by Jan Constant
Hugging her wrist, Anstey gave a small shake of her head.
“I know that your word is not worth the breath used to give it - shall I search you?”
Anstey turned a white face up to him. “Truly I have nothing,” she said breathlessly, and showed her hands palms outwards in an unconsciously appealing gesture.
Taking in her pallor and barely-controlled trembling, the Captain gave a slight nod. “Try no tricks,” he advised, “for I intend to sleep with your chain in my hand ... and I am not in the mood for gentleness.”
Looking at his tight mouth and grim expression Anstey could believe him, and made herself small while he banked up the fire and settled himself beside her for the night. True to his word, he reached out for her chain, taking it in one strong brown hand, before he closed his eyes and appeared to fall quickly asleep.
Anstey rubbed her wrist and allowed herself the luxury of weeping silently. Although weary beyond measure she was unable to relax, and stared at the fire until it burned low, her mind filled with thoughts and fears. At last her eyes closed and she fell asleep to awake in the early light of dawn. One quick glance told her that the cave was empty save for the horses, and kicking aside the cloak which covered her she leaped to her feet just as the Redcoat appeared in the entrance.
“There’s a little stream below the road,” he told her, by his expression well aware of her thoughts. “I’ll give you ten minutes for your toilet.”
Wondering at his apparent lack of interest in her movements, Anstey climbed down to the running water and looking about her, realized why; for a good distance in either direction the view was clear and uninterrupted. It would take anyone far more than ten minutes to find shelter in that empty landscape.
Her toilet complete, she was climbing back to the cave when the clatter of hooves made her look at the road above to see a trooper riding up.
“We found another track over the mountain, sir,” he said, “and the troop is waiting up ahead.”
“Well done. Ride back and tell Sergeant Wright that we are on our way.” Captain Ward glanced down at Anstey. “Come along, Miss Frazer, time to resume our journey,” he said.
Obediently Anstey mounted her horse, keeping her head bent with an air of submission she was far from feeling; by a coincidence, when the Redcoat had kicked her knife out of the cave it had fallen into the shallow stream below where she had just found it, and now it was nestling snugly in her boot again.
CHAPTER FOUR
That morning they dropped down into the Pass of Killiecrankie where the battle between the English soldiers and Highlanders had taken place over fifty years before, and so wild and threatening a spot was it, with high towering cliffs, their steep sides split by narrow fissures, that Anstey could well believe all the ghastly tales she had heard about its ghostly inhabitants. The troopers who rode with her were not impervious to its lowering atmosphere, and loosening their weapons they rode warily, alert for trouble.
They reached the cathedral city of Dunkeld that evening and set off towards Perth the next morning, with Anstey so bone-weary and aching from the long ride that she felt scarcely rested after the night’s halt. Even though so tired that she hunched in her saddle taking little notice of her surroundings, yet the countryside was so different to her familiar north-west Highlands, that she raised her head and glanced about, surprised by the thickly wooded slopes and astonished to note the size and luxuriant foliage after the few bent and stunted trees to which she was accustomed.
Although they were so much further south the road was empty of travellers other than themselves, and save for a few tiny crofts there was little sign of habitation on these hospitable mountainsides.
The soldiers, feeling that they had left the dangerous part of the journey behind and that they were nearing civilization and home, relaxed their watch and rode more easily, chatting quietly among themselves, so that when the attack came the surprise was complete and set them milling in confusion, until the officer’s carrying tones ordered them to scatter and seek shelter.
Anstey, who was as surprised as any, felt her bridle seized as her horse was urged at a gallop off the exposed road and into the shelter of the trees that bounded it.
“Get down out of sight,” commanded Captain Ward, pushing her out of the saddle as he dismounted himself and looked round to see how his men fared.
Hiding herself behind a tree-trunk, Anstey watched as he dashed from man to man at a crouching run, stopping only to make certain they were unhurt and setting about the lengthy business of priming their pistols before dashing on to the next man in his journey to find a vantage point and discover the whereabouts of their assailants.
“They’re over among the trees yonder,” said a voice beside Anstey, and she turned her head to find the Sergeant sharing her tree. “Your countrymen of course, and after our weapons, I’ll be bound.”
A volley of shots whistled over their heads, making them duck as the balls spent themselves against the tree-trunks or were lost among the leaves and branches.
“I’ll look to the men - but don’t think you can slip away, for I’ll give them the word to keep their eyes on you.”
Sergeant Wright touched her warningly on the shoulder, before he moved away with a quick litheness that surprised her. Peering out from behind her shelter, she saw a splash of red a few yards from the road lying on the space where the encroaching trees had been cleared. By stretching her neck, she could make out that it was one of the soldiers and even as she stared at him, he moved his head feebly and she recognized the boyish features of Johnnie Gray. He appeared to be holding his thigh with both hands, where a bright red blotch stained his white breeches. As she watched his head fell back and he lay still, his hands spread at his sides.
Looking about, Anstey realized that there was no one nearby to help; each soldier was intent upon his orders and too far away to aid her. From gossip and talk she knew that such hurts could be extremely dangerous and that a man could bleed to death from a wound in the thigh unless it was attended to quickly. Anstey waited no longer, but jumping to her feet ran out of the surrounding trees and headed for the fallen soldier.
She thought she heard shouts from behind, but taking no notice she sped over the grass tufts and fallen branches until she reached the trooper, and could fling herself down beside him. One look at his white face, with the sheen of sweat upon it, told her that she was not a moment too soon, and for want of a bandage she tore her cravat from her neck, cut it raggedly in half with the aid of her sgian dubh, and managed to tie it above the welling blood, despite the handcuffs which restricted her movements. The little knife served also to thrust into the makeshift bandage and turn until the bright arterial blood ceased pumping. From her old nurse’s teaching she knew that the tourniquet must not be applied too long for fear of cutting off the supply to the rest of the limb and causing gangrene, so after a few minutes she cautiously eased the binding and, relieved to see that the red stream had slowed to a trickle, used the other half of her cravat to cover the gaping bullet wound in Johnnie Gray’s leg.
Suddenly becoming aware of shouts and the clash of steel which had been going on for some minutes in the forest on the far side of the road, she looked up in time to see the soldiers from behind her charge across the intervening ground and run into the trees opposite. Blood-chilling shouts and yells filled her with apprehension and she watched anxiously to see who would emerged the victor.
Slowly, red-coated figures began to appear in a desultory fashion, and she knew with a fall of her heart that her fellow-countrymen had been defeated. Sheathing their swords the soldiers crossed the road and gathered round her to stare down at the supine form of their comrade. With presence of mind Anstey had quickly replaced her knife in her boot at their approach, and was almost certain that none of them had seen her action.
“Make way, lads,” commanded the Sergeant, pushing his way through and quickly summing up the situation. “There’s nothing to be done here - off you go and find
the horses.”
The men obeyed him, and as he dropped on one knee beside the fallen trooper, Captain Ward joined them and watched as the other man examined Anstey’s rough bandage.
“I see you know something of doctoring,” he said.
“Only what my nurse taught me. I know that a man can bleed to death from a wound in the thigh.”
“He’s you to thank for his life, miss,” the Sergeant said soberly, his hands busy at the knots she had tied.
“Construct a litter, Sergeant,” said the officer, and slipping a hand under Anstey’s arm, lifted her to her feet and led her aside. “I’ll take the knife, Miss Frazer, if you please,” he said, pleasantly, holding out a hand.
“What knife?” demanded Anstey, her eyes wide and innocent.
James Ward sighed. “The one you used to cut your cravat,” he told her, his gaze impervious.
Anstey eyed him reflectively but, reading the growing signs of impatience in his grey eyes, gave in abruptly and reaching down to her boot, put the sgian dubh in its neat leather sheath into his hand.
“Are you learning sense at last?” he wondered aloud, pocketing the tiny knife.
“More like I have learned that you are no gentleman,” Anstey retorted, turning away as the men returned with the horses and were immediately put to the task of cutting branches to make a litter that could be slung between two animals and so carry the injured man to Perth.
The excitement of the short-lived fight and her efforts to save Johnnie Gray had buoyed her up, but once back in the saddle and jogging along the road again, all Anstey’s crushing weariness returned and the handcuffs chafed her wrists until their painful irritation could no longer be ignored. By the time they stopped for their mid-day meal, she viewed the bread and cheese offered her with tired indifference, the iron bracelets she wore making every movement an ordeal.
“Best eat your food, miss,” said Sergeant Wright. “We’ve still a way to go.”
“I don’t want it,” Anstey told him, pushing the meal away. The lace ruffles on her shirtcuffs fell back as she did so, revealing her sore and swollen wrists to the soldiers’ interested gaze.
Surprisingly gentle fingers took her hands and the Sergeant turned them about to examine her wrists. Pursing his lips he said nothing, but a short while after he left, Captain Ward confronted her.
“The Sergeant tells me your handcuffs are giving you trouble,” he said.
Anstey nodded. “Take them off,” she half whispered, adding so quietly that the soldier was not sure he heard, “Please.”
Without a word the Captain possessed himself of her wrists and examined them as the other man had done. Feeling her flinch under his touch, he looked up briefly before releasing her hands.
“Please,” she said again, very conscious that it was the first time she had asked the Englishman for anything and looking up, allowed her eyes to plead for her.
“With your countrymen so obviously spoiling for a fight, I want no possibility of your escape. You have yourself to blame if I cannot accept your word. I am afraid you’ll have to bear your discomfort a while longer, Miss Frazer.”
He spoke curtly and left her abruptly to confer with the Sergeant before ordering his men to finish their hurried meal and mount up in order to get their wounded comrade to a doctor in Perth with all speed possible.
A trooper was sent ahead to rouse the doctor and have a bed made ready in an inn, while the main column hurried as best they could for fear of starting the bleeding afresh. Anstey rode slumped in the saddle, too tired to lift her head, and the sore throat which had been threatening for several days grew worse with each mile, until it took all her concentration to remain on her mount. She was aware that the Sergeant rode watchfully near and was vaguely grateful for his presence, but by the time they neared the ancient capital and the broad expanse of the Tay, her world had shrunk until it only contained her weary body and the need to exert the last of her strength in an effort to stay in the saddle.
The ferry crossing was made and then she was dimly aware that they had halted and that Johnnie Gray was being taken into a hostelry, and then that someone had taken her bridle and that she alone was being led on across the road.
“Dismount, if you please, Miss Frazer.”
Anstey made a move to comply, but her weary limbs refused to obey her, and after a moment hands reached up and pulled her from the saddle to stand her on her stiff legs. Swaying with exhaustion, she reached up and took hold of the white sword-belt that crossed the red coat in front of her and, giving a weary sigh, let her head droop slowly until her forehead nestled against Captain Ward’s chest.
For a moment he looked down with a curious expression at the brown head resting against him, and for a pause in time he was oddly still before his hands closed slowly upon her shoulders, his grip firm and comforting.
A welcome feeling of security washed through Anstey and she allowed herself to lean upon his strength until she abruptly recalled whose chest it was she rested against and whose arms held her so pleasantly. Flinging back her head, she stared up into the Englishman’s face, her own eyes wide and startled, before she pushed him away from her, and took a hasty step back.
She was free almost at her first movement. Captain Ward’s expression was enigmatic as his hands fell to his sides. Behind him a fire roared and flared, the red light gleaming on a half-naked man, who worked a pair of bellows with immense concentration.
“W-where are we?”
He was quick to note the nervous query in her voice. “Not the devil’s workshop, as you might suppose,” he answered reassuringly. “It’s a forge, and the smith here will strike off your irons.”
Anstey looked at him quickly.
“I have reconsidered my refusal to release you this morning - and think perhaps my decision was a little harsh,” he went on, leading her forward. “We are well out of your Highlands now, and besides—” he ran a practical eye over her drooping figure, “I think you have not the urge or will to attempt to escape at the moment.”
Once freed from her fetters, she and James Ward walked back to the inn, where Anstey was handed into the care of a trooper and locked into a bedchamber, especially selected by the astute Sergeant for its impregnability. For once not interested in the possibility of escape, Anstey dropped on to the narrow bed and was asleep almost at once.
She was awoken by a loud knocking at the door and opened her eyes reluctantly, struggling through layers of sleep to consciousness.
“The Captain’s compliments, miss, and I was to ask you to dinner,” said the young Redcoat in the doorway.
Anstey blinked and rubbed her eyes, wishing nothing so much as to fall asleep again. “My thanks,” she returned, “but I want nothing.”
“Begging your pardon, miss, but it wasn’t a request - more like an order, if you see what I mean.”
“I do, trooper, I do indeed.” Wearily she pushed herself to her feet and smoothed her hair in front of the pitted looking-glass on the wall. “Doubtless if I refuse you will carry me by force to the Captain’s dining-table.”
The soldier looked embarrassed. “I wasn’t to take ‘no’ for an answer, the Captain said,” he agreed, and went on a little hesitantly as they left the room and descended the steep stairs, “The lads, miss, wanted me to say we was grateful-like, for what you did for Johnnie Gray. He’d have died, else.”
Anstey looked at him, her eyes dark pools of shadow. “I’m glad I could help him,” she told him soberly. “I’ve owed him something for the beating he took for me.”
“Well, he’s young and no doubt has an eye for a pretty face,” the soldier told her, tapping at a door before opening it for her. Captain Ward turned from his contemplation of the fire that burned brightly in the hearth with deference to the Scottish weather rather than the time of year and coming forward, proffered his arm.
Setting her fingers lightly on his sleeve, Anstey allowed him to lead her to the table and hold the chair for her while she seated herself
, wondering somewhat at his formal manners.
“I noticed that you ate nothing today,” he said, reading her thoughts, “and thought to make sure you take a good meal tonight. We still have a long way to our destination, and I would deliver you strong and well.”
“How unfortunate if I should die upon the way,” Anstey agreed drily, her voice a little hoarse from her sore throat.
“Take heart, Miss Frazer,” said the Redcoat bracingly, “I’ve not lost a prisoner yet.” He lifted the lids on the dishes and began serving the food.
Anstey had little appetite and watched the meat and vegetables mounting on her plate with some dismay. However, the wine soothed her inflamed throat and she drank eagerly while toying with her food.
“We should be in Stirling tomorrow,” the Captain went on conversationally, “having passed through Glen Eagles on our way.” He looked up suddenly and gave one of his rare smiles. “You Scots seem to have a propensity to romantic names.”
“It comes from the Gaelic and means church - nothing to do with eagles, I’m afraid.”
“Perhaps so - but you must admit that your names have an air about them. Applecross, for instance. Loch Maree and Liathach mountain.”
“I’m glad you like some things belonging to my country.”
“I like a great many things native to Scotland, Miss Frazer.”
His voice and expression were sober and after a moment Anstey dropped her own eyes, inexplicably reminded of the instance earlier that day when she had lowered her defences and forgotten that the Englishman was an implacable enemy. A flush not totally due to the wine she had drunk warmed her cheeks, and she hurriedly made a display of attacking her meal.
Captain Ward watched her silently, well aware of the cause of her discomposure. “Eat your dinner,” he said easily, as she showed signs of setting down her cutlery with most of the food still on her plate, “and I’ll let you off the landlady’s formidable Cloutie Pudden, which upon investigation seems to be first cousin to our Christmas pudding.”