Chapter 8
Juliette wiped the spray from her cheeks and licked her salted lips. Blessed Mother England, what have I done? What had possessed her to pretend to the king she knew how to sail? She’d been in her father’s boat twice, and both times she’d done naught more than glide over their family pond. She’d leant over the side and let her fingers trail through the glassy water. That’s all. Worse still, her father’s boat didn’t even have a sail. It just had oars that easily cut through the millpond. This was something else entirely. This was open sea sailing on a blustery day at the top of wild-weather Scotland.
She studied the dark, cantankerous sea. What a bad-tempered mood the firth was in today. And the wind wasn’t being any kinder. She tugged the heavy cape around her body and stole yet another look at Tam. Again, his face was pressed upwards. He was appraising conditions, or mayhap he was even begging the sky to behave. From what she could tell, the wind was the one in charge.
The gale pulled them along at breakneck speed, and now that they were so far from shore, too far to see any horizon line, the waves were even more churlish. Where is the shoreline? And what about the Birlinn? She dreamed of crossing the finish line. The crew of the Birlinn had probably won the race already and were sitting in the king’s warm, dry skin tent right now, happy in the knowledge they would get to see the sun rise again on the morrow. She tried to forgive them for being safe, and for being dry, and for swilling mead while she tossed and rolled in the angry sea, clinging to life.
Why wasn’t Tam screaming at his men? Where was his heat, his emotion, and his need to win? Had he forgotten all about the race? Should she remind him?
Tam moved toward Angus. “You’re nay looking too sharp, my man. The sea’s all a-churn this late noon. Is your stomach bothering you?”
When Angus looked back at Tam, she saw gratitude and even relief in the young Highlander’s eyes. “Aye, I’ve ne’er felt squeamish on the sea afore. But I’m in a bad way now.”
The square sail, which up to that very moment had been stretched and yanked tighter than her best French kirtle, suddenly slumped like a felled duck. “Hellfire,” Tam yelled. “The wind’s changed direction again. I don’t like the way it keeps changing its mind. I don’t like this one bit.”
Tam fought his way to the back of the boat and toward Kenneth on the steering oar. But before he reached the strong wiry lad, Kenneth leaned over the side and emptied his stomach into the sea.
Juliette closed her eyes. She steadfastly refused to lose her morning meal. Nor would she acknowledge the water sloshing about in the bottom of the boat—water that was now up to her shins. To distract herself, she wiped her icy palms up and down on her cape, heating her skin till the feeling began to return.
Tam settled Kenneth back into position and then moved toward her. She looked up and smiled—a smile that was an out-and-out lie. He studied her pale face and was not fooled. He might even have noticed her trembling lips or heard her teeth chatter. He then lifted the neck of his shirt, found what he was searching for, and pulled it from his throat. Tam snatched her flaying, agitated hand and dropped a metal medallion into her palm.
“Here. Put this somewhere safe,” he yelled, battling the wind. It’s a St. Christopher medal—a lucky charm for travellers. As long as you have this, you’ll be safe.”
She met his gaze and smiled again, but this time her smile was effortless and as genuine as could be. She suddenly felt warmer inside too.
Tam called out to them all, “We’re moving closer to the shore. We need protection from this wind.” He got no argument. They sailed toward the coast until, finally, they could see the shoreline clearly. Tam guided the boat in even closer still, till it wasn’t just the safe stretch of land they spied, but also the teeth-like rocks lying between them and the shoreline.
A while back, it had started to rain and was now coming down in earnest—the sky hell-bent on making them suffer. With fiendish determination, the clouds unleashed a torrent. Juliette tucked her sodden face beneath her cape and tried to imagine herself somewhere warm and dry. It was the howl of the wind that made her look up again. The wind had become a wild animal or a mother who’d lost her baby. The screech was painful and hurt her ears.
Then she heard a peculiar roar; it was a sound unlike any other. She looked up and gasped, her jaw hanging. Can the others see that monster wave rolling toward us at breakneck speed? She swung around to warn Tam, but he was at her side before she’d mouthed a word.
“We’re going into the sea, Juliette,” he yelled.
“No, no, no!”
“Aye, we are. And you’ll be brave about this as you are about everything. You hear me? Just let the waves carry you into shore. Don’t fight them. Try to relax. Remove your heavy cape. It’ll only weigh you down. When you’re in the water, stretch out on your back, if you can. Try not to worry. I’ll find you, my darling, I’ll always find you.”
Then the wave hit. Juliette gasped. The water closed over her head, and the current dragged her free from the boat, pulling her down. She tried to remember his words, to relax and go with the tug of the waves, but her lungs screamed. Soon, she was clawing for the surface, desperate to inhale the icy air. She’d tried to stay above the water, but again the ocean pulled her down, tossing her back and forth like a piece of shipwreck waste. Just when she was sure her lungs would burst, the ocean pushed her up again, allowing her to gulp salty sea air. She was dizzy now, but at least the cold no longer bit her skin. She stole one last mouthful of air before being pulled under again. She was already exhausted and too tired to fight back. She would relax, just as Tam had told her to do. God would carry her from this horrid watery place to a sunny haven in the sky, and that was all right with her. She closed her eyes.
But the vengeful sea had plans of its own. It pummelled her body against the rocks, and then spat her up into the air so she could gulp another breath before smashing her again into the rocky blades. Soon she would black out, the pain would ease, and it would all be over. She waited for the moment, welcoming her end, and even wanting it.
Afterwards, as she lay on the sand, barely able to breathe, Juliette tried not to remember being in the ocean. But her mind was brimming with trauma and refused to tame. Her body felt like jelly. She’d been tossed against the rocks and then dragged along the stony bottom. She was aware of the pain but only in an offhand manner—as if her suffering belonged to someone else. Her legs were cut quite badly; she knew they were, but it mattered not. Her ankles also stung. She raised a hand to her eyes and saw blood on her fingers. None of that mattered. Her tattered body was easy to forget. What she couldn’t rid herself of was the memory of being in the sea. Time and again, she’d been on the brink of suffocation. Somehow, she’d clung to life, but death always hovered nearby.
The ocean was a monster—a wicked thing. Folk labelled the sea ‘romantic’ and wrote poetry and painted pictures as if the ocean was something to admire. But Juliette knew the truth now. She understood the sea. The waves enjoyed playing with travellers, taunting them, and toying with their weak vessels and even weaker bodies. The sea offered hope, but only so it could snatch that hope away again. This was a game the sea loved to play.
She’d expected to die, had awaited death, and even hoped it would come quickly. Instead, she’d been tossed and rolled for an endless time and occasionally been allowed up for breath. When she refused to cooperate, had nothing left to fight back with, the waves reluctantly spat her out, dumping her wasted body.
Now she lay prostrate on the pebbly shoreline. The ebb and flow of the water was dragging and rolling her, tossing her about with the shells and stones. She was spent and as humble and flimsy as a piece of worn-out drift wood. Spears of lightning jutted over her head. No matter. She understood now this storm would never end. Her torment would go on and on. She would likely never feel whole or safe or warm again. If death
came now, she’d accept it. The sea was the strongest villain of them all, and it had broken her. Whether she lived or died, she would leave that decision up to God.
Chapter 9
Juliette opened her eyes. It was well into morn. She could tell from the height of the sun and from the brightness of the light jabbing her eyes.
Her body ached. Was she in one piece? Whole still? Her injuries felt grievous, indeed. Juliette decided she best see what state she was in. She attempted to move her arm, but the pain bit back and made her yelp. She’d lie still a while longer. Why was she so cold? Her skin was tight as if pulled hard over her bones. There was also something wrong with her clothing. It weighed too much and pulled her down into the ground. She tried to move her legs, and her tunic clung to her body—the material as weighty as sacks of grain. She lay still, listening to the rhythmic sounds all around her. She heard waves crashing and the roll and fall of the tides, rushing and wheezing like an old man sleeping. Her father breathed heavily like that, but she wasn’t at home. She realised that much.
Suddenly, the memories came flooding back—the storm, the boat, and Tam. Then she recalled one of the worst moments of all: the moment the three of them had been forced overboard by that giant rush of water.
Disturbed now, she pushed up on her arms and looked around. She was on some beach on some rugged coastline. She saw tall cliffs and grassy banks and a puffy, cloudy sky. Turning to look behind her, she eyed mountains and more rugged land, including mountains, cliffs, rolling green, sand, and sea. But she saw no boat, no Tam, and no one else.
She tried to stand, but her head hurt, so she settled for sitting. Her left arm also ached. She brought it closer for inspection and saw blood—her own blood. Her sleeve was stained and torn.
I need help. Was she really here all alone? What did she know about survival? Fat lot of good her fancy upbringing was right now! If she could, she’d swap every, last bit of jewellery and finery she kept in her chamber at home for a skerrick of survival knowledge. Think, Juliette. How do you find fresh drinking water?
The waves continued their soothing calm and rhythmic roll, making a mockery of her pounding heart. Mayhap if she got herself up near the tree line and out of the rushing wind, she’d find some way to start a fire. Her father’s servants carried flint stones to start fires. But what did flint look like, and where the blazes did one find the stuff?
She scoured the beach again. No Tam. No Kenneth. No Angus. Surely, she should be seeing bits of the boat washed up on the shoreline, but there was no debris, not even a battered wooden board, nor a loose oar.
Taking a deep breath, she stood. There, that was better. She wasn’t too badly injured. That was a surprise. She’d smashed into the rocks and nearly drowned, but here she was, standing and in one piece. She should be proud.
Suddenly remembering her drawstring purse tied to her belt, she felt for it. It was still there. Her fingers traced the outline of the medallion hidden away inside. She took the St. Christopher necklace out and clutched the figurine, wrapping it tightly inside her palm. St. Christopher had saved her. Tam said this saint would be her angel, and he’d been right. Just to make sure she didn’t lose her good-luck charm, she lifted all her sodden layers of clothing and, using the drawstrings, tied her purse around her bare waist. Now it was safe.
Water—she needed fresh drinking water. After the storm last night, surely there’d be an endless number of puddles lying about. She hobbled up to the tree line and began searching. Up where the bracken met the beach, she smelt moss and stale mud. She heard frogs, too, and saw insects dancing without a care.
Ordinarily she wouldn’t have the patience to keep searching like this, but her thirst drove her on. Eventually, she found a large plant with spear-shaped leaves that held some water. Lying beneath the leaf so as not to waste any, she carefully tipped the leaf, upending it into her mouth. She could have drunk ten times that amount, but it would do for now.
She decided to wander away from the beach and look for other sources of fresh water. Moving around warmed her a little, and that was a comfort because she was desperately cold. It was when she was wandering amid the stones and fallen branches, seeking puddles or even blades of greenery to lick, that she first noticed the curls of smoke.
Tam. He’d crawled ashore and found some way to light a fire, and now he was sending her a message. Kenneth and Angus might be with him already. She would find them. All she had to do was follow the smoke. What a blessed relief. She tried to make her shaky legs walk faster, but she was as weak as a newborn babe. She spied another pool of rainwater on a leaf so broad it was almost the size of a trencher. She dropped to her knees, tilted her lips, and sucked. The taste was grassy, fresh, and, best of all, wet. She even licked the leaf, making sure she’d captured every, last drop.
As she was rising to stand, she noticed that the beach had suddenly gone quiet. A moment ago, she’d heard swooping gulls and starlings and sparrows, but now even the crickets were standing still.
She looked up toward the curl of smoke, and that’s when she saw them approach: two wild men and one woman running like a swarm of wasps straight for her.
Juliette started to run in the opposite direction, but she knew she had no hope of getting away. Even before one of them grabbed her arm, she knew she was too battered to run. They were at her heals, talking loudly, and shouting in a strange Gaelic tongue. Just before they pounced, she turned to them, knowing she looked half-wild herself.
The three of them were all yelling at once, and she couldn’t understand one solitary word. One of the men had mud caked over his face, and that made him look particularly savage. He pointed to the brooch she had attached to her collar and tried to rip it from the cloth.
“All right, you can have it,” she said, having no idea if they understand English. Mayhap not because he was still pointing at her brooch and still trying to rip it free. With shaking fingers, she unfastened the brooch and handed it to him. He examined the intricacy of the work. He must have been happy with his find because he smiled at her and then handed the brooch to the others to appraise.
These men were not Scottish, as least she didn’t think so. For a start, they wore a rough style of tunic rather than a plaid. And while their language sounded a little like the Scots Gaelic, it was distinctly different too. They lacked the Scottish burr.
One of the men said something else that, of course, she could not understand. She shrugged. Then he gestured madly with his hands. Frustrated, he tugged at her clothing again as if looking for something else. Juliette guessed he was asking for her purse.
“Nothing, nothing more to give,” she said, shaking her head. “I was washed up from the sea,” she continued, stating the obvious. She held up handfuls of clothing that reeked of seaweed and was clearly sodden. Her hair hung in sandy clumps.
The more she spoke, the more they stared in awe. She didn’t know if she’d surprised them with her English or if it was the lilt of her voice that interested the savages most. By now, they must have realised she wasn’t Scottish. They would recognise her as a Sassenach. That was a bad thing. These days, it always seemed to be bad.
The woman stepped forward and ran her dirty finger and torn, muck-ridden nails around the neck of Juliette’s tunic, then again around her wrists. The woman was looking for more jewellery. They found none. Juliette thought of her drawstring purse hidden under her skirts and tied with the ropes around her bare middle. She would hold on to her lucky St. Christopher charm for as long as she possibly could.
The men grabbed handfuls of her clothing, again speaking in their strange tongue. They were rough and desperate people. Surely, they could tell she’d been shipwrecked. The woman even snatched her long hair and said something to the men beside her.
They moved away then, satisfied, although they never let her out of their gaze. That was when the woman fished a rope
out of a bag she’d carried slung over her back. She tied the rope around Juliette’s middle and then tied the other end to herself. Juliette was clearly their prisoner now. If they were kindly folk wanting to help, they would not have tied her to them like a dog. She felt like being sick. She wanted to lean over and bring up the water she’d drunk, but that was a bad idea. She needed to keep the water down.
The woman yanked the rope, making her stumble. Then she headed off, dragging Juliette behind her. She would either be killed soon, or she would be kept as a prisoner or a servant or worse. She let her fingers graze over the St. Christopher medallion still hidden under her skirts. Please, St. Christopher, let me be a prisoner or a servant, and nothing more. I beg of you.
After a short walk toward the smoke, they arrived at their camp. The smoke was not from Tam’s fire after all. It belonged to these strange people. There were two more of the savage folk at the camp site, making four men and one woman in total. They’d built their hearth in front of a stone cave. It was more of a rocky overhang really, an overhanging cliff that went a long way back into the hillside. Tam, where are you? Again, her fingers reached for the St. Christopher medal.
The woman she was tied to spoke incessantly. She talked at her—nay, more like scolded her—even though it was clear that Juliette did not understand one word the woman said. Juliette raised her hands in the air, showing the woman that all her talk was for naught.
The woman continued her berating anyway, yapping on without end in her strange Gaelic tongue. Then, in the midst of one of her sentences, she used the word cuire. Juliette’s head snapped around. She recognised that word. It was the French word for cooking. French was a language she did understood.
Thistles and Thieves Page 8