A Time For Treason

Excerpt 1

Jamie cocked his head and examined her carefully.  She was wet and bedraggled, there were rope burns on her neck and wrists, and her face was battered and covered with blood.  His lips twitched with displeasure.  She was shivering, whether from fear or cold, he couldn’t tell, but her eyes burned with hatred and defiance.  Still…there was no denying the wench was a damsel in distress.  Despite years of hard work to suppress them, his quixotic tendencies had the rude habit of surfacing at the oddest and most inconvenient times.  He felt a surge of anger toward her.  He didn’t need any complications.  Damned foolish woman!  She had no business being here.  She deserved whatever happened to her. 

The men had begun to crowd in again, grumbling and sullen, fearing he meant to rob them of their toy.  He hefted his sword, testing its weight and turned to face them, waving them back and silencing their protests with a curt gesture.  One of them left on the run.  Looking for Gervaise no doubt.  Returning his attention to the woman, he walked over, took off his coat, and draped it over her shoulders.

“Sullivan!”

“Sir!”

“Fetch food, a blanket, and some water.”

“Right away, sir.”

He knelt down and held out his hand toward her, brushing back a mat of tangled hair to get a closer look.  She shuddered and flinched, and he felt a stir of pity.  “Easy, child,” he said softly in French.  “I’m not going to harm you.”  Taking her by the chin with gloved fingers, he turned her face sideways, noting the livid bruise across her jaw.  “Tsk, tsk.”  He turned her jaw the other way, and a tired sigh escaped him.  “What a pity.  These brutes have only one way of dealing with a woman I’m afraid.  What’s you name, child?”

She stared at him, blank-faced, and pulled her head away.  He felt a moment’s disappointment.  He’d been hoping she spoke French.  It would have been a sign of education, breeding, quality, something to aid him in the plan fast forming in his mind.  She was some luckless camp follower no doubt, who’d stolen horse and sword in a desperate bid to escape.  Well, heiress or whore, it hadn’t gone her any good and she was in far more trouble than she knew. 

Wondering if she was in shock, he tried again in English.  “What’s your name, girl?”  He gave her head a shake.  “Your name!”

“Catherine…Drummond,” she said through gritted teeth, then spat full in his face.

The watching men broke into gales of laughter, mocking and jeering. 

“That’s a gentleman right there!  See how smooth he is with the ladies?”

“She fancies you she does, my lord!”

Damn the chit!  He should leave her to her own devices.  Casually, he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the spittle away, then grabbed her by the hair and pulled her close, looking quizzically into fierce cat-like eyes before leaning over to whisper in her ear, “Catherine…Cat…hellcat….That wasn’t very wise.  Here you’re nothing but a wet and shivering little mouse, and little mice should stay very quiet and keep very still.” 

Excerpt 2

Jamie set out for the stronghold of clan Drummond early the next morning, still pure of heart, stopping at the market to replenish his supplies. He’d made good money at the inn and he grinned as he entertained the notion of chucking king, country, and ambition, and making a life in the magnificent Highlands, traveling the road, roaming hill and dale seducing the ladies into sampling his wares.

It was a complete mystery to him what these remote Highland Scots had been doing on the banks of the River Clyde, who the little mouse was, and what she’d been doing there with them.  He’d heard stories that the Scots army that marched on Newcastle during the Civil War had included female soldiers, but frankly, he’d never believed it.  He wondered now if it might be true.  Running his forefinger along the bridge of his nose, he chuckled at the thought.  She might prove useful yet.  She was certainly more adept than Sullivan was when it came to using her fists and wielding a weapon.  In any case, he supposed he’d have some answers soon. 

The busy little town flanking Drummond Castle rose in a series of terraced streets above a snug harbor full of fishing boats and merchant ships, and as he climbed the hill pulling his pony and his wares behind him, he could see a long spit of golden sand stretching far to the north and south.  He was making slow progress, pausing every few minutes to trade with the locals, selling needles and combs and kitchen utensils with a wink and a grin and a convincing Scott’s brogue.  Halfway to the top he heard a commotion and looked up to see a large colorfully dressed fellow in a saffron shirt barreling toward him with an excited crowd chasing behind.

“Hold up, Cormac!” a black haired full-bearded Highlander was shouting.  “You don’t have to leave, man!  What about our alliance?  I promise you we can come to some kind of arrangement.”

 A big man himself, but not today, Jamie pressed against a stone wall, trying to be unobtrusive and get out of their way, but the street was crowded and the florid faced giant was the kind of fellow who claimed a lot of space.

“You can take your bloody alliance, Donald Drummond, and shove it up your arse!  I was promised land and whisky!  I was promised coin!  I was promised the girl!” the giant bellowed, shoving people rudely aside and bashing into Jamie, knocking him sideways and almost to the ground.  Keeping his temper, Jamie bowed his head and mumbled apologies, but the man was looking for a fight, or at least someone on whom to vent his anger. 

“Watch your step you poxy bastard or I’ll give you a good thrashing!” he snarled, grabbing Jamie by his tattered cloak and shoving him hard against the wall. 

There was a moment of dead silence, followed by a swell of excited shouting as a gleaming silver sword glinted in the sun. 

“What manner of tinker is this?”  Donald roared.  “Who are you, ya bastard, to be sneaking about my town hiding a weapon?  You’re not one of mine and you’re not the O’Connor’s!”

Cursing, Jamie pulled out his sword and looked to the left and the right, calculating his odds and assessing his chances for escape.  He should never have kept the weapon.  By far the most crucial element of disguise was absolute commitment, and neglecting it might well have cost him his life.  The harbor seemed the best chance.  He might be able to hide in the warren of fishing boats and dockside shacks; he might even manage a dingy.  He grinned, giving friends Donald and Cormac the finger before leaping onto the lower wall and vaulting to the street below.  Landing on his hands and the balls of his feet, he was startled to find himself looking at long legs and a shapely derriere encased in leather breeches.  Rising in an instant he found himself staring straight into a pair of very surprised, amber cat-like eyes.

Well I’ll be damned!  he thought, a second before a club caught him from behind and sent him crumpling to the ground.