by Hope Tarr
“Dinna heed him, he’s lyin’.” Amidst the crowd’s shocked murmurs, Callum stormed his way to the front of the room.
Scowling, Duncan cracked his gavel. “Silence, Callum McBride. Ye’ll have your say in a bit if ye must, but for now ye’ll hold your peace or hold up in the tollbooth, as ye will.”
Scalp prickling, Jack turned to face his brother, who stood a few paces behind him. Hazel collided with amber as the brothers locked gazes in a silent contest of wills. From birth they’d been as different as night and day, as moon and sun, and yet always, always there’d been this…connection.
Calling on it now, Jack said, Dinna make me do it.
A second later, Callum’s hazel gaze flashed the angry retort, Ye wouldna dare.
Jack hesitated and then shot back with, Will ye test me, then? A second’s pause and then, turning away from his half-brother to Duncan, he opened his mouth to give voice to the words that would signal the end of a decade’s truce.
“I dinna ken how Callum can speak for the lass’s state of mind, as he and the lads took their leave long before either myself or the lady. And Callum in particular was no feeling verra well at the time…” He halted to let the impact of his words sink in.
Snickers sounded about the gallery, for Callum, like his da, was well known to have a taste for the drink.
“Silence!” Duncan cracked his gavel and the din petered. He shifted his fierce gaze to Callum, whose face had flushed a deep scarlet. “What say ye to that, Callum McBride?”
“Aye, I’d left but I heard tell—”
“’Tis what ye saw or didna see that concerns us here, no hearsay, and so that will be all.” Addressing the room at large, he said, “In light of the evidence and that Mistress Valemont is a stranger to both our land and our ways, she shall be set free.”
But while the judge and crowd were content to let the matter lie, Callum was not. Face contorted, he cried out, “Ye canna mean tae let her go! No only did she steal the horse but she tried tae kill me. Cut me wi’ her wee dagger just here.” He tore at the front of his shirt, sending a button flying off onto the floor, and twisted his shoulder to display the thin line of freshly scabbed wound.
From the prisoner’s docket, a French-accented voice called out, “He lies! He seized me, tried to force me to leave with him. I asked him to release me but he would not, and so—”
“Silence!” Duncan called out. “Under English law, a prisoner may speak only through his representative.”
Looking well pleased, Callum pulled his shirt back in place. “I dinna ken ye’d call it askin’. Cursed a blue streak is more like it and then drew her wee knife and had at me.”
Gaze narrowed, Duncan regarded him with obvious disdain. “But ye admit to laying hands on her wi’out her permission? And you were in your cups, were ye no?”
Callum shrugged his thin shoulders. “Och, the lads and I maybe had a few rounds but no so many that I was drunk, mind. ’Twas her that approached me, bold as brass, arse switchin’ and bubbies bared for anyone who cared to look. I’m in the right, I am. And I’ll take my case tae the assizes if ye’ll no try it here.”
And then she will surely hang, Jack thought, and a shudder shot through him.
Duncan looked at Callum with cold dislike. “In light of this new ‘evidence’ I canna verra well set the lass free. But,” he added, tamping down Callum’s gloating smile with a crafty one of his own, “given that it may be she’s weak in the mind, I canna in good conscience condemn her to be hangit, either. Instead I remand her to the custody of Jack Campbell for six months’ indenture.”
Stunned, Jack stood stock-still as Pol unfurled a sheepskin scroll and read out the terms of Claudia’s indenture. Mistress Valemont was to labor for the common good, undertaking “cheerfully and wi’ a willing heart,” those tasks set forth by her keeper. As such, it fell to Jack to administer “physical correction” once each week. A leather tawse was acceptable provided the strap was sufficiently lightweight and broad so as not to incur unintended injury. A rod made of birch and stripped clean might do as well. Either way, the instrument of punishment was to be applied to the prisoner’s backside and not to exceed twenty strokes, barring the truly grievous offense in which case a half dozen more might be administered for good measure.
Jack felt physically ill. In nearly thirty years of living he’d yet to raise his hand to a woman, and he’d no intention of taking up the practice now. And yet if he owned as much, Mistress Valemont would be placed in the hands—literally—of one who would not scruple to do so.
Pol finally paused for breath, and Duncan slanted his gaze to Jack. “Jack Campbell, will ye accept this office and with it the conditions as stated before this court?”
Jack swallowed hard, willing his rising stomach to settle even as he steeled himself to lie—again. “Aye, Your Worship, I will.”
“’Tis settled then.” Another bang of the gavel drove the point home and brought the room to order. “Let the rolls show that the prisoner, one Claudia Valemont, late o’ Paris, France, is heretofore remanded to the custody of Master Jack Campbell, occupant of the office of Lord High Executioner to His Majesty, King George the Third, for a term of six months to begin this day and end the first Friday of April in the year of Our Lord 1794, when she shall be released once more into her own keeping.” He looked up from the tome and addressed himself to Claudia. “Mark me well, mistress, for I’ll say this but the once. Should ye run off at any time o’er the next six months and should ye be so unlucky as to be captured and brought back before me, the original punishment shall stand—ye shall be hangit from the neck until dead. D’ye ken me?”
“Y-yes, my lord.”
For the first time during the proceedings the judge’s angular face relaxed into a smile. “Good, because ye’ve a verra pretty neck and ’twould be a rare pity to make me call upon Jack to stretch it.”
The room exploded into raucous laughter punctuated with a hand or two of applause. Only three people stood without cracking a smile: the prisoner, her reluctant gaoler—and Callum McBride.
Callum rounded on Jack as the crowd dispersed. “Well, well, it seems we’ve another bastard in our midst, aye Jacko? I ken now why the two of ye got on so verra well, but then ye ken the auld saying about birds of a feather, aye?”
In no mood, Jack made to shoulder past him. “It’s over, Callum. Now stand aside.”
“Wheesht, I’ll stand aside a’right…for now. But mind ye, I’ll be watchin’—and waitin’. One false step and your ladybird will find ’erself dancin’ on the wind.”
Clenching his jaw to keep from retorting in kind, Jack turned his back on his brother and made his way to the prisoner’s dock. Standing just outside it, Mistress Valemont held out her manacled wrists, staring down at them in a fixed, frozen sort of way while Pol, palsied and more than half blind, struggled to fit the key into the lock.
She looked up as Jack approached, and her blank stare slipped into a scowl. “I suppose I should thank you for saving my life, monsieur.”
“Aye, I suppose you should.” He turned to Pol and held out his hand for the ring of keys. “I’ll have at it if ye dinna mind.”
The old man turned the ring of keys over with a grudging air. “’Tis the wee silver one, third on the left,” he said, then stumped away to greet his mate, Peadair, who’d risen from the benches.
Key in hand, Jack stepped forward. “If ye’ll allow me, mistress…” She hesitated, then raised her manacled wrists, a wry smile playing about her mouth. “It seems, Monsieur le Borreau, that I have no choice.”
That night, as he lay abed and tried to sleep, Duncan MacGregor was treated to a round earful.
“For shame, Duncan MacGregor,” his wife, Dorcas, said for what must have been the tenth time. “What was it ye were thinkin’ tae grant Jack leave tae beat the puir lass and she but a wee slip of a thing and saft in the head, too.”
Seeing that he would get no rest until his wife was satisfied, Duncan pulled hi
mself up to sit against the banked pillows. “Wheesht, woman, have ye no kent Jack Campbell since he was a bairn? And,” he continued, turning to clamp a hand over her mouth when she showed signs of opening it, “in all these years, have you ever kent him tae raise his hand tae strike a living soul that dinna provoke him first?” She shook her head and, satisfied, he let his hand slide to his side. “Calm yourself, my love, for Mistress Valemont will no come tae harm through Jack. Though,” he added on afterthought, the beginnings of a chuckle tickling the back of his throat, “hiking up the lassie’s skirts and giving her a good poke might just do the lad a world o’ good.”
Dorcas paused from plumping her pillow to scowl over at him. “Dinna say ye mean tae make a match between Jack and the foreign lassie and him sworn to celibacy and the lass a convicted horse thief and would-be murderess—and French into the bargain!” She contrived to look shocked but after twenty-odd years of marriage Duncan knew her face far too well to be fooled. Even in semidarkness, neither the glint in her eyes nor the slight twitching at the corners of her mouth was lost on him.
“What I mean is tae let nature take its course, speakin’ o’ which…” He slid a hand beneath the covers and cupped her soft breast.
“Oooh.” She squealed and shoved against his chest but not so hard that she might budge him. “Ye’re the very devil, Duncan MacGregor, and ye’ve no a dram of shame in ye.”
“Aye, that I am, wife.” He planted a hearty kiss on her startled mouth. “Though, devil that I am, I’m minded tae pay a visit tae heaven before night’s end.”
The MacGregors were far from the only folk too fixed on that day’s trial for sleep. The taproom of the inn was abuzz with talk of little else, or so it seemed to Callum as he reached for his glass of whiskey, his sixth in half as many hours.
He was on his way to being drunk but had yet to reach that state of grace where hurts were numbed and cares erased if only for the moment. If anything, the whiskey had fueled the outrage that had mounted steadily ever since Jack had taken it upon himself to stand witness for the accused.
Jack. As always his half-brother was at the core of Callum’s misery. Even as bairns, Jack’s presence had cast a pall over what Callum was convinced would have otherwise been an idyllic life. But then, the Sassenach bastard had ever been their mother’s favorite. Like a coach horse, she’d worn blinders where her eldest was concerned, as unseeing of Jack’s many faults and failures as she was of her youngest son’s worth. Even after all these years Callum could still recall the way her amber eyes, Jack’s eyes, had lit whenever the gangling bastard had walked into a room, how she’d take him onto her lap and croon endearments into his ear, heedless of Callum standing watch at her knee.
Jack, always Jack.
How many nights had Callum lain awake, too terrified to close his eyes, listening to his parents argue in the other room? Da, his voice slurred but steeled with hate, swearing he’d send the “unnatural creature” away. Mam, just as adamant, swearing that Jack would stay or the both of them would be on their way.
Jack, always Jack.
Lying on the cot across from Callum’s, Jack must have heard them too, must have known his leaving was the answer. And yet he’d stayed on, the selfish bastard. Stayed, as had Callum, to hear the raised voices mount toward crescendo, the crash of some treasured possession hurled to the floor, and the sharp bruising smack of a fist plowing into tender flesh. Mam’s flesh. And finally the soft, almost peaceful keening of Mam weeping, sometimes Da with her. The following morning always brought to mind the aftermath of a storm, only instead of felled trees and broken fences the wreckage would like as no be a bloodied nose, a split lip or a mottled cheek. A week of calm, perhaps two, and then the tension would mount anew and the cycle repeat.
Jack’s fault, all Jack’s fault.
Heretofore his half-brother’s self-imposed semi-exile from village life had allowed Callum to let sleeping dogs lie. But the coming of the Frenchwoman had changed all that. Jack’s setting himself against Callum for her sake, the evening before in the tavern and then earlier that day in the hall, had unbarred the door on a lifetime of pent-up hate.
Callum drained his glass and shouted to Milread to fetch him another, a smile—his first that day—lifting the corners of his cracked lips. He might not be as tall as Jack or as bonnie a fighter or as clever with the books, but he had gifts of his own and chief among them was the knack for searching out a person’s weak spot. And so even in the throes of his anger that day, he’d made it a point to watch and to listen. He’d seen the softness sweep over his half-brother’s chiseled features whenever he’d gazed upon the Frog bitch, had heard the warmth in his tone when he’d turned to her, keys in hand, and said, “If ye’ll allow me…”
For a man whose heart heretofore had been given only to the miserable, flea-ridden menagerie he herded about him, these were signs, powerful signs. Change was in the air. Callum could feel it like a strong wind at his back, and the Frenchwoman—and whatever secret she kept—was at the heart of it. For where there was love, pain and loss were quick to follow. Jack might not love Claudia Valemont, not yet, but the seeds of that sentiment were planted firm and deep. All Callum need do was bide his time and let nature take its course. Sooner or later those seeds would spring forth, bear fruit, and then, like a farmer wielding a scythe at harvest time, Callum would strike. Hard and heavy, again and again until not a stalk was left standing.
Claudia Valemont would fall and Brother Jack with her. Callum would crush the bastard beneath his heel and then, only then, would he know peace.
He could hardly wait to begin.
Chapter Five
“Mind your head.” Monsieur Campbell held open the door to his cottage and stepped back for Claudia to enter. Less mannered was his dog, Elf. The wolfhound bolted inside, treading on Claudia’s foot in her haste to reach home and hearth. Far from eager herself, Claudia hesitated, gulping down her dread, and then crossed the threshold, the crown of her head clearing the lintel with inches to spare. Coming up behind her, Monsieur Campbell murmured, “Aye, I forget how small ye are.” He ducked inside and pulled the door closed.
Nerves strung on tenterhooks, Claudia started at the sound. “Eh bien,” she said around a nervous laugh, “you know what the English say about good things and small packages, yes?”
Judging from his blank look he didn’t, which was likely to be for the best. “I’ll see to building a wee fire and then to our supper.” He set her valise down inside the door and then moved to take the cloak from her shoulders.
“Non, merci,” she said with a shake of her head and then backed up to the wall.
No point in surrendering her cloak or her foothold by the door until she’d determined whether or not what lay inside would behoove her to turn about and run.
Back pressed against the cold stones, she followed him with her eyes as he crossed the room, shrugged out of his broadcloth coat and, after hanging it neatly over the back of the chair, turned to the cold hearth. Only when he’d faced away, squatting to rout through a wooden box filled with bricks of scraggly sod, did she venture to leave the shelter of the wall to look about.
What she saw allayed the very worst of her fears, for the cottage in no way resembled the chamber of horrors she’d spent the short journey from the tollbooth dreading. The few possessions in sight were all common, workaday things—no ropes or thumbscrews or severed heads, at least none in plain view. Suspended from a beam above the fireplace grate was an assortment of earthenware cooking vessels and a great gleaming copper kettle. Herbs tied into neat bundles hung drying from the rafter nearest the hearth, perfuming the air with rosemary, lavender and peppermint. A small reading table and a stuffed armchair—the latter with a black-and-white cat curled upon the seat—took pride of place before the hearth. A few paces to the left set a scrubbed pine table, a bench on either side. Spartan to be sure, but nothing sinister, and all so spotless and tidy as to belie Monsieur Campbell’s bachelor status. The only obviou
s anomaly was the richly grained walnut-and-mahogany mantelpiece. Elaborately carved with a profusion of lions and other fanciful forest creatures, it seemed more in keeping with the grandeur of a palace than with the present humble surroundings, as did the library of leather-bound books ranged along the scrolled shelf.
Books!
“You can read, monsieur?”
Forgetting her fear, Claudia rounded on the hearth and went down the line to read the titles on the tooled leather spines. Culpeper’s The English Physitian or an Astrologo-Physical Discourse of the Vulgar Herbs of This Nation, Sir Thomas More’s Utopia, a small berry-colored leather compendium of Shakespeare’s sonnets. The Chimney-Piece Maker’s Daily Assistant—might that explain the extraordinary mantel? The State of Prisons by John Howard and Commentaries on the Laws of England by Sir William Blackstone—well, at least those two made some sense. And finally there was Voltaire’s Candide and Rousseau’s Emile, both translated into the English but impressive nonetheless.
Kneeling outside the circle of flattened stones, he fed another piece of peat to the fledgling flame. “That surprises ye, does it?” She couldn’t see his face but she thought she heard disappointment straining his tone.
Would she never learn to think before she spoke? “Oui,” she admitted, dropping her gaze to admire the strong, capable hands stacking the peat into a neat pyramid.
When he’d touched her cheek in the tavern the other day, his big, blunt fingers had traced the edges of the bruise in the lightest of touches as though she were made of fine porcelain instead of mere flesh and bone. The only other man’s touch she’d known was Phillippe’s and certainement his had never conveyed such gentleness. Nor did she imagine for a moment that he would have shown much, indeed any, interest in the books on literature and philosophy queued above her head, for his passions had run more to hunting and gaming, dancing and drinking.