What tools did she have? The pewter chamberstick holding her candle, a smelly blanket, the empty tin plate, and two wooden buckets—nothing she could use as weapons. Lucy reached into her pocket and felt the three flimsy hairpins she’d removed from her hair last night, far from lethal. If she had the strength, she might hit the jailor over the head with a bucket. But he was a big man, solid and tall. No doubt, she would only make him angry. There had to be another way, another weapon. Without strength, what weapon did a woman have? What was it Phillipa had said?
“Le charme d’une femme est sa seule arme.” A woman’s charm is her only weapon.
Lucy snorted. Charm worked well in the drawing rooms of London. Dear Phillipa had never prepared Lucy for the dungeons of Scotland. What good would charm do her here?
What the devil time was it? And why was knowing the time of day so important? She’d never considered time before, beyond punctuality. Even without access to a timepiece, one always had some notion of the hour based on the amount of daylight. Without light, how could one measure the passage of time?
Her stomach growled. Hunger. She hadn’t eaten in a while. Her last meal would have been considered supper. Her next would be breakfast. She was taken yesterday morning, so…one day, one full day in captivity and she was already going mad. How did prisoners survive years in a cell?
What day was it and why was it so important that she keep track? Cousin Diana and Sir Ranald had arrived on Wednesday. She’d left Balforss the next morning and had been abducted the next. “Saturday.” She blinked back sudden tears. “Tomorrow is my wedding day.”
The jangle of keys. Her jailer was back. Lucy stood in the center of her cell, facing the doorway and waited, heart thumping in her chest. Footsteps, a clunk as the door unlocked, then a shaft of light outlining the big man.
“Good morning,” she said, schooling her voice to hide her mounting fear. “It is morning, isn’t it?”
The jailer held out a plate of food without answering.
“Thank you. I’m Lucy. What’s your name?” she said, accepting the plate.
Silence. The man stooped to collect her empty plate from yesterday’s dinner, as well as the chamberstick.
“I only ask so that I might address you properly.”
He set the items on the floor outside the door.
“It was kind of you to allow me the candle. May I have another? It’s so dark, and I’m afraid of the rats.”
As the door closed, Lucy pleaded, “Please, sir. Don’t leave me. I don’t like being alone. Just stay and talk to me for a little while. Please?”
The lock went clunk and Lucy’s shoulders slumped. So much for her charm.
She touched the food on her plate. Bread with something smeared on it. Jam? She lifted the bread chunk to her nose and sniffed. Bacon. She tasted a corner of the bread and savored the grease-soaked mouthful. In no time, she devoured every crumb. Lucy felt the remaining contents of her plate. A smooth, hard wedge. Cheese. And…what were the last two things? Crumbly lumps about the size of a scone. She’d felt something like this before. Yes. Oatcakes.
Bannocks. Alex called them bannocks. She let her knees buckle and sat down hard on the stone floor, forgetting the rest of her breakfast. The last thing Alex had said to her was, “I will find a way back to you, Lucy.” She hadn’t believed him. She hadn’t believed him when he’d said Elizabeth had tricked him into kissing her. But Lucy had seen them with her own eyes.
As she had done too many times to count, she replayed that dreadful scene in her head. Alex standing in the garden. Elizabeth walking to him, leaning against him. He hadn’t resisted. That fact stung. Worse, Elizabeth standing on tiptoe and kissing him. How long had the kiss lasted before they’d looked up and laughed. One, two, three heartbeats?
Merde.
She heard the jangle of her jailer’s keys. Lucy stuffed the cheese and bannocks in the pockets of her skirt and stood. The jailer opened the cell door and replaced her buckets. Before shutting the door, he produced another candle, this one twice as tall as the last. Lucy breathed a sigh of relief. She would have light. For a little while, at least.
She exchanged her empty plate for the chamberstick. “Thank you for your kindness,” she said. “Won’t you please stay a while? I wouldn’t feel so frightened if I had someone to talk to.”
The jailer hesitated at the door. “I’m not supposed to talk to you.”
“I won’t tell anyone. I would never tell. No one would know.”
He stood silent for several seconds.
“You don’t have to talk. You could just listen. That way you won’t break any rules. I know lots of good stories.” Lucy paused for a response. None came. “I know. You can sit in the doorway while I tell you a story.” Still no movement or sound. She searched her mind frantically for a story that might appeal to the man. A story featuring Scots as heroic might be best.
“Do you know the story of King James V and clan Douglas?”
“My mam was a Douglas,” he said.
Good. He’d taken the bait. Now, to set the hook.
“Then you’ll love this story.” Lucy sat on her blanket a reasonable distance from the door and held the candle closer so her jailer could see her face. “Please. Sit down. It’s a good story.”
The big man folded his arms across his chest and leaned against her doorway, looking skeptical. He waited for her to begin. Unable to recall the exact words of the poem, Lucy narrated Lady of the Lake using what words and phrases of Walter Scott’s she remembered.
“A great stag lived in the forest on Uam-Var Mountain near Stirling Castle. He was the largest and most noble of stags, and though he had been chased many times, no huntsman had ever been able to come near him.”
Lucy recounted the tale of the hunt, describing the stag as “a regal giant of the forest.” How one hundred huntsmen and their hounds chased the great stag across rivers, through glens, over heather, and up mountains, while the stag never tired, never stopped for a drink.
“The worn and weary huntsmen slowly dwindled in number until the once one hundred was but one.”
The jailer nodded as if he approved of the single hunter who wouldn’t give up the hunt. He lowered himself to the floor and waited for more of her story. The next part Lucy remembered well, for it had moved her when she’d first read the lines.
“Close on the hounds, the hunter came,
to cheer them on the vanished game,
but stumbling on a rocky dell,
his gallant steed exhausted fell.
The impatient rider tried in vain
to rouse his horse with spur and rein.
The good steed, his labors over,
stretched his limbs to rise no more.”
The jailer uttered a mild oath at the huntsman’s foolishness. Parched, Lucy palmed a mouthful of stale water from her bucket before resuming her tale. Using many of her own embellishments, she told the story of James Fitz-James and Ellen Douglas. Throughout the telling, her jailer remained still. Occasionally he would make sounds of approval, or grunts of agreement, and once a knowing chuckle.
Lucy paused for breath and saw her jailer lean toward her as if urging her to continue. The candle had dwindled by half when her tale was interrupted by voices echoing in the distance. The jailer scrambled to his feet.
“No, wait.”
“Quiet,” the jailer said. He left her cell and locked the door.
What should she do? Scream? Did the approaching voices belong to men who would rescue her? Lucy listened. Her jailer sounded as though he was having an argument with someone—with two someones. She could barely make out the words.
She recognized the deep voice of her jailer shout, “Nae.”
“It’ll take but a minute or two. In and out, as they say.”
“Come on, man, just a wee tup. No one will be the wiser,” another said.
Lucy caught her breath. She knew what the vulgar word “tup” meant.
“Nae,” her jailor bell
owed. “No one’s allowed to talk with her. Be gone with you.”
Some laughter. “We’ll nae say a word. Tuck and I are real quiet fuckers.”
The two other voices were those of her abductors. They had returned and wanted to do her harm. Her heart beat so hard she felt it in her fingertips. She backed away from the door. Would her jailer let them into her cell? The argument seemed to continue farther down the hall until she could hear no more. Cowering in the corner, Lucy waited. Who would be the next to enter? Her jailer or her kidnappers? Minutes turned to hours as the candle burned lower.
“Please, Alex. Please find me. Take me away from this place. Save me.”
Liam had been certain Alex would search for her. Would Langley be looking for her, too? He said in his letter he would wait at Dunrobin Castle with Lady Sutherland. What had Alex said about Lady Sutherland? Ah yes. Lady Sutherland employed Mr. Sellar—
Lucy’s hand flew to her mouth. Patrick Sellar was Lady Sutherland’s factor. He was a bad man. Alex had told her, warned her, Sellar might use her to harm his family. Oh, God. Why hadn’t she put these things together before?
“How could I be so stupid?” she said out loud. “I’m a fool. I trusted Liam over Alex. I believed damn-her-eyes Elizabeth over Alex. This is all my fault. My stupidity. My pride.”
Hercules, Alex, her freedom, all lost because of her pride. Lucy gave in to self-pity and choked on her sobs. She had lost.
When she woke, the liquid beeswax welled in the bottom of the chamberstick as the candle guttered for a moment and then expired. Based on the length of the candle, six, maybe seven hours had passed. It might only be mid-afternoon. Hours until supper. She withdrew the cheese from her pocket and nibbled. She wouldn’t want food on her person in the dark. The rats might be too bold.
Footsteps outside her cell. She tensed. Keys jangled. Her jailer returning for his story? The cell door opened.
“You’re back. Would you like to hear the end of my story?”
The jailor placed a bowl on the floor, shut the cell door, and locked it.
“Please,” she called. “Please don’t leave me alone. My candle’s gone out. Please come back.” Lucy paused. Waited. No response.
Then she heard the jailer say, “I’ll bring another taper soon.”
“Thank you.”
He returned about a quarter of an hour later with a candle, shorter than the last one, but taller than the first. He lit the candle from his lantern and twisted it solidly into the base of the holder. Then he produced a spoon from the pocket of his long dark coat. Lucy wiped it on her skirt and the big man resumed his seat on the floor. She took up her story while she ate her supper, a very good bowl of chicken and leek soup with bits of bread soaking in the broth. It had been several months since Lucy had read Lady of the Lake. Remembering the details of the poem might have been difficult had the story not left a deep impression on her.
She took her time, preferring to share the jailor’s questionable company rather than be alone with her fear. Hours passed, but her voice never failed her. At the penultimate point in the story when James Fitz-James and Ellen Douglas presented themselves at court to beg for her father’s release, Lucy paused.
“You still haven’t told me your name,” she said.
Though her jailer remained shadowed by the torchlight behind him, she thought she heard a smile in his voice when he said, “James.”
For the first time in days, Lucy laughed. “No wonder you like the story.” She waited another breath or two before she asked, “Who were those men before? What did they want?”
“Criminals and they wanted nothing good. I willnae let them near you.”
“Thank you, James.”
Lucy picked up the story again.
“Ellen entered the throne room with James at her side. She searched but saw no one who resembled a king. All in the room, to their knees did bend and remove their hats. Only one man, James Fitz-James, dressed in simple green, remained standing with his hat on, all eyes upon him. Bewildered and amazed, tears filled Ellen’s eyes. James Fitz-James brushed them away with a gentle hand. Her brave knight was none other than Scotland’s King James V.”
A gasp of surprise escaped Jailer James. “The Knight Fitz-James was King James all along?”
Lucy nodded.
“What did she do when she found out?”
“Ellen laid herself at her monarch’s feet, unable to speak. King James smiled, lifted her up and said, ‘Yes, my fair Ellen. Poor wandering Fitz-James claims the fealty of all Scotland. Ask not for your father’s freedom for he and I have already forgiven each other. Instead, claim your seat beside me as my queen.”
That wasn’t the way Lady of the Lake ended, but Lucy liked her ending better than Walter Scott’s. And besides, she was the one stuck in a jail cell. She could tell the story any way she liked.
“Was Ellen angry with James for deceiving her?” Jailer James asked.
The memory of Alex and his silly prank came to her. What she thought was an unforgivable act at the time, now seemed…like something a prince might do.
“Do you think she should have been angry?” she asked, her voice faltering.
“Nae. He had good reason,” James said with absolute certainty. “He would win her love as a man first before he wed her as a king.”
Lucy sniffed. “A brave knight once fooled me. When I discovered he was a prince, I was angry. I punished him.” Lucy’s shoulders shook and her words tumbled out on her sobs. “Now, I wish I hadn’t. I wish I had been nice to him.”
“Och, dinnae weep, lassie. I’m certain all will be well.”
She wiped her tears away with the dirty sleeve of her coat. “Do you think so? Will I be released soon?”
Jailer James stood. “It’s late. Sleep now. I’ll be back in the morning.” He shut the door to her cell and locked it.
Remaining seated on her blanket, she listened as the big man walked away. A few seconds later, though, she heard a commotion. James bellowed, “Nae. Nae! You’ll not pass. Get out!” More confused yelling and then coarse whispers.
“Get the keys, get the keys,” one said.
Two sets of footsteps, running. Was it Alex? Was Alex finally here?
“Not that one. Try the other one.” The voices were right outside her cell.
“Alex? Is that you?” she called.
Trying to get to her feet, Lucy stepped on her hem, tripped, and banged her head on the stone wall. The door flung open. Two figures swayed in the doorway.
“She looks like a scairt rabbit, Tuck.”
“Remember us? We’ve come to pay you a visit as we had no time to sample your wares yesterday.”
No. No. No. The soldiers. Her kidnappers. Oh God, no. In a panic, Lucy lunged for the slop bucket and tossed it. The first man ducked. The bucket hit the man behind him square in the face.
“Och, you bitch.”
She grabbed the water bucket by the handle and swung it at the first man. He caught the bucket, wrenched it from her hand, and tossed it in the corner. Only then did she remember to scream bloody murder. Pinwheeling her arms at the advancing man, she connected a few blows to his face and head before he had both her wrists. She kicked at his knees and shins.
“Give us a hand, dammit.”
The second man got hold of first one ankle, suffered a good kick to the side of his head, then latched on to the second. These men had rape in mind, and she wasn’t going to submit without a fight. They stretched her body horizontally while she continued to squirm and screech and writhe.
“I’ll kill you,” she screamed. “I’ll kill you!”
The threat drew laughter from her attackers. They pinned her to the floor. One man knelt on her thighs, his full weight grinding into her muscle and bone. She let out a yelp of pain different from her screams of terror.
The other man held her wrists above her head. “Open her front, Ned. I want to see her titties.” He reeked of alcohol and giggled like a lunatic.
The
contents of her stomach churned. She was about to vomit. The other man, Ned, continued to crush her thighs with his weight. He tore open her blouse, sending its buttons pinging across the stone floor. He slid his blade from his waist and held it in front of her face.
“Stop your fighting, or I’ll stick you. I can give it to you dead just as easy as alive.”
She willed herself to stop struggling, but her body would not obey. Nor could she stop shrieking when the man lowered his knife to her bodice. He cut the laces to her stays with a few quick flicks. When he finished, he drew aside the boned garment and yanked down the front of her shift. She felt cold air hit her chest. Filthy, rough hands fondled parts of her no man had ever touched. Oh, God, no.
“Make ’em jiggle.”
“Like this?”
“Aye, that’s good.”
Lucy screamed, “Stop. Stop.” Out of breath, terrified, her screams became whimpers. “Please don’t. Don’t touch me.” Tears streamed down her temples and caught in her hair.
The man on top of her suddenly arched his back and then fell forward on top of her like a sack of grain. The air in Lucy’s lungs escaped on a hoomph! His body covered her face, making it difficult to breathe. The one holding her arms released her and shouted, “Who the hell are—” A strangled gurgling sound followed. Oh, God, what was happening?
She grabbed at the heavy weight on top of her and pushed until she wriggled out from underneath the body. Gasping for a lungful of air, Lucy scrambled to her hands and knees and blinked her vision back into focus. Alex had one of her attackers by the throat, pinned against the wall, his legs dangling. He thunked the man’s head against the stone once and released him.
“No. No. We was just having a little fun—”
Those were the last words the man uttered before Alex slit his throat, nearly removing the man’s head. Blood spurted out, drenching the front of Alex’s shirt as the man slumped to the floor. A growl and a flash of movement caught her attention. The man who had been on top of her got to his feet and lunged for Alex with his knife.
She called out, “Alex!”
Tying the Scot Page 26
