by Jan Constant
“Then don’t behave like a jade if you don’t wish to be treated like one,” he told her giving her an impatient little push in the direction of her chamber.
His action was too much for Anstey’s over-strained nerves; rounding on him with her fingers crooked, she scored her nails down his cheek.
“Explain that away, Sassenach,” she said, viewing the three red scratches with satisfaction.
“ I shall tell any who ask that I was attacked by a wild cat.” The Englishman took out a handkerchief and dabbed his bleeding cheek with composure, only the roughness with which he took her shoulder and turned her towards her room betraying his anger.
Feeling her flinch under his grasp, his eyes narrowed and a thin smile curved his mouth as his hand slid across her shoulders in a gesture that was almost a caress.
“Next time I’ll punish you myself,” he warned softly, “and you’ll not find my touch so light as the sergeant’s.”
Twitching herself away from him, Anstey almost ran to her room, hearing his soft chuckle float along the dark corridor behind her. Closing the door, she leaned against it for one minute, her heart hammering against her tight bodice, and more afraid of the Redcoat than she cared to admit. The thought of the long journey ahead filled her with disquiet and apprehension, knowing that by her own nature, which had never been docile, she must antagonise the soldier even while she dreaded the outcome of such a clash. Comforting herself with the thought of the little knife which Catlin had slipped into her boot at the croft, she climbed into bed and spent a restless, wakeful night, only falling heavily asleep as dawn began to light her room.
After the voluminous skirts and petticoats of the night before, to return to male attire seemed more embarrassing than ever, and deeply conscious of her legs in their revealing green breeches, Anstey stepped out on to the parade ground the next morning, feeling that all eyes were upon her, leering and ogling.
However, no one took the slightest notice of her, all appearing busy about their own affairs, strapping equipment on to the pack horses or burnishing accoutrements in a last-minute effort before inspection. To Anstey their red coats and powdered hair seemed strangely unreal, and she had to remind herself that under the stiff uniforms were men, much like any other save that they were English and invaders of her country.
“This way, miss,” said her escort, and led her towards a wooden shack open to the air on three sides in one corner of the compound.
Captain Ward and the Sergeant turned at her approach, something in their expressions making the pit of her stomach contract with anticipation.
“Come in, Miss Frazer,” said the Captain as she hesitated, “we’re ready for you.”
Warily Anstey searched his face, but reading only blandness there turned her attention on the Sergeant who tipped his hat and nodded. At last she looked at the third man, who by his dress and huge stature could only be a smith, and seeing that which he held in his gnarled hands, she turned cold with horror and started back.
“No!” she cried, sending a look of entreaty towards the impassive officer. .
“Yes,” he returned and she bit her lip on further appeals, knowing their futility. “Pray present your wrists,” he went on, “and be warned that if you move while the smith is bending the irons to fit, he may well break your arm with his hammer.”
“Come on, miss,” said Sergeant Wright with rough kindliness. “Kneel down and it’ll soon be over.”
Leaning over her, he held her arms on the anvil as the smith slipped the open iron rings over her hands and closed them with a few smart blows. A chain was passed between them and padlocked in place.
“There, it didn’t take long,” observed Captain Ward levelly as he pocketed the key, his voice sounding to Anstey like one who had ordered a chain for a dog.
Scrambling to her feet, she faced him proudly, heedless of the single tear of shame that trickled down her cheek. “I h-hate you,” she said, her voice shaking. “One day you’ll pay for this -”
“Miss Frazer, I grow weary of your threats,” he said, taking a pinch of snuff with a studiedly elegant air. “Truth to tell, they leave me quite indifferent - as do you.”
So saying he strolled away, leaving Anstey to stare after his tall back, black hate overcoming any fear she had felt previously.
“Oh, if only I were a man,” she raged uselessly, stamping a foot and quivering with temper.
“Well, you’re not - and be thankful you aren’t,” said the Sergeant’s voice from behind her. “For if you was, you’d have a sore back by now.”
Anstey shot him an eloquent glance.
“Lor’ love you - that wasn’t no more than a tickle you had yesterday.” He sobered suddenly and moved closer to lower his voice and say confidingly, “If you’d take my advice, miss, you’d stop this tantalising and teasing of Captain Ward. He’s been very patient so far, but his temper when aroused isn’t pleasant - not nice to see, if you take my meaning, and even worse to be on the receiving end of it.”
Anstey lifted her chin, and suddenly aware of the drying tear raised her hand to brush it impatiently away, making her chain rattle as she did so. Catching her breath, she glanced down at her steel bracelets before meeting the Sergeant’s eyes boldly.
“I am not afraid of Captain Ward,” she told him, her voice high and carrying. “Indeed I regard him as a brute and a bully, nothing more.”
“Then you are more foolish than I thought you,” said Sergeant Wright stolidly, and taking her arm led her to her horse.
Only her spurt of resentment and her refusal to lower her pride allowed Anstey to endure the interminable journey of that day, as they rode past Cluny Castle and on towards the Pass of Killiecrankie. With each hour new aches seemed to attack her tired body and with each jog of her mount the handcuffs on her wrists rubbed and chafed until her skin was red and sore. That night they sheltered in a rude croft, crowded together in its smoky confines. Anstey’s bed was a pile of heather in one corner, but so tired was she that her head was nodding even as she attempted to eat the rough stew the soldiers had cooked, and somewhat to her surprise she did not wake until morning.
Johnnie Gray was kept well away from her, but Anstey was relieved to see that he seemed none the worse for his ordeal and appeared to bear her no ill will, for he smiled surreptitiously in her direction when she caught his eye.
The weather until then had been good, but as though to make up for its previous clemency they set off into a grey morning with the nearby valleys and mountains shrouded in thick mist that hid the sun and struck chill to man and horse.
As the day wore on, contrary to their expectations, the weather grew worse, the mist imperceptibly creeping lower until the path they were following vanished into a blank whiteness a few yards ahead. During their journey the track had gradually risen, winding its way up the mountainside, and now as they rode in single file, stones dislodged by their passing rolled down the steep slope that edged the path, falling into the hidden valley below with a dull finality that made Anstey watch the narrow road uneasily.
They had just passed a widening in the road, a semi-circular hollow in the rock that rose above them, when disaster happened. Captain Ward had taken the opportunity of relieving the Sergeant of the task of guarding Anstey and had ridden on in the rain, leading her behind him, when the treacherous path began to crumble beneath their horses feet. With a shout he urged the animals to effort and speed and reached safety as the track behind them broke away from the mountainside and plunged down the precipice to crash into the valley.
For a moment Anstey could do nothing more than slide from her mount’s back and stare down into the enveloping mist at her feet, picturing what her fate would have been but for the quick action of the Redcoat.
The figures of the other soldiers could be dimly made out on the far side of the gap, peering anxiously across.
“You all right, sir?” came the Sergeant’s strident tones.
“Yes, we’re both safe.” Dismounting
, James Ward walked to the edge of the torn pathway and took stock of the situation. “We can’t get back until this mist lifts,” he said.
“We can make camp in the opening back a bit - but what about you? All the food and equipment is this side.”
“We’ll find shelter for the night and meet up again in the morning. I give the troop into your command, Sergeant.”
For a while they could hear muffled sounds of the soldiers’ departure, but these were quickly lost in the heavy mist which seemed to blanket off noise, wrapping them individually in silence and damp.
Captain Ward turned to Anstey. “Well, Miss Frazer,” he said, looming over her, a black figure wrapped in his thick cloak beaded with drops of moisture, “we’d best set about finding some means of shelter. Stay here while I go on a little.”
Anstey watched him disappear into the mist and feeling more alone than she had ever done, fell to petting the horses for company. The Captain returned sooner than she expected, his boots crunching on the gravel path.
“There’s a cave not far on,” he announced. “We’ll take the horses to provide us with warmth.”
Taking the reins he led the animals away, apparently assuming that Anstey would follow, and after hesitating for a second, she stumbled after him. The path widened shortly and soon they came to the cave which was little more than a fissure in the rock, being fairly narrow and extremely high, its sides stretching away into the mist overhead. The Captain tied the horses near the entrance and peremptorily ordered Anstey to search for wood while he attempted to kindle a fire.
Soon acrid smoke began to drift around the cave, held low by the heavy air. The damp wood refused to do more than smoulder despite the Englishman’s best efforts, and provided little warmth.
Anstey remained near the entrance, huddled on a boulder, hugging her cloak about her and staring out into the enveloping mist.
“Come to the fire - such as it is,” said a quiet voice behind her as a deep shudder of cold shook her.
“I prefer it here,” she answered, not turning her head.
“Afraid, Miss Frazer?” James Ward enquired, softly. “Are you nervous that I might take advantage of your late offer?”
Anstey looked at him coldly. “If I had offered you what you suppose, I would hardly be nervous of your accepting it,” she pointed out and to show how little she feared him, moved nearer the smouldering wood and held her hands to the dim red glow. As she did so, her shackles rattled dismally and she hurriedly dropped her arms and hid them among the folds of her cloak.
“I have some biscuit in my saddlebag,” observed the soldier. “With that and my brandy flask we shall manage.”
“I’m not hungry,” Anstey told him as he rummaged in the leather bag and set out hard-biscuit upon his handkerchief.
“It’s better than it looks - try it.”
“I don’t want any.”
“Do as you’re told, Miss Frazer,” he said lazily, munching his own portion. “I’ve no wish for you to fall ill in this God-forsaken country.”
“And I’ve no wish to leave it,” she cried, glaring at him. “I would sooner by far fall ill and die here, than be taken to London to entertain the crowds upon Tower Hill!”
“I dare say - but to London you’ll go, whether you wish or not - even if I have to drag you there.”
For a moment they glowered at each other, the red scratches on the soldier’s cheek very plain as he leaned forward to push a biscuit in Anstey’s direction.
“Eat it,” he commanded.
Anstey lifted her chin. “You can’t make me,” she said.
He eyed her coldly, “I remember my nurse holding my nose until I’d swallowed,” he began, but suddenly struck by the ludicrous situation abruptly abandoned it. “Very well,” he conceded. “Starve if you like, but expect no consideration from me when you feel faint.”
Anstey could have remarked that she had received very little consideration from any of her escort, but instead maintained a lofty silence as she hunched a shoulder and tried to find a comfortable spot upon the hard, pebble-strewn floor.
A heavy silence fell, broken only by the occasional sound from the horses as they chewed their bits and shifted position. Anstey was uncomfortably aware that the soldier was watching her, and after a while he spoke.
“What is your story of Leo Smythe’s death?” he asked unexpectedly.
Anstey stiffened. “I have none,” she said shortly.
“Tell me what happened.”
“If you are curious you have only to read the official report, which no doubt you carry among your despatches.”
“I’d like to hear your version.”
“I don’t wish to talk about it.”
“Squeamish, Miss Frazer?”
She looked at him then. “It’s not every day I kill a man,” she told him, stung.
“You surprise me - from your manner, I would have supposed it quite a usual occurrence. Tell me what happened.”
“No!”
“You were in your house and the soldiers rode up. Were you alone?”
“No - yes.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Don’t you know?”
“Of course I do. I meant I was alone except for the servants who were in a different part of the house.”
“Very concise, Miss Frazer, so clear that one would almost suppose it rehearsed, in fact!” James Ward watched her hands slowly clench upon themselves before he went on. “And your brother, and this beautiful sister of yours, where were they?”
“Out.”
“Where?” he asked inexorably.
“M-my brother was hunting - and my sister was visiting an old servant. I was alone. I shot your friend, Captain Ward, with a pistol of my father’s.” She took a shuddering breath and choked back a sound which might have been a sob. “I - will not talk about it any more,” she said wearily, and rested her head upon her hands.
The Englishman watched her thoughtfully, a frown between his brows. “Is it a custom to keep a loaded pistol in the drawing-room?” he wondered.
“Only when there is the possibility of a visit from an enemy army,” she answered bitterly, after a perceptible pause which the Englishman was quick to notice.
“And your brother and sister - where are they now?”
Anstey lifted her head from her hands to send him a swift glance. “You heard me tell Sir Robert; they are safe, Jamie is in France by now and Isobel is with our old nurse.”
“Jamie, now - how old is he?”
Rising abruptly, she crossed to the entrance and leaning against one rocky wall, looked out into the damp, shrouded world beyond the cave. “I won’t talk about it,” she said, “I told you—”
“I was under the impression that your brother was the subject of our conversation, which is quite different ... is it not?”
Anstey was forced to nod reluctant agreement and her companion went on evenly.
“Then come back to the fire and tell me about him.”
“Why?” she asked, turning.
Captain Ward shrugged. “Why not? - Politics are a banned subject, my army exploits would not interest you and I have no idea of your interests.”
Seating herself once more on the hard floor, Anstey cupped her chin in her hands and resting her elbows on her knees, gazed into the weak flames that licked the damp wood.
“How old is he?” persisted the Redcoat and she answered almost automatically, her mind elsewhere.
“Fourteen.”
“Almost an adult.”
Straightening quickly, she flung him a startled glance. “Not at all! Jamie is a boy - he’s young for his age. A mere child.”
The Captain’s eyes were shrewd and alert and seeing his interest in her over-reaction to his words, Anstey, casting about for some means of distracting him, did the only thing that occurred to her and leaping to her feet, kicked the fire in his direction and plunged desperately towards the cave entrance.
The horses tossed and jostled, losing her
precious seconds, and before she could slip past them, her shoulder was seized and she was thrust roughly backwards to lose her footing and fall headlong. Squirming away from the hands that reached for her, Anstey remembered the sgian dubh in her boot and snatched the deadly little knife out of hiding, as she scrambled to her feet.
Captain Ward’s eyes narrowed at sight of her weapon, and after an imperceptible pause, he approached her cautiously.
“What do you hope to achieve with that?” he asked scornfully. “It’s no better use than a penknife.”
“Our little knives have accounted for many an English soldier,” she reminded him, facing him warily, her arms outstretched and ready to strike.
Even as her words echoed about the cave, he was upon her, bearing her backwards with his weight and pinning her to the ground while he held her manacled hands that grasped the sgian dubh above her head.
“Drop it, Miss Frazer,” he commanded coolly, “or I’ll hurt you.”
For answer Anstey struggled wildly, twisting her body and hitting and scratching with her free hand. His fingers tightened about her wrist as he stared down into her face.
“Drop it,” he repeated, ignoring her efforts for freedom.
For answer Anstey clawed at his face. Jerking his head back, he smiled into her eyes and slowly exerted his strength until she thought her wrist would snap. Biting her lip against the pain, she turned her head away and heard the knife fall from her numbed fingers.
Catching up the chain between her handcuffs the soldier dragged her to her feet, sending the sgian dubh out of the cave with a well-aimed kick.
“Enough!” he said roughly, flinging her down beside the remains of the fire. “One move out of you and I’ll truss you like a chicken ready for the spit. Be warned, wench, my patience is at an end - and I’m hard put to keep my hands off you.”
He stood over her and stared wrathfully down. “Are there any more weapons about you?”