by Judith James
“There! You see, Sullivan? I’ve made another conquest. They swoon in my arms,” he said to his man, who’d returned with a blanket and canteen.
“Indeed, milord. I’ve often marked upon it. I take it I’m to tidy up?”
“Just so. You may deliver her to Father Francis.” He grunted as he passed his burden over to his servant, then straightened his sleeves. “And have a care. She’s somewhat hefty for such a delicate f lower.”
The disgruntled mumblings and protests of the men grew heated as Sullivan made to leave with his bundle, rising to a crescendo with the arrival of Captain Gervaise.
“Here now!” the captain shouted, shoving through the crowd to plant himself in front of Jamie. “It’s not your place to be giving orders, Sinclair. Put the wench back!” A belligerent man at the best of times, he had a pugnacious face, with lips that twisted in a perpetual sneer and a chin that thrust forward, always ready for argument or battle. He reminded Jamie of nothing so much as an ugly bulldog.
“I represent your employer, Gervaise. The sovereign lord of these lands. Show a little respect!” he snapped.
Gervaise took a step back and spat on the ground. “Even so, Sinclair. What’s his is his, and what’s ours is ours. We’ve a right to any spoils we find on the field and well you know it! You’ll not expect me to believe our employer has any interest in a rebel whore. He’s busy enough with the ones at court. The men have fought hard and well and deserve their entertainment.” He turned to his men and waved his hand toward the bundle Sullivan held in his arms. “Shall we dice for her, boys?”
The men responded with a raucous cheer, their eyes lit with excitement.
“Quiet! Listen to me carefully, Gervaise. She’s a noblewoman, not some camp follower. She may be useful as a hostage, she’s certainly worth a ransom, and she’s not for the likes of you and your men.”
“And how do you know all that?”
“Open your eyes, you fool! You saw her weapon, and look at the horse she was riding. No common strumpet would ride a beast like that.”
“Unless she stole it and was trying to escape. I say no well-bred slut would be traipsing about a battlefield waving a sword! Give her back, Sinclair!”
“Look at her. She’s nigh frozen and half drowned! You said yourself she’s of more use alive than dead. Let the priest tend to her. She’s not going anywhere.” Jamie looked over his shoulder and barked an order. “Sullivan! Stop lolling about and do as I told you!”
“At once, milord.” Sullivan started forward again, but at a nod from Gervaise, two men stepped out, swords drawn, blocking his path.
“Think it through carefully, Gervaise,” Jamie said dangerously, drawing his own. “Do you really want to make me your enemy?” Jesus Christ! He was making a mess of it! He’d always minded his own business and let Gervaise and his men mind theirs, but now he’d backed the man into a corner in front of his men. Gervaise might be a cur, but he was a useful one. The king would have Jamie’s hide if the man grew disgruntled and sold his services elsewhere. Curse the wench!
Having taken authority and bravado as far as they’d go, Jamie decided it was time to try charm and guile. “Oh, do sit down with her, Sullivan. I swear you look as taxed and sullen as an overburdened donkey!”
There were a few guffaws and the tension started to ease.
“Put away your swords, fools!” Gervaise snapped, somewhat mollified. He turned back to Jamie. “Now it’s best you listen, Sinclair. It would be very sad if you were to suffer an accident so near the end of your commission. Ponder that before you seek to pit yourself and your… man… against me and mine.”
“I seek only to protect His Majesty’s interests, Gervaise. The girl’s name is Catherine Drummond. I know this name,” he lied. “The family’s an important one, and it’s for the king to decide her fate.”
“I don’t care if she’s the Virgin Mary, Sinclair! We both know you’re claiming her for yourself!”
“And what if I am? I’ve fought alongside you these past six months. You’d have been dead a week past if not for me. I’ve taken no spoils, made no claims… well, now I do.”
“Fair enough. You’re a devil on the field and you’ve been a reasonable man until now. I’m a reasonable man too, but we both know she’s a rebel whore and meant for hanging. You can have her first, but when you’re finished, you’ll pass her along. I’ll see my men have some use of her before it’s done.”
“Don’t be an idiot, man! She’s worth money, I tell you.”
“If there’s a ransom, her people will pay it, whether we touch her or not. If there’s not,” Gervaise shrugged, “then we’d best enjoy her before the hangman does his work. I’ll tell the lads to be extra careful not to kill her before we know if her blood be red or blue.”
Struck by a sudden inspiration, Jamie returned Gervaise’s smirk with a cold smile of his own. He turned to his man. “Sullivan!”
“Sir?”
“Drop the girl and fetch the priest.”
Used to his master’s sudden whims, Sullivan lowered his bundle carefully to the ground, and ran off to find Father Francis.
Sensing victory, the crowd pressed forward. “Fetch the dice!” someone shouted. “She’ll be ours now.”
They were stopped by a blur of blue steel.
“Back off, gentlemen, if you please, and give the future Lady Sinclair room to breath.”
“Here now! What nonsense is this?” the captain demanded.
“I say her blood is blue, Gervaise,” Jamie said dangerously. “I say she’s no rebel. I say she’s an heiress, who’s fallen, quite literally, in my lap. Why should I settle for ransom when I can have her money and her lands? I say… she’s going to be my wife.”
He laughed at the looks of stunned surprise all around him, feeling that curious rush of excitement and elation that gripped him before any risky endeavor, whether at court, at the card tables, or in the field. What would his acquaintances say if they knew he was about to marry a camp follower? They’d be horrified. Well… his mother had been a whore, his father a vicious drunk, and he sold his services to the highest bidder. The chit would be in good company; but he wagered there was none who’d dare molest—much less hang—his wife, and he should be able to come up with a plan to extricate himself once the danger was past.
Gervaise cocked his head to one side and regarded him carefully, wondering if he might be telling the truth. “A Scottish heiress, is she? And you’d steal her then? Right out from under your master’s nose? You’ve a set of balls on you, Sinclair, I’ll give you that.”
“Carpe diem, Gervaise. My father called me bastard and cut me from the teat. If I want a wife and lands, I must see to them myself. You’ll not credit it, gentlemen,” he said, raising his voice and playing to the crowd, “but handsome fellow that I am, none of the wenches will have me back home.”
The men broke into genuine laughter, without the dangerous edge that had greeted his earlier sally.
“I’ve nothing against a fellow trying to improve his lot, Sinclair, but lord or no, no man plays me for a fool. You will marry her. This very day, with all here to bear witness, or we’ll be taking her back to use as we please and you’d best not interfere.”
Father Francis joined them, huffing to catch his breath, mopping his brow, and sweating profusely despite the damp chill. He looked with annoyance at the woman lying unconscious on the ground, lifting his robe to step carefully around her before nodding to Gervaise and bowing before Jamie. “You wished to see me, my lord?”
“Yes, Father. I wish you to watch over my fiancé until we’re joined in wedded bliss.”
Father Francis blinked, confused. “I’m sorry, my lord. I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Sinclair has found his true love at last, priest. Today. On the battlefield. Imagine that! You will marry them tonight,” Gervaise said acidly.
“Yes, Father. I’m quite overcome,” Jamie called over his shoulder as the men, intent on entertainment
, pulled him away for an impromptu celebration. “Put her away somewhere until she’s needed, and let Sullivan tend to her, if you please!”
“Are you mad, man?” the priest shouted after him. “You can’t marry a camp follower! You’ll shame your family and bring ruin to your name!”
“I try my best, Father,” he shouted back to roars of laughter.
***
Several hours and few stiff drinks later, Jamie stumbled to his tent. It had been a near thing. Gervaise and he had been circling each other like wary wolves for months now, and one wrong move could have tipped the balance. He could have killed Gervaise and more than a few of his men and they both knew it, but then the rest would have torn him and Sullivan apart, and they both knew that, too.
He rubbed his temples and grimaced, bleary from exhaustion and alcohol. He might also have left her to her fate. What imp of nature had impelled him to risk everything—his and Sullivan’s life, the king’s favor, the heiress who waited back in England with the land and money to restore his fortune and his name—all for an ungrateful, mud-spattered, spitting doxy? Boredom, he decided with a weary sigh. Ah well. Those that do in haste repent at leisure, as Granny O’Sullivan was wont to say.
Sullivan was outside the tent, his customary look of censure etched upon his face.
“Step aside, man. I’ve a mind to steal a few moments’ sleep.”
“There’s no time for that I’m afraid, milord,” Sullivan said through pursed lips. “The priest wishes to see you—”
“Damn the priest!”
“Is this wedding to be a farce then, milord? They’ve taken the girl from him and are holding her in the center of camp. They’ve been drinking,” he added, eyeing Jamie up and down. “Shall I wake you from your nap once they’ve decided what to do with her? Or would you prefer I wait for morning?”
“You are insolent and impertinent, Sullivan!”
“Yes, milord.”
“Very well,” Jamie said with a sigh. “Where’s the priest?”
“I believe that’s him coming now, milord.”
“Good. Well… I’m off to fetch her then. Do what you can to tidy up. Find a bit of food—she’s bound to be hungry—and make damn sure you leave me something to drink!”
“Of course, milord,” Sullivan said with a bow and a click of his heels.
“Ah! Father Francis! Where’s the girl? Misplaced her, have you? Let’s go find her then, shall we?” Jamie gripped the priest by the shoulder and turned him around, pushing him toward the fire burning brightly in the center of camp.
“You can’t be serious, my lord! Surely, you don’t mean to go ahead with it now you’ve had time to think. She’s a Protestant whore, my son! Only think about what you’re doing. It’s not too late to change your mind. It’s my duty to remind you that—”
“Where’s your charity, Father? I’m going to marry the wench and save her soul! I’ll turn her into a good Catholic whore. That should please you. Now hurry along, if you please. We don’t want the festivities starting without us.”
Two
Catherine peered into the dark through half-closed eyes. Her vision was blurred, her head was aching, and her throat and wrists were burnt and raw. After losing consciousness, she’d awoken to find herself slumped in a pile with sacks of grain and powder, watched over by a sour-faced priest. Another man, a sad-faced fellow with kind eyes, had given her water and removed her bindings. She’d been left in peace after that, until moments ago. She’d done her best to conserve her strength. She didn’t know why she’d been given a respite, but she had a fair idea of what was coming next.
When they came for her, dragging her to her feet and into the center of camp, she strove to master herself. She was a Drummond, and a Drummond didn’t cower before dogs. She thrust out her jaw and stood straight and proud, looking them in the eyes and daring them to come. She was no stranger to warfare or the ways of armed men. She knew where battle and bloodlust led. She wondered if they intended to kill her when they were done.
She forced herself to remain composed, keeping her breath calm and even, straining to see in the dark, counting their numbers, and trying to orient herself as her head began to clear. The camp was by the river, guarded by pickets. Several rough-looking men sat around a table piled high with spoils from local farms, feasting and drinking, leering faces and piggish eyes lit with lust and the hellish glow from the bonfire. Others circled her in the f lickering dark, approaching then backing away like wary curs, their shadows cavorting in a macabre and drunken dance around her. They argued, snarling and snapping amongst themselves, watching avidly with predatory eyes, grinning and growling, hungry two-legged wolves shouting comments and making obscene gestures. They spoke a polyglot of Spanish and several other languages, and she understood but a fraction of what they said.
Steeling herself not to f linch when they darted towards her, she watched it all, her face expressionless. They’d yet to touch her, and she wondered what they were waiting for. The dagger in her boot burned like ice against her calf. She’d have time to take down one, maybe two of them. They wouldn’t be expecting it. The thought gave her a f licker of satisfaction and her lips curved in a slight smile. They wouldn’t find her easy prey.
***
Prodding the reluctant priest forward, Jamie stepped into the circle cast by the bonfire, eager to claim the girl and make a quick retreat before anything went wrong. He’d had a bit too much to drink while cementing the camaraderie between himself and his new friends. That, combined with fatigue from a day on the battlefield and two nights without sleep, had left him a little unsteady on his feet. His bride commanded the center of camp, silhouetted by a wall of towering f lames. All things considered, it didn’t seem a good omen. He couldn’t stop the quirk of amusement that twisted his lips.
“Make way for the groom, gentlemen,” he shouted, stepping forward to collect her. She stood mute and rebellious, with tangled hair and tattered clothes. Her cheek and jaw were bruised, and her lip was torn and bleeding, but otherwise she seemed unharmed. He was almost moved to pity, but he’d caught the glint of savagery in her eyes. Lady or strumpet, the girl was going to be a handful! He stopped in his tracks, grinning in appreciation, feeling the first stirrings of anticipation since he’d committed himself to this folly. “Christ, Gervaise! You might have cleaned her up a bit. She looks like a dockside harpy.”
***
Catherine tensed, readying herself. The tall, dark-haired one with the cruel face staggered towards her, reeking of alcohol and shouting out some jest that sent the others into gales of drunken laughter. So… they’ve been waiting for him. She recognized him from before. He’d spoken to her in French, though she’d pretended not to understand. She’d spat on him and he’d given her his coat. She’d thought him their leader at first, but it appeared she’d been mistaken. It was the little man with the angry face who barked orders others scrambled to obey. The tall one was important though. He appeared to be a gentleman. They listened when he spoke, stepped aside when he passed, and no one barked orders at him. It seemed he was to have her first. Then he’d be the first to die.
He stepped forward suddenly, taking her by surprise, grasping her by the waist and pulling her so tight against his side she could hardly breathe. The drunken company surged forward and he pulled out his sword with his free hand, laughing and waving them back. She struggled against him, but no more than he might expect. The dagger in her boot was her only hope. She needed to keep a cool head and wait for the right moment.
Despite his drunkenness, she could feel the tension in his body as his arm encircled her. She could feel his strength. She stumbled and his hand gripped her shoulder, steadying her. It was somehow reassuring, giving the illusion of comfort and safety, and for a brief moment, she wanted to surrender to it and sink back against him. Then he made some remark that sent them into howls of laughter, and she could hear the hunger fueling their glee.
Her captor lifted her off her feet, cutting off wh
at little air she had, and began to walk backwards, sword outstretched, maneuvering toward a large tent on the outskirts of camp. He stopped a few steps away from it and dropped her to the ground with an exaggerated grunt, much to the amusement of the crowd. He barked an order to the little fellow who stood outside, the one who’d brought her water, then sheathed his sword with a grin, trading it for a mug of ale he downed in one swallow, to a round of cheers. Tossing the mug aside, he motioned for the sour-faced priest, who approached with a look of grim disapproval. The priest produced a bible and began to read from it, droning in what seemed to be a mix of Spanish and church Latin.
Catherine was bewildered. Was this her executioner? Were they going to spare her their attentions and give her directly to the hangman? She looked about wildly for noose or gibbet. The priest cleared his throat impatiently. He seemed to be waiting for some kind of response. Confused, dazed from hunger, fear, and lack of air, she gazed at him without comprehension. Her captor shook her, then grasped her hair, pulling her cheek next to his. He spoke in her ear, startling her, saying coolly and clearly in perfect English.
“Give us a nod or go to the devil, girl. I’ve other things to do, and you’ve caused more than enough trouble for one day.”
Without thinking, she did. He rewarded her by squeezing her breast with his free hand, prompting whistles and catcalls from the vicious pack gathered around to enjoy the show. She snapped, turning and slapping him with a crack across his face that silenced them all. They waited, breath bated, eager to see her punished for her defiance. His jaw tightened and his eyes glittered dangerously, and then, without a word, he heaved her over his shoulder and hauled her, kicking and cursing, into the tent amidst the raucous cheers of the crowd.
Twisting and writhing, struggling to break free, she bit him, sinking her teeth into the tender pad of his thumb, tearing the skin, tasting copper and blood.
“Lord thundering Christ, woman!” he swore, seizing her by the hair with his free hand and pulling until her eyes watered. “Let… go… now!” He threw her onto the bed and retreated to a stool, nursing his hand and a bottle of whiskey, cursing her roundly. “Damned savage bitch! I should have left you to Gervaise’s tender mercies.”