss his personal history with Dougal, though I would, if pressed, admit to a certain morbid curiosity. I had never met anyone more open and at the same time more mysterious than the tall young MacTavish.
Dougal laughed shortly and wiped his wet hand through his hair, pasting back the strands that had escaped during our flight—for so I thought of it—from the tavern.
“Weel, Jamie’s as stubborn as the rest of his family—like rocks, the lot of them, and he’s the worst.” But there was a definite tone of respect in his voice, grudging though it was.
“Jamie told ye he was flogged for escape?”
“Yes.”
“Aye, he went over the wall of the camp just after dark, same day as the dragoons brought him in. That was a fairly frequent occurrence there, the prisoners’ accommodations not bein’ as secure as might be wished, so the English ran patrols near the walls every night. The garrison clerk told me Jamie put up a good fight, from the look of him when he came back, but it was six against one, and the six all wi’ muskets, so it didna last long. Jamie spent the night in chains, and went to the whipping post first thing in the morning.” He paused, checking me for signs of faintness or nausea, I supposed.
“Floggings were done right after assembly, so as to start everyone off in the proper frame of mind for the day. There were three to be flogged that day, and Jamie was the last of them.”
“You actually saw it?”
“Oh, aye. And I’ll tell ye, lass, watchin’ men bein’ flogged is not pleasant. I’ve had the good fortune never to experience it, but I expect bein’ flogged is not verra pleasant, either. Watching it happen to someone else while waitin’ for it yourself is probably least pleasant of all.”
“I don’t doubt it,” I murmured.
Dougal nodded. “Jamie looked grim enough, but he didna turn a hair, even listening to the screams and the other noises—did ye know ye can hear the flesh being torn?”
“Ugh!”
“So I thought myself, lass,” he said, grimacing in memory of it. “To say nothing of the blood and bruises. Ech!” He spat, carefully avoiding the pool and its coping. “Turned my stomach to see, and I’m no a squeamish man by any means.”
Dougal went on with his ghastly story.
“Come Jamie’s turn, he walks up to the post—some men have to be dragged, but not him—and holds out his hands so the corporal can unlock the manacles he’s wearing. The corporal goes to pull his arm, like, to haul him into place, but Jamie shakes him off and steps back a pace. I was half expectin’ him to make a dash for it, but instead he just pulls off his shirt. It’s torn here and there and filthy as a clout, but he folds it up careful like it was his Sunday best, and lays it on the ground. Then he walks over to the post steady as a soldier and puts his hands up to be bound.”
Dougal shook his head, marveling. The sunlight filtering through the rowan leaves dappled him with lacy shadows, so he looked like a man seen through a doily. I smiled at the thought, and he nodded approvingly at me, thinking my response due to his story.
“Aye, lass, courage like that is uncommon rare. It wasna ignorance, mind; he’d just seen two men flogged and he knew the same was coming to him. It’s just he had made up his mind there was no help for it. Boldness in battle is nothing out of the way for a Scotsman, ye ken, but to face down fear in cold blood is rare in any man. He was but nineteen at the time,” Dougal added as an afterthought.
“Must have been rather gruesome to watch,” I said ironically. “I wonder you weren’t sick.”
Dougal saw the irony, and let it lie. “I nearly was, lass,” he said, lifting his dark brows. “The first lash drew blood, and the lad’s back was half red and half blue within a minute. He didna scream, though, or beg for mercy, or twist round to try and save himself. He just set his forehead hard against the post and stood there. He flinched when the lash hit, of course, but nothin’ more. I doubt I could do that,” he admitted, “nor are there many that could. He fainted half through it, and they roused him wi’ water from a jug and finished it.”
“Very nasty indeed,” I observed. “Why are you telling me about it?”
“I havena finished telling ye about it.” Dougal pulled the dirk from his belt and began to clean his fingernails with the point. He was a fastidious man, in spite of the difficulties of keeping clean on the road.
“Jamie was slumped in the ropes, with the blood running down and staining his kilt. I dinna think he’d fainted, he was just too wambly to stand for the moment. But just then Captain Randall came down into the yard. I don’t know why he’d not been there to begin with; had business that delayed him, perhaps. Anyway, Jamie saw him coming, and had the presence o’ mind left to close his eyes and let his head flop, like as if he were unconscious.”
Dougal knitted his brows, concentrating fiercely on a recalcitrant hangnail.
“The Captain was fair put out that they’d flogged Jamie already; seems that was a pleasure he’d meant to have for himself. Still, not much to be done about it at the moment. But then he thought to make inquiries about how Jamie came to escape in the first place.”
He held up the dirk, examining it for nicks, then began to sharpen the edge against the stone he sat on. “Had several soldiers shaking in their boots before he was done—the man’s a way wi’ words, I’ll say that for him.”
“That he has,” I said dryly.
The dirk scraped rhythmically against the stone. Every so often, a faint spark leapt from the metal as it struck a rough patch in the rock.
“Weel, in the course of this inquiry, it came out that Jamie’d had the heel of a loaf and a bit of cheese with him when they caught him—taken it along when he went over the wall. Whereupon the Captain thinks for a moment, then smiles a smile I should hate to see on my grandmother’s face. He declares that theft bein’ a serious offense, the penalty should be commensurate, and sentences Jamie on the spot to another hundred lashes.”
I flinched in spite of myself. “That would kill him!”
Dougal nodded. “Aye, that’s what the garrison doctor said. He said as he’d permit no such thing; in good conscience, the prisoner must be allowed a week to heal before receiving the second flogging.”
“Well, how humanitarian of him,” I said. “Good conscience, my aunt Fanny! And what did Captain Randall think of this?”
“He was none too pleased at first, but he reconciled himself. Once he did, the sergeant-major, who knew a real faint when he saw one, had Jamie untied. The lad staggered a bit, but he kept to his feet, and a few of the men there cheered, which didna go ower a treat wi’ the Captain. He wasna best pleased when the sergeant picked up Jamie’s shirt and handed it back to the lad, either, though it was quite a popular move with the men.”
Dougal twisted the blade back and forth, examining it critically. Then he laid it across his knee and gave me a direct look.
“Ye know, lass, it’s fairly easy to be brave, sittin’ in a warm tavern ower a glass of ale. ’Tis not so easy, squatting in a cold field, wi’ musket balls going past your head and heather ticklin’ your arse. And it’s still less easy when you’re standing face to face wi’ your enemy, wi’ your own blood running down your legs.”
“I wouldn’t suppose so,” I said. I did feel a little faint, in spite of everything. I plunged both hands into the water, letting the dark liquid chill my wrists.
“I did go back to see Randall, later in the week,” Dougal said defensively, as though he felt some need to justify the action. “We talked a good bit, and I even offered him compensation—”
“Oh, I am impressed,” I murmured, but desisted in the face of his glare. “No, I mean it. It was kind of you. I gather Randall declined your offer, though?”
“Aye, he did. And I still dinna ken why, for I’ve not found English officers on the whole to be ower-scrupulous when it comes to their purses, and clothes such as the Captain’s come a bit dear.”
“Perhaps he has-other sources of income,” I suggested.
“He does, for a fact,” Dougal confirmed, but with a sharp glance at me. “Still …” he hesitated, then proceeded, more slowly.
“I went back, then, to be there for Jamie when he came up again, though there wasna much I could do for him at that point, poor lad.”
The second time, Jamie had been the only prisoner up for flogging. The guards had removed his shirt before bringing him out, just after sunup on a cold October morning.
“I could see the lad was dead scairt,” said Dougal, “though he was walking by himself and wouldna let the guard touch him. I could see him shaking, as much wi’ the cold as wi’ nerves, and the gooseflesh thick on his arms and chest, but the sweat was standing on his face as well.”
A few minutes later, Randall came out, the whip tucked under his arm, and the lead plummets at the tips of the lashes clicking softly together as he walked. He had surveyed Jamie coolly, then motioned to the sergeant-major to turn the prisoner around to show his back.
Dougal grimaced. “A pitiful sight, it was, too—still raw, no more than half-healed, wi’ the weals turned black and the rest yellow wi’ bruises. The thought of a whip comin’ down on that soreness was enough to make me blench, along wi’ most of those watching.”
Randall then turned to the sergeant-major and said, “A pretty job, Sergeant Wilkes. I must see if I can do as well.” With considerable punctilio, he then called for the garrison doctor, and had him certify officially that Jamie was fit enough to be flogged.
“You’ve seen a cat play wi’ a wee mousie?” Dougal asked. “ ’Twas like that. Randall strolled round the lad, making one kind of remark and another, none of them what ye’d call pleasant. And Jamie stood there like an oak tree, sayin’ nothing and keeping his eyes fixed on the post, not lookin’ at Randall at all. I could see the lad was hugging his elbows to try to stop the shivering, and ye could tell Randall saw it too.
“His mouth tightened up and he says, ‘I thought this was the young man who only a week past was shouting that he wasn’t afraid to die. Surely a man who’s not afraid to die isn’t afraid of a few lashes?’ and he gives Jamie a poke in the belly wi’ the handle of the whip.
“Jamie met Randall’s eye straight on then, and said, ‘No, but I’m afraid I’ll freeze stiff before ye’re done talking.’ ”
Dougal sighed. “Well. It was a braw speech, but damn reckless, for a’ that. Now, scourging a man is never a pretty business, but there’s ways to make it worse than it might be; strikin’ sideways to cut deep, or steppin’ in wi’ a hard blow ower the kidneys, for instance.” He shook his head. “Verra ugly.”
He frowned, choosing his words slowly.
“Randall’s face was—intent, I suppose ye’d say—and sort o’ lighted up, like when a man is lookin’ at a lass he’s soft on, if ye know what I mean. ’Twas as though he were doin’ somethin’ much worse to Jamie than just skinning him alive. The blood was running down the lad’s legs by the fifteenth stroke, and the tears running down his face wi’ the sweat.”
I swayed a little, and put out a hand to the stone of the coping.
Well,” he said abruptly, catching sight of my expression, “I’ll say no more except that he lived through it. When the corporal untied his hands, he nearly fell, but the corporal and sergeant-major each caught him by an arm and kind o’ steadied him ’til he could keep his feet. He was shakin’ worse than ever from shock and cold, but his head was up and his eyes blazin’—I could see it from twenty feet away. He keeps his eyes fixed on Randall while they help him off the platform, leavin’ bloody footprints—it’s like watchin’ Randall is the only thing keeping him on his feet. Randall’s face was almost as white as Jamie’s, and his eyes were locked wi’ the lad’s—as though either of them would fall if he took his eyes away.” Dougal’s own eyes were fixed, still seeing the eerie scene.
Everything was quiet in the small glade except for the faint rush of wind through the leaves of the rowan tree. I closed my eyes and listened to it for some time.
“Why?” I asked finally, eyes still closed. “Why did you tell me?”
Dougal was watching me intently when I opened my eyes. I dipped a hand in the spring again, and applied the cool water to my temples.
“I thought it might serve as what ye may call a character illustration,” he said.
“Of Randall?” I uttered a short, mirthless laugh. “I don’t need any further evidence as to his character, thank you.”
“Of Randall,” he agreed, “and Jamie too.”
I looked at him, suddenly ill at ease.
“Ye see, I have orders,” he emphasized the word sarcastically, “from the good captain.”
“Orders to do what?” I asked, the agitated feeling increasing.
“To produce the person of an English subject, one Claire Beauchamp by name, at Fort William on Monday, the 18th of June. For questioning.”
I must have looked truly alarming, for he jumped to his feet and came over to me.
“Put your head between your knees, lass,” he instructed, pushing on the back of my neck, “ ’til the faintness passes off.”
“I know what to do,” I said irritably, doing it nonetheless. I closed my eyes, feeling the ebbing blood begin to throb in my temples again. The clammy sensation around my face and ears began to disappear, though my hands were still icy. I concentrated on breathing properly, counting in-one-two-three-four, out-one-two, in-one-two-three-four.…
At length I sat up, feeling more or less in possession of all my faculties. Dougal had resumed his seat on the stone coping, and was waiting patiently, watching to be sure that I didn’t fall backward into the spring.
“There’s a way out of it,” he said abruptly. “The only one I can see.”
“Lead me to it,” I said, with an unconvincing attempt at a smile.
“Verra well, then.” He sat forward, leaning toward me to explain. “Randall’s the right to take ye for questioning because you’re a subject of the English crown. Well, then, we must change that.”
I stared at him, uncomprehending. “What do you mean? You’re a subject of the crown as well, aren’t you? How would you change such a thing?”
“Scots law and English law are verra similar,” he said, frowning, “but no the same. And an English officer canna compel the person of a Scot, unless he’s firm evidence of a crime committed, or grounds for serious suspicions. Even with suspicion, he could no remove a Scottish subject from clan lands without the permission of the laird concerned.”
“You’ve been talking to Ned Gowan,” I said, beginning to feel a little dizzy again.
He nodded. “Aye, I have. I thought it might come to this, ye ken. And what he told me is what I thought myself; the only way I can legally refuse to give ye to Randall is to change ye from an Englishwoman into a Scot.”
“Into a Scot?” I said, the dazed feeling quickly being replaced by a horrible suspicion.
This was confirmed by his next words.
“Aye,” he said, nodding at my expression. “Ye must marry a Scot. Young Jamie.”
“I couldn’t do that!”
“Weel,” he frowned, considering. “I suppose ye could take Rupert, instead. He’s a widower, and he’s the lease of a small farm. Still, he’s a good bit older, and—”
“I don’t want to marry Rupert, either! That’s the … the most absurd …” Words failed me. Springing to my feet in agitation, I paced around the small clearing, fallen rowan berries crunching under my feet.
“Jamie’s a goodly lad,” Dougal argued, still sitting on the coping. “He’s not much in the way of property just now, true, but he’s a kind-hearted lad. He’d not be cruel to ye. And he’s a bonny fighter, with verra good reason to hate Randall. Nay, marry him, and he’ll fight to his last breath to protect ye.”
“But … but I can’t marry anyone!” I burst out.
Dougal’s eyes were suddenly sharp. “Why not, lass? Do ye have a husband living still?”
“No. It’s just … it’s ridiculous! Such things don’t happen!”
Dougal had relaxed when I said “No.” Now he glanced up at the sun and rose to go.
“Best get moving, lass. There are things we’ll have to attend to. There’ll have to be a special dispensation,” he murmured, as though to himself. “But Ned can manage that.”
He took my arm, still muttering to himself. I wrenched it away.
“I will not marry anyone,” I said firmly.
He seemed undisturbed by this, merely raising his brows.
“You want me to take you to Randall?”
“No!” Something occurred to me. “So at least you believe me when I say I’m not an English spy?”
“I do now.” He spoke with some emphasis.
“Why now and not before?”
He nodded at the spring, and at the worn figure etched in the rock. It must be hundreds of years old, much older even than the giant rowan tree that shaded the spring and cast its white flowers into the black water.
“St. Ninian’s spring. Ye drank the water before I asked ye.”
I was thoroughly bewildered by this time.
“What does that have to do with it?”
He looked surprised, then his mouth twisted in a smile. “Ye didna know? They call it the liar’s spring, as well. The water smells o’ the fumes of hell. Anyone who drinks the water and then tells untruth will ha’ the gizzard burnt out of him.”
“I see.” I spoke between my teeth. “Well, my gizzard is quite intact. So you can believe me when I say I’m not a spy, English or French. And you can believe something else, Dougal MacKenzie. I’m not marrying anyone!”
He wasn’t listening. In fact, he had already pushed his way through the bushes that screened the spring. Only a quivering oak branch marked his passage. Seething, I followed him.
I remonstrated at some length further on the ride back to the inn. Dougal advised me finally to save my breath to cool my parritch with, and after that we rode in silence.
Reaching the inn, I flung my reins to the ground and stamped upstairs to the refuge of my room.
The whole idea was not only outrageous, but unthinkable. I paced around and around the narrow room, feeling increasingly like a rat in a trap. Why in hell hadn’t I had the nerve to steal away from the Scots earlier, whatever the risk?
I sat down on the bed and tried to think calmly. Considered strictly from Dougal’s point of view, no doubt the idea had merit. If he refused point-blank to hand me over to Randall, with no excuse, the Captain might easily try to take me by force. And whether he believed me or not, Dougal might understandably not want to engage in a skirmish with a lot of English dragoons for my sake.
And, viewed in cold blood, the idea had some merit from my side as well. If I were married to a Scot, I would presumably no longer be watched and guarded. It would be that much easier to get away when the time came. And if it were Jamie—well, he liked me, clearly. And he knew the Highlands like the backs of his hands. He would perhaps take me to Craigh na Dun, or at least in the general direction. Yes, possibly marriage was the best way to gain my goal.
That was the cold-blooded way to look at it. My blood, however, was anything but cold. I was hot with fury and agitation, and could not keep still, pacing and fuming, looking for a way out. Any way. After an hour of this, my face was flushed and my head throbbing. I got up and threw open the shutters, sticking my head out into the cooling breeze.
There was a peremptory rap on the door behind me. Dougal entered as I pulled my head in. He bore a sheaf of stiff paper like a salver and was followed by Rupert and the immaculate Ned Gowan, bringing up the rear like royal equerries.
“Please do come in,” I said courteously.
Ignoring me as usual, Dougal removed a chamber pot from its resting place on the table and fanned the sheets of paper out ceremoniously on the rough oak surface.
“All done,” he said, with the pride of one who has shepherded a difficult project to a successful conclusion. “Ned’s drawn up the papers; nothing like a lawyer—so long as he’s on your side, eh, Ned?”
The men all laughed, evidently in good humor.
“Not really difficult, ye ken,” Ned said modestly. “It’s but a simple contract.” He riffled the pages with a proprietary forefinger, then paused, wrinkling his brow at a sudden thought.
“You’ve no property in France, have ye?” he asked, peering worriedly at me over the half-spectacles he wore for close work. I shook my head, and he relaxed, shuffling the papers back into a pile and tapping the edges neatly together.
“That’s that, then. You’ll only need to sign here at the foot, and Dougal and Rupert to witness.”
The lawyer set down the inkpot he had brought in, and whipping a clean quill from his pocket, presented it ceremoniously to me.
“And just what is this?” I asked. This was in the nature of a rhetorical question, for the top page of the bundle said CONTRACT OF MARRIAGE in a clear calligraphic hand, the letters two inches high and starkly black across the page.
Dougal suppressed a sigh of impatience at my recalcitrance.
“Ye ken quite weel what it is,” he said shortly. “And unless you’ve had another bright thought for keeping yourself out of Randall’s hands, you’ll sign it and have done with it. Time’s short.”
Bright thoughts were in particularly short supply at the moment, despite the hour I had spent hammering away at the problem. It really began to seem that this incredible alternative was the best I could do, struggle as I might.
“But I don’t want to marry!” I said stubbornly. It occurred to me as well that mine was not the only point of view involved. I remembered the girl with blond hair I had seen kissing Jamie in the alcove at the castle.
“And maybe Jamie doesn’t want to marry me!” I said. “What about that?” Dougal dismissed this as unimportant.
“Jamie’s a soldier; he’ll do as he’s told. So will you,” he said pointedly, “unless, of course, ye’d prefer an English prison.”
I glared at him, breathing heavily. I had been in a stir ever since our abrupt removal from Randall’s office, and my level of agitation had now increased substantially, confronted with the choice in black and white, as it were.
“I want to talk to him,” I said abruptly. Dougal’s eyebrows shot up.
“Jamie? Why?”
“Why? Because you’re forcing me to marry him, and so far as I can see, you haven’t even told him!”
Plainly this was an irrelevancy, as far as Dougal was concerned, but he eventually gave in and, accompanied by his minions, went to fetch Jamie from the taproom below.
Jamie appeared shortly, looking understandably bewildered.
“Did you know that Dougal wants us to marry?” I demanded bluntly.
His expression cleared. “Oh, aye. I knew that.”
“But surely,” I said, “a young man like yourself; I mean, isn’t there anyone else you’re, ah, interested in?” He looked blank for a moment, then understanding dawned.
“Oh, am I promised? Nay, I’m no much of a prospect for a girl.” He hurried on, as though feeling this might sound insulting. “I mean, I’ve no property to speak of, and nothing more than a soldier’s pay to live on.”
He rubbed his chin, eyeing me dubiously. “Then there’s the minor difficulty that I’ve a price on my head. No father much wants his daughter married to a man as may be arrested and hanged any time. Did ye think of that?”
I flapped my hand, dismissing the matter of outlawry as a minor consideration, compared to the whole monstrous idea. I had one last try.
“Does it bother you that I’m not a virgin?” He hesitated a moment before answering.
“Well, no,” he said slowly, “so long as it doesna bother you that I am.” He grinned at my drop-jawed expression, and backed toward the door.
“Reckon one of us should know what they’re doing,” he said. The door closed softly behind him; clearly the courtship was over.
The papers duly signed, I made my way cautiously down the inn’s steep stairs and over to the bar table in the taproom.
“Whisky,” I said to the rumpled old creature behind it. He glared rheumily, but a nod from Dougal made him oblige with a bottle and glass. The latter was thick and greenish, a bit smeared, with a chip out of the rim, but it had a hole in the top, and that was all that mattered at the moment.
Once the searing effect of swallowing the stuff had passed, it did induce a certain spurious calmness. I felt detached, noticing details of my surroundings with a peculiar intensity: the small stained-glass inset over the bar, casting colored shadows over the ruffianly proprietor and his wares, the curve of the handle on a copper-bottomed dipper that hung on the wall next to me, a greenbellied fly struggling on the edges of a sticky puddle on the table. With a certain amount of fellow-feeling, I nudged it out of danger with the edge of my glass.
I gradually became aware of raised voices behind the closed door on the far side of the room. Dougal had disappeared there after the conclusion of his business with me, presumably to firm up arrangements with the other contracting party. I was pleased to hear that, judging from the sound of it, my intended bridegroom was cutting up rough, despite his apparent lack of objection earlier. Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to offend me.
“Stick to it, lad,” I murmured, and took another gulp.
Sometime later, I was dimly conscious of a hand prying my fingers open in order to remove the greenish glass. Another hand was steadyingly under my elbow.
“Christ, she’s drunk as an auld besom in a bothy,” said a voice in my ear. The voice rasped unpleasantly, I thought, as though its owner had been eating sandpaper. I giggled softly at the thought.
“Quiet yerself, woman!” said the unpleasant rasping voice. It grew fainter as the owner turned to talk to someone else. “Drunk as a laird and screechin’ like a parrot—what do ye expect—”
Another voice interrupted the first, but I couldn’t tell what it said; the words were blurred and indistinguishable. It was a pleasanter sound, though, deep and somehow reassuring. It came nearer, and I could make out a few words. I made an effort to focus, but my attention had begun to wander again.
The fly had found its way back to the puddle, and was floundering in the middle, hopelessly mired. The light from the stained-glass window fell on it, glittering like sparks on the straining green belly. My gaze fixed on the tiny green spot, which seemed to pulsate as the fly twitched and struggled.
“Brother … you haven’t a shance,” I said, and the spark went out.