by Aileen Adams
More laughter, this time with a nasty edge to it. The way men tended to laugh when they spoke of women they considered unworthy of respect.
“It was clear to him you were none other than Ailsa Northbridge, or Ailsa Dunne as you have been known since your marriage. Ailsa Dunne who denounced your family name, your blood, and ran away to fight on behalf of the Scots. Ailsa Dunne whose filthy spy husband was put to death for his crimes.”
He took a backward step, shaking his head. “What a great deal of daring you show, truly, crossing into England. It must be quite important, whatever it is that brings you here. Why else would you show your face again? Why would you take such a terrible risk?”
He bent slightly, examining her face with eyes which darted back and forth. “Can you not tell me? Is this silence supposed to give the impression that you are not in your right mind? I highly doubt this to be the case. Just as I doubt that you would be unaware of the danger your presence on this side of the border could bring.”
He stood, walked around the desk which sat behind him, then took a seat. “As magistrate of this village, there is little for me to do but to pass sentence now. If you do not wish to offer a defense, I will proceed.”
What defense could she offer? It was clear that no matter what she said, the result would be the same. She was a spy, plain and simple, and they would kill her for it.
She might pretend to be someone else, to simply bear the same unfortunate birthmark as the woman in question, but that was beneath her. And they would see straight through it, she was sure. If anything, she suspected, this magistrate expected her to tell such a lie. He wanted her to, all that he might laugh at her and make a mockery of the situation.
She would not give him the satisfaction.
His mouth pulled upward at the corners, a smile he could not disguise. “Very well, then. You leave me no choice. You have been charged with acting as a spy against the Crown of England, and such a crime carries with it the penalty of death. I hereby decree that you will be hanged from the neck at dawn on the morrow.”
His words were like ice, landing in her stomach and spreading cold throughout her body.
Dawn. They would hang her at dawn. She knew not how much time had passed since they had captured her in the woods. How many more hours did she have to live?
The magistrate stood, looking down at her with disgust he no longer attempted to hide. “Take her to the cell.”
One of the men in the room, standing in a darkened corner and silent until now, cleared his throat. “If I may, would it not be best to dispatch with her outside the village?”
It was clear the magistrate was not a man who took well to being interrupted. To say nothing of being contradicted. He turned slowly to face the man who now emerged from the shadows. A young man, mild in voice and manner. English, no doubt, but at least he did not laugh or mock her.
“And what brings you to this conclusion?” he challenged.
The young man shrugged, spreading his hands in a gesture of defenselessness. “It merely seems to me that as a woman, the notion of public hanging might not appeal to the villagers. If she were a man, the situation might be different. The public hanging of the woman, no matter crime, might reflect poorly upon you, sire.”
The magistrate’s calculating eyes narrowed further. He pursed his lips as he considered this, and Ailsa waited with bated breath to hear his decision.
He nodded. “How right you are. She will be led outside the village just before dawn, where few will have the chance to see her, and be hanged from the neck until she is dead.”
In spite of her dire situation, Ailsa now had hope. She might be able to free herself and run away into the woods so long as she was not surrounded by bloodthirsty villagers all the while. There might be a way for her to avoid execution, after all.
Yet, upon being led to the cell—a cramped, filthy little room with only a single window allowing light inside—any bit of confidence she might have felt quickly disappeared.
She was lying to herself if she believed there would be any escape from this.
At least the rough-handed man who led her to the cell was kind enough to remove her bindings. That kindness lasted only a moment, however, for he made certain to slam the door shut as hard as he could. The sound of the lock sliding home echoed in her heart.
Even with the use of her hands, there was little she would be able to do. To her horror and shame, when she felt about beneath her skirts, she found her dagger missing.
Tears welled in her eyes, hot and fierce and stinging. They had searched for weapons while she was unconscious, the filthy beasts. What else might they have done?
Thinking on this would only make her distress worse, and she resolved to forget it as best she could while she tried to rub life back into her numb hands.
Her cell was five paces by five paces. She walked them again and again, torn between refusing to believe this was the end and a deepening despair which threatened to overtake her.
Would it be a waste of her final hours if she were to spend them planning and escape?
Then again, what else was there for her to do? She might pray, she supposed, she had not prayed since she was a girl. She no longer knew the words—and what was worse, she no longer possessed the faith with which to speak those words even if she had known them. They would be empty, meaningless, and she doubted an empty prayer would do her any good.
She tried her best to keep from thinking about him, there was no helping it. She could not stop thinking about Clyde. Seeing his face before her, feeling the touch of his hand on hers though it had been many hours since he had tried to comfort her before they crossed the border.
Hours! It may as well have been a lifetime. Night had yet to arrive. The narrow window at the top of the wall allowed her a glimpse of little other than a cloudy sky and rain which continued to fall, but that was enough for her to know less than a half day had passed.
Considering this, the tears began to fall. Less than twelve hours, and nothing to do but think. Sit on the earthen floor with her back to the wall and think. Life choices. About how things might have gone if she had made other choices.
But what would she have changed if given the chance to do so? She could imagine nothing, for it would all have meant never having Thomas in her life.
Thomas was the only reason her life had been worth living.
Thomas and the girls. Their work.
And Clyde. Always Clyde. Her mind returned to him, time and again, unable to deny any longer that she loved him. If only he could have known. If only she’d been brave enough to tell him.
For that was true bravery. Being able to confess one’s heart to another. To leave oneself open to the possibility of pain or rejection. To take a chance.
To say goodbye to the past and know that saying goodbye did not take away from it in the least. It would not truly have been unfair to Thomas if she had admitted her love to Clyde, for Thomas could no longer love her as he had. He was gone, long gone, and turning to Clyde was not the same as turning away from her memories. She could never have forsaken those.
But that was the way of it, the sort of clear-headed thinking that came at a time such as this. What good did it do her now to know she had made so many mistakes? She could not rectify them.
With this in mind, and the sense that the minutes were slipping away, she slid down the length of one wall until she was seated on the floor, wrapping her arms around her legs.
This was it. This was the end.
22
Clyde paced back and forth, grinding his fist into the other palm. How he longed to break bones with his fists, to snap necks and pummel faces until they looked nothing like something belonging to a man.
Anything, so long as he freed her and took her home, where she might be safe.
What was taking Rufus so long? He slammed his hand against the nearest tree. Anything to vent the frustration of having to wait and worry.
He’d gone out to find what the
re was to find and had promised to return shortly. What if he, too, had been captured? There would be nothing left to do but free the both of them, naturally, but how was Clyde to know? How much longer was he supposed to wait?
The snapping of a twig sent him whirling in place.
Only to find Rufus approaching.
“’Tis only myself,” he whispered. “Dinna attack.”
Clyde growled his frustration. “Where is she? What did ye find?”
“They are holding her in a cell near the center of the village,” Rufus replied in a tight whisper. “I am sorry to say it, man. Truly sorry.”
“To say what? What are ye sorry for?”
He did not wish to hear what he knew was about to be spoken, but he needed to all the same. He needed to know what they would soon face together.
Rufus sighed. “I listened as a few of the men spoke at the public house near the magistrate’s, where they took her to be questioned. They said she spoke not a word. They questioned whether she might be unable to speak or hear. That was how little she gave them.”
“Brave lass,” he muttered, unable to stop the pride which swelled in him at the sound of this.
“That does not change her fate,” Rufus warned. “I am sorry, but they plan to hang her.”
Clyde’s throat tightened. He knew it would come to this, did he not?
And so had she. She’d told him a spy would be hanged, though he had protested as if he’d known. As if he would have any means of knowing what men did to enemy spies, man or woman.
It mattered not. They would hang her just the same.
Or they would try.
“I have to see her,” he muttered. “Can ye take me to her?”
Rufus grimaced, clearly against the notion. “Are ye certain this would be the right thing to do? Should we not wait for Drew to return with the other men?”
“Ye dinna think me daft, do ye? I dinna intend to march into the village and invade the magistrate’s. I only wish to see her if I can, to tell her she need not fear. I canna imagine. I dinna wish to imagine—”
Rufus nodded. “Believe me, I ken. Perhaps once most of the village has gone to sleep, we might be able to slip in and find her cell so long as we are quiet about it. No sense having ye captured, as well. Remember, they will be looking for ye. Ye were with her. And ye dinna easily escape attention, my friend.”
“Ye needn’t tell me,” he grumbled. “Just the same, I will go with ye or without ye.”
“Do ye believe I would allow ye to go alone?”
They went together, then, to the edge of the woods where they might watch the village without being seen. The rain kept many villagers inside. Or, if they ventured out, it was only to empty a slop bucket or to dash from one place to another. There was no stopping to say hello or merely stepping out to take the air.
Before very long, the lights from candles, lanterns, and fires began going out. Doors and shutters closed. The village of Crookham began preparing itself for sleep.
Rufus made him wait another eternity, or so it seemed, before leading him through the darkness on foot, the horses left behind for the time being. They darted up the alley and down, between rows of buildings, always taking care to remain in the shadows.
A door opened three houses away from where they were, and they stopped, pressing their backs to the closest wall and waiting. A woman ordered a cat outside for the night, muttering to herself before closing the door against the animal and leaving them free to continue.
Near the center of the village, Rufus paused and touched Clyde’s arm. He pointed straight ahead, to a stone structure with a sloping, shingled roof. Beside it was a smaller structure, crude, little more than four walls with small windows cut along the top, near the roof.
“That’s where they hold her,” Rufus muttered. “One of those cells in that building. The house beside belongs to the magistrate.”
“I would like to strangle that magistrate,” Clyde snarled, his blood rising. The man was just inside, all but waiting to be dealt with.
But that would not free Ailsa, and freeing her was all that mattered.
Rufus kept watch while Clyde hurried across the road to the squat building, listening diligently for any sound coming from inside. It seemed there was breathing coming from beyond one of the windows on the other side of the would-be jail, putting the building between himself and the magistrate’s house and providing a bit of privacy.
“Ailsa?” he ventured, little more than a breath.
Shuffling, scrambling. “Clyde? What…why—”
“I have come for ye, lass.” Would that he could see her, but she was not tall enough to reach the narrow window.
It was just wide enough for her to slide her fingers through, and he kissed them without thinking twice. “Forgive me for allowing this,” he whispered.
“There was nothing you could do. It was not your fault.”
“I vowed to protect ye, and I failed.”
“You did all you could. Please, believe me when I tell you I do not blame you for any of this. I cannot blame you for anything.”
If only he could see her. If only he could touch her face, stroke her cheek or her hair. If he could comfort her in some way.
The best he could do was wrap his fingers around hers. They were so small, just like the rest of her. And yet she was so fierce, so brave. There was not even a note of fear in her voice when she spoke. She sounded calm, at peace with what was to be.
“At dawn, they are going to hang me,” she whispered. “In the woods, outside the village. So the villagers do not raise a fuss over a woman being hanged.”
He ground his teeth, willing away the rage this inspired. “I will not allow it.”
“Clyde, there’s nothing you can do. You must go, and you must go now. They are sure to find you if you do not. You must return to the girls. Do you understand?”
Yes, he did understand, but this did not mean he would heed her orders. “I canna leave ye.”
She chuckled softly. “I’m afraid you will not have a choice. It is I who will be leaving you.”
“Dinna say it. I will not hear it.”
“But that does not change anything. I cannot allow you to risk yourself for me, not when so many people rely on us. You must return, and you must see to it that they are able to do the work we have prepared for. Do you not understand? It is up to you now. I trust you. I believe you can help them.”
“Not without ye. I could never do it without ye.”
Again, she chuckled, and she withdrew her hand from his before straining further, reaching out. “Please, let me touch your face.”
He crouched, bending down that the tips of her fingers might stroke his cheek. He closed his eyes, willing away swell of emotion building in his chest. He could not break down now. She needed him.
“Forgive me for everything,” she breathed, still touching him. “I was such a fool. I thought that if I loved you, it would mean no longer loving what once was. I still love my Thomas, but you…”
He hardly dared believe it, but the sound of it sent the words tumbling from his lips. “Och, lass, I love ye so dearly. I dinna know when it came to be, but ye are as dear to me as my own life. That is why I canna allow ye to hang in the morning. I will not go on without ye.”
Try as she might, there was no hiding the sounds of her soft weeping. “Please, you must. I beg you. If you love me, if you truly love me, think about what this has all been for. Not for myself, not for you, but for something far greater. Do not let this be in vain. You must help them carry on.”
“They will not wish to carry on without ye any more than I will.”
“They are strong,” she whispered. “I know they can stand it. And because I know you can stand it and they can, I can be strong, too. I will not allow them to break me. I will not show them what it means to take my life. Let them believe they’ve won. It will be a short-lived victory, I’m certain.”
Only the depth of his love for her kept him fr
om telling her how wrong she was. That her life was worth far more than anything they had worked toward, that all of Scotland was not as valuable to him as a single hair from her head.
If it helped her remain strong in these dark, desperate hours, he would allow her to hold on to her faith in him and the girls they had trained together. He would not take that away from her.
“Do you forgive me for being such a fool?” she asked.
“Only if ye forgive me, my darling. My all.” He kissed her fingers again, over and over, and he heard her chuckle.
“It seems we have both been little better than children.”
“Aye, it seems as though we have.” And when he thought back to the time they had wasted, time which might have been spent loving each other, his throat tightened.
At the sound of footsteps, he prepared to fight, his hand still clutching hers. Yet it was only Rufus, waving his hands, beckoning. “Come, there is movement in the house. We must go, quickly.”
“Hurry!” she whispered. “Please, return to Scotland and do not come back. You can be over the border by dawn, and on your way to the convent. Please, go, and may God bless you. Never forget I love you.”
One last kiss against her palm. “And I love ye, lass. Dinna forget it.” He rose, following Rufus away. One final look over his shoulder revealed her hand still half outside the cell, as if she hoped he would return just once more.
But he could not, for he could not free her if he, too, were in a cell. Or worse, as he supposed anyone who found him now knew of his association with her and might take his life on the spot rather than risk him fighting back.
“They are going to take her to the woods before dawn,” he told Rufus as they hurried back through the village. “They dinna wish to hang her in front of the people, for they might raise trouble over the hanging of a woman.”
“Och, the cowards,” Rufus sneered. “But it might help us greatly.”