Dragonfly in Amber (113 page)

Geordie and Willie guarded the window to the rear, swords and pistols to the ready. But it was likely from the front that an attack would come; the hill behind the church sloped steeply up, with barely room between the slope and the wall of the church for one man to squeeze past.

I heard the squelching of footsteps, approaching the door through the mud, and the faint clanking of sidearms. The sounds stopped at a distance, and a voice came again, closer and louder.

"In the name of His Majesty King George, come out and surrender! We know you are there!"

Jamie fired. The report inside the tiny church was deafening. It must have been sufficiently impressive from outside as well; I could hear the hasty sounds of slipping retreat, accompanied by muffled curses. There was a small hole in the door, made by the pistol ball; Dougal sidled up to it and peered out.

"Damn," he said under his breath. "There's a lot of them."

Jamie cast a glance at me, then set his lips and turned his attention to reloading his pistol. Clearly, the Scots had no intention of surrendering. Just as clearly, the English had no desire to storm the church, given the easily defended entrances. They couldn't mean to starve us out? Surely the Highland army would be sending out men to search for the wounded of the battle from the night before. If they arrived before the English had opportunity to bring a cannon to bear on the church, we might be saved.

Unfortunately, there was a thinker outside. The sound of footsteps came once more, and then a measured English voice, full of authority.

"You have one minute to come out and give yourselves up," it said, "or we fire the thatch."

I glanced upward in complete horror. The walls of the church were stone, but the thatch would burn in short order, even soaked with rain and sleet, and once well caught, would send flames and smoking embers raining down to engulf us. I remembered the awful speed with which the torch of twisted reed had burned the night before; the charred remnant lay on the floor near Rupert's shrouded corpse, a grisly token in the gray dawn light.

"No!" I screamed. "Bloody bastards! This is a church! Have you never heard of sanctuary?"

"Who is that?" came the sharp voice from outside. "Is that an English-woman in there?!"

"Yes!" shouted Dougal, springing to the door. He cracked it ajar and bellowed out at the English soldiers on the hillside below. "Yes! We hold an English lady captive! Fire the thatch, and she dies with us!"

There was an outbreak of voices at the bottom of the hill, and a sudden shifting among the men in the church. Jamie whirled on Dougal with a scowl, saying, "What…!"

"It's the only chance!" Dougal hissed back. "Let them take her, in return for our freedom. They'll not harm her if they think she's our hostage, and we'll get her back later, once we're free!"

I came out of my hiding space and went to Jamie, gripping his sleeve.

"Do it!" I said urgently. "Dougal is right, it's the only chance!"

He looked down at me helplessly, rage and fear mingled on his face. And under it all, a trace of humor at the underlying irony of the situation.

"I am a sassenach, after all," I said, seeing it.

He touched my face briefly with a rueful smile.

"Aye, mo duinne. But you're my sassenach." He turned to Dougal, squaring his shoulders. He drew in a deep breath, and nodded.

"All right. Tell them we took her"—he thought quickly, rubbing one hand through his hair—"from Falkirk road, late yesterday."

Dougal nodded, and without waiting for more, slipped out of the church door, a white handkerchief held high overhead in signal of truce.

Jamie turned to me, frowning, glancing at the church door, where the sounds of English voices were still audible, though we couldn't make out words as they talked.

"I don't know what you're to tell them, Claire; perhaps ye'd better pretend to be so shocked that ye canna speak of it. It's maybe better than telling a tale; for if they should realize who you are—" He stopped suddenly and rubbed his hand hard over his face.

If they realized who I was, it would be London, and the Tower—followed quite possibly by swift execution. But while the broadsheets had made much of "the Stuart Witch," no one, so far as I knew, had realized or published the fact that the witch was English.

"Don't worry," I said, realizing just what a silly remark this was, but unable to come up with anything better. I laid a hand on his sleeve, feeling the swift pulse that beat in his wrist. "You'll get me back before they have a chance to realize anything. Do you think they'll take me to Callendar House?"

He nodded, back in control. "Aye, I think so. If ye can, try to be alone near a window, just after nightfall. I'll come for ye then."

There was time for no more. Dougal slipped back through the door, closing it carefully behind him.

"Done," he said, looking from me to Jamie. "We give them the woman, and we'll be allowed to leave unmolested. No pursuit. We keep the horse. We'll need it, for Rupert, ye see," he said to me, half-apologetically.

"It's all right," I told him. I looked at the door, with its small dark spot where the bullet had passed, the same size as the hole in Rupert's side. My mouth was dry and I swallowed hard. I was a cuckoo's egg, about to be laid in the wrong nest. The three of us hesitated before the door, all reluctant to take the final step.

"I'd b-better go," I said, trying hard to control my shaking voice and limbs. "They'll wonder what's keeping us."

Jamie closed his eyes for a moment, nodded, then stepped toward me.

"I think you'd better swoon, Sassenach," he said. "It will be easier that way, maybe." He stooped, picked me up in his arms, and carried me through the door that Dougal held open.

His heart pounded beneath my ear, and I could feel the trembling in his arms as he carried me. After the stuffiness of the church, with its smells of sweat, blood, black powder and horse manure, the cold fresh air of early morning took my breath away, and I huddled against him, shivering. His hands tightened under my knees and shoulders, hard as a promise; he would never let me go.

"God," he said once, under his breath, and then we had reached them. Sharp questions, mumbled answers, the reluctant loosening of his grip as he laid me on the ground, and then the swish of his feet, going away through wet grass. I was alone, in the hands of the strangers.

I hunched closer to the fire, holding out my hands to thaw. They were grimy from holding the reins all day, and I wondered briefly whether it was worthwhile walking the distance to the stream to wash them. Maintaining modern standards of hygiene in the absence of all forms of plumbing sometimes seemed a good deal more trouble than it was worth. No bloody wonder if people got ill and died frequently, I thought sourly. They died of simple filth and ignorance more than anything.

The thought of dying in filth was sufficient to get me to my feet, tired as I was. The tiny streamlet that passed by the campsite was boggy near the edges, and my shoes sank deep into the marshy growth. Having traded dirty hands for wet feet, I slogged back to the fire, to find Corporal Rowbotham waiting for me with a bowl of what he said was stew.

"The Captain's compliments, Mum," he said, actually tugging his forelock as he handed me the bowl, "and he says to tell yer as we'll be in Tavistock tomorrow. There's an inn there." He hesitated, his round, homely, middle-aged face concerned, then added, "The Captain's apologies for the lack of accommodation, Mum, but we've fixed a tent for yer for tonight. 'S not much, but mebbe'll keep the rain off yer."

"Thank the Captain for me, Corporal," I said, as graciously as I could manage. "And thank you, too," I added, with more warmth. I was entirely aware that Captain Mainwaring considered me a burdensome nuisance, and would have taken no thought at all for my night's shelter. The tent—a spare length of canvas draped carefully over a tree limb and pegged at both sides—was undoubtedly the sole idea of Corporal Rowbotham.

The Corporal went away and I sat by myself, slowly eating scorched potatoes and stringy beef. I'd found a late patch of charlock near the stream, leaves wilting and brown around the edges, and had brought back a handful in my pocket, along with a few juniper berries picked during a stop earlier in the day. The mustard leaves were old and very bitter, but I managed to get them down by wodging them between bites of potato. I finished the meal with the juniper berries, biting each one briefly to avoid choking and then swallowing the tough, flattened berry, seed and all. The oily burst of flavor sent fumes up the back of my throat that made my eyes water, but they did cleanse my tongue of the taste of grease and scorch, and would, with the charlock leaves, maybe be sufficient to ward off scurvy.

I had had a large store of dried fiddleheads, rose hips, dried apples and dill seeds in the larger of my two medicine chests, carefully collected as a defense against nutritional deficiency during the long winter months. I hoped Jamie was eating them.

I put my head down on my knees; I didn't think anyone was looking at me, but I didn't want my face to show when I thought of Jamie.

I had stayed in my pretended swoon on Falkirk Hill as long as I could, but was roused before too long by a British dragoon trying to force brandy from a pocket flask down my throat. Unsure quite what to do with me, my "rescuers" had taken me to Callendar House and turned me over to General Hawley's staff.

So far, all had gone according to plan. Within the hour, though, things had gone rather seriously awry. From sitting in an anteroom and listening to everything that was said around me, I soon learned that what I had thought was a major battle during the night had in fact been no more than a small skirmish between the MacKenzies and a detachment of English troops on their way to join the main body of the army. Said army was even now assembling itself to meet the expected Highland charge on Falkirk Hill; the battle I thought I had lived through had not, in fact, happened yet!

General Hawley himself was overseeing this process, and as no one seemed to have any idea what ought to be done with me, I was consigned to the custody of a young private, along with a letter describing the circumstances of my rescue, and dispatched to a Colonel Campbell's temporary headquarters at Kerse. The young private, a stocky specimen named Dobbs, was distressingly zealous in his urge to perform his duty, and despite several tries along the way, I had been unable to get away from him.

We had arrived in Kerse, only to find that Colonel Campbell was not there, but had been summoned to Livingston.

"Look," I had suggested to my escorting gaoler, "plainly Colonel Campbell is not going to have time or inclination to talk to me, and there's nothing I could tell him in any case. Why don't I just find lodging in the town here, until I can make some arrangement for continuing my journey to Edinburgh?" For lacking any better idea, I had given the English basically the same story I had given to Colum MacKenzie, two years earlier; that I was a widowed lady from Oxford, traveling to visit a relative in Scotland, when I had been set upon and abducted by Highland brigands.

Private Dobbs shook his head, flushing stubbornly. He couldn't be more than twenty, and he wasn't very bright, but once he got an idea in his head, he hung on to it.

"I can't let you do that, Mrs. Beauchamp," he said—for I had used my own maiden name as an alias—"Captain Bledsoe'll have my liver for it, an' I don't bring you safe to the Colonel."

So to Livingston we had gone, mounted on two of the sorriest-looking nags I had ever seen. I was finally relieved of the attentions of my escort, but with no improvement in my circumstances. Instead, I found myself immured in an upper room in a house in Livingston, telling the story once again, to one Colonel Gordon MacLeish Campbell, a Lowland Scot in command of one of the Elector's regiments.

"Aye, I see," he said, in the sort of tone that suggested that he didn't see at all. He was a small, foxy-faced man, with balding reddish hair brushed back from his temples. He narrowed his eyes still further, glancing down at the crumpled letter on his blotter.

"This says," he said, placing a pair of half-spectacles on his nose in order to peer more closely at the sheet of paper, "that one of your captors, Mistress, was a Fraser clansman, very large, and with red hair. Is this information correct?"

"Yes," I said, wondering what he was getting at.

He tilted his head so the spectacles slid down his nose, the better to fix me with a piercing stare over the tops.

"The men who rescued you near Falkirk gave it as their impression that one of your captors was none other than the notorious Highland chief known as ‘Red Jamie.' Now, I am aware, Mrs. Beauchamp, that you were…distressed, shall we say?"—his lips pulled back from the word, but it wasn't a smile—"during the period of your captivity, and perhaps in no fit frame of mind to make close observations, but did you notice at any time whether the other men present referred to this man by name?"

"They did. They called him Jamie." I couldn't imagine any harm that could be done by telling him this; the broadsheets I had seen made it abundantly clear that Jamie was a supporter of the Stuart cause. The placing of Jamie at the battle of Falkirk was possibly of interest to the English, but could hardly incriminate him further.

"They canna very well hang me more than once," he'd said. Once would be more than enough. I glanced at the window. Night had fallen half an hour ago, and lanterns glowed in the street below, carried by soldiers passing to and fro. Jamie would be at Callendar House, searching for the window where I should be waiting.

I had the absurd certainty, all of a sudden, that he had followed me, had known somehow where I was going, and would be waiting in the street below, for me to show myself.

I rose abruptly and went to the window. The street below was empty, save for a seller of pickled herrings, seated on a stool with his lantern at his feet, waiting for the possibility of customers. It wasn't Jamie, of course. There was no way for him to find me. No one in the Stuart camp knew where I was; I was entirely alone. I pressed my hands hard against the glass in sudden panic, not caring that I might shatter it.