Seven

He came to, coughing and spitting as a bucket of icy water hit him in the face. He appeared to be in a courtyard adjoining the stables. He was lying on a scaffold, soaking wet, stripped of everything but his breeches. Several men held him down as his hands were tied together and pulled over his head by a rope they passed through a ring. He was yanked to his feet and hauled up until he dangled in the air, his toes barely touching the ground. The courtyard was crowded. There were women, children, and even old ladies. It seemed he was to be the day’s entertainment. These Drummonds were a bloodthirsty lot—though to be fair, public torture and execution drew a festive crowd in London as well. Damn the wench! She was ill-fated! She brought bad luck and it seemed she was going to be the death of him.

He was still a little groggy from the blow to the head and was just getting oriented when someone punched him in the face, sending him spinning. He went with it, accepting rather than fighting, and managed to keep a rising tide of nausea at bay. He could see the harbor through the stable gate. It was a crisp, cold, late-November day. He was punched and spun again, and watched detached as people flowed by like a river—tall ones, short ones, fat ones, skinny ones—against a background of stonework, sea, and sky. He could see fishing boats… a man with a whip… and a flaming brazier. That didn’t bode well… not well at all. Someone kicked him and he spun again. What an interesting lady! She floated by in shades of cream, copper, and azure blue. Be damned if it wasn’t his wife! She was wearing a dress. It was most becoming. It seemed she’d dressed up to come and watch him bleed.

A bald-headed man, built like a bull, yanked on the rope, almost wrenching Jamie’s arms from their sockets, sending a thrill of agony coursing through his body, nearly making him scream. “Let me introduce myself,” the man said pleasantly. “I’m called Jerrod, and I’d be captain here. Everyone knows me in these parts, and I know them, too… so I know that you… well… you’re not from around here. And you’re not a damned tinker! Not with those pretty hands and that pretty sword.” He grabbed Jamie by the hair and yanked his head back. “Now there’s no need for this to be any more unpleasant than it already is. All you have to do is answer my questions, laddie, and we’ll get along just fine. Who are you, man? Who sent you and why are you here?”

Jamie grinned and spat, knowing how it worked, knowing once they had the information they wanted from him, his life would be measured in moments rather than hours, and wondering what, if anything, his still-silent wife would have to say about it.

“I asked you your name!” Jerrod barked, hitting him with a mailed fist, knocking his head back and bloodying his lip.

His response was half a chuckle, half a moan. His vision cleared and the chit caught his eye, shaking her head, no. Ah… so… nothing to hope for from that quarter. Apparently, she wasn’t inclined to come to his rescue, claiming him as her own true love and offering him the same protection of family and duty he had offered her. Oh well. He never revealed a lady’s secrets. He spat blood and managed a pained wink in her general direction. Abandoned by his lady love, trussed like a chicken, his life measured by hours, if not minutes, there was little left to do but maintain a graceful exit, hopefully one that would be remembered for its courage and pathos and… well… flare. He hoped they wouldn’t make it too difficult. He hoped they weren’t as inventive in their tortures as Gervaise and his men were with theirs.

The one name Jerrod smacked a fist in his face again, and he bit back a groan. If the mouse hadn’t broken his nose, this fellow surely had. He coughed and laughed, spitting blood as the bull went to hit him again.

“Careful, Jerrod!” the one called Donald warned. “I want answers, not a corpse. Moderate your questioning accordingly. Offer our guest a taste of the whip. He smells like a Murray to me. I want to know what he’s doing here. Let’s see how well he takes a flogging.”

Jerrod clutched Jamie’s matted hair and pulled him close. “Are you a Murray, man? Got lost in the mountains and just trotted down for a stroll? I’m about to take the skin off your back, laddie. Best you take a moment to think.” He shoved him away and watched him swing a moment before picking up the whip. “Last chance, man. Are you certain you’ve nothing to say for yourself?”

Jamie nodded his head, motioning the bull closer. “Yes, I’ve something to say” he managed through gritted teeth. “Best be careful, Bucephalus. My easygoing nature is getting sorely fucking tested. I’m going to remember you.”

The bull roared with laughter. “You’re a brazen bastard, I’ll give you that! It’s a shame you’re not a Drummond.”

He took the flogging well. He’d learnt how at his Puritan father’s hands, and he’d survived worse as a child. He didn’t know how long it went on. The worst thing was the cold. Every time he passed out, they’d wake him with a pail of freezing water. He would freeze to death before too long. At least it was numbing his body and helping him ride the pain. He’d managed to keep his dignity this long, just a short while longer and at least he’d have a glorious death. He’d die with a curse and a laugh, not whimpers and screams.

As he spun and grimaced through the last few hours of his life, he watched his wife whenever he could see her with a certain detached admiration. She’s beautiful, he thought, and vicious, too. Any question as to whether or not she was a lady had long been answered. She watched his torture with coldhearted indifference. She’d have fit comfortably with any of the flint-eyed, back-stabbing bitches in either Stuart court.

It had been hours now, and his world was one of agony. His arms screamed in their sockets, his wrists and back were raw and bloody, and his nerve endings shrieked with jagged-edged pain. Why not tell them? a voice whispered. Why not tell them who you are and make it stop? To protect the girl? Because she’d asked him not to? Would they harm her if they knew she’d married an Englishman to save her life? She was a stranger to him, someone he’d passed on a battlefield, someone he’d helped on a whim, as a joke. He owed her nothing. Nothing at all. Still… he was a dead man now, one way or another. Whatever wasn’t raw and bleeding was frozen stiff, and soon, very soon, he’d slip into the dark and a bucket of water wouldn’t bring him back.

The idea frightened him. He didn’t believe in hell any more than he believed in heaven, unless it was an infinite emptiness lacking any kind of amusement, experience, or sensation; but now that he was on the brink, with time to think about it, he found the idea of an eternity of nothingness, an eternity of boredom, so chilling and abhorrent he almost panicked and begged them for his life. It was stubbornness more than anything else that made him bite his lip, stifle another scream, and refuse to tell them what they wanted to know.

His head was jerked back and he was forced to look as one of them approached, a hot iron in his hand, and his heart began to thump louder in his half-frozen body. He shifted his head with difficulty, to glance at his lovely wife. He was far away from home, and though they were strangers, she was the only person here he knew, the closest thing he had to friend or family. It was good to know he wouldn’t die completely alone. She watched stone-faced. It heartened him a little that she didn’t show the same excitement as the others, though one could hardly blame them given the dearth of novelty or entertainment in a backwater like this. Still… one was not inclined to be charitable when—his thoughts were interrupted by searing pain across his chest, and the sound of someone screaming. Mercifully, he passed out before he realized who it was.

* * *

He could hear her screaming, begging and pleading, and the dull repeated smacking of flesh upon flesh. He wanted to help her. He wanted to kill him! But he was only little, and he was scared. He huddled under the stairs, arms wrapped around his knees, crying.

“Whore!” his father shouted, “Shameless adulteress! Is that hell-spawned brat even mine? Whose bastard is he, woman?”

He heard the sounds of breaking furniture, shattering glass, and a slamming door, followed by his father’s footsteps, monstrous and heavy on the stairs. He hugged himself tighter, wanting to disappear, and watched with amazement as a small, furry, bright-eyed creature poked its head from around the corner, watching with intent and curious eyes. It approached him cautiously, looking from side to side. “You’re just a little thing,” he whispered. “Little and brave.” He scooped it into his pocket, feeling braver now himself. He had a job to do, and something to protect. He crept down the hall, looking for his mother. He found her huddled in a corner, sobbing. Her dress was ripped and ugly bruises marred her neck and face. He wasn’t sure what to do. He looked around for a servant, but they’d all fled. He approached her uncertainly, wanting to comfort her, but not sure how. He reached out a tentative hand and touched her shoulder…

“Get out!” she screamed. “You’ve caused enough trouble. Get out! Get out! I hate you! I never want to see you again! Get away from me! Get away from me!”

* * *

Jamie opened his eyes and looked dazedly around. He was suspended in the air. A cold rain mixed with sleet was falling, and his body was racked by shudders. As his mind began to clear, his body screamed with pain and he gasped aloud. Oh, good Christ! Why can’t I just die? He seemed to be having no luck at all. It was full dark and his tormenters appeared to have left… all but one. Someone was tugging at his leg, and far off in the distance he could hear a voice.

“Can you hear me, English? We have to get out of here. We have to get away from here. English! We have to go! Now!”

“Why hello, mouse,” he croaked, blinking and doing his best to manage a jaunty grin. “Did you come to fetch me after all?”

“Yes. Can you move your legs? Can you stand? I’m going to cut you down.”

“Of course I can stand, child!” he scoffed, before slumping unconscious into her arms.

Grunting, Catherine dragged him to the edge of the scaffold where she’d left her horse. With a great deal of effort she managed to pull him across the saddle in front of her, slapping at his hands in exasperation as even unconscious, frozen, and half-dead, he somehow managed to grope her breast. “Get your hands off me, you oaf!” she muttered, before covering him with wool blankets and several sacks. She headed for the castle gatehouse, draping her cloak over him as best she could, waving to Alan Johnson as she passed.

“It’s a foul night, Cat. Where are you off to? Shouldn’t you be warm and snug in bed?”

“I’ve some clothes and goods for Robbie’s widow. She’s been having a rough go. She’s not been sleeping since he passed. I’ll be sharing a jug of whiskey with her, Alan, so don’t expect me back tonight.”

“You’ve a good heart, lass. I’m glad we won’t be losing you to the O’Connor. Give Mary my love, will you?”

“Aye, so I will, Alan, though maybe come spring you should do so yourself.”

She stopped at Mary’s first. Leaving her horse tethered outside, she gave the younger woman several bundles and a warm hug before joining her for one quick tot, followed by another and then another. “So… I’ll sleep here with you tonight, Mary, shall I?” she asked, just before the other woman nodded off to sleep. Then she crept outside, mounted her horse, and started down the beach, carrying her English husband, knowing the tide would wipe away any trace of her passing.