A Traitor's Touch

by Helen Dickson

  On the sixteenth of April there was noise to the east—thunder, Henrietta thought, but then she realised the noise was more sinister than that. The faraway gunfire was like the crack of doom. She hadn’t heard from Simon since he had left the cottage in December—but then she didn’t expect to. Her heart was heavy as she listened to the far-off battle. Simon would be in the thick of it, she had no doubt. Please God, she prayed, let him live.

  The Jacobite army was outnumbered and Culloden lent itself to Cumberland’s strength in heavy artillery and cavalry. The artillery decimated the clans. The battle was quick and bloody, lasting less than one hour. Following an unsuccessful Highland charge against government lines, the Hanoverians blasted the Jacobite army into a miserable retreat.

  * * *

  Simon dragged himself through the darkness and leaned weakly against the rocks, sucking deep breaths of clean, fresh air into his lungs. Everything had been confusion since the Jacobites had been routed and driven from Culloden Field, with the keening of men and horses moving to and fro among overturned wagons and abandoned equipment. For the best part of an hour the cannons had roared their fury, hiding the fear and revulsion that turned men’s guts to water. On that field of battle leading his men, he’d felt as vulnerable as though he were naked. His skin crawled at the thought of pike blades gouging into his flesh. And when the battle was lost, wounded and bleeding, he’d left the churning, killing quagmire as though Satan were at his back.

  The English were thick on the ground. Gunshots could be heard long after the battle had ended, as English officers administered the coups de grâce to the wounded Jacobites before tossing them onto a pyre to be burned. Many Jacobites heading for Inverness were hunted down and killed without mercy by Cumberland’s Dragoons. Others, who headed for the mountains, stood a better chance of survival, but the Government troops were thorough in their retribution.

  With his body pain-racked and bone-weary, more and more Simon felt the disorientation, the fragmenting of himself as his injury began to take its toll. He knew the seriousness of his wound and, if he didn’t get help soon, he would die. Driven by hunger, pain, freezing rain and moonlight, he’d wandered the land like a wounded beast from its lair, and by some miracle he’d found his way to the cottage—to Henrietta. The name knifed through him with a pain that was more racking than anything his body had ever had to endure.

  Ever since they had parted she had never been far from his thoughts. The memory of their parting haunted him. He’d tortured himself constantly, hoping to God she was all right. There were so many things he wanted to tell her, so many things he needed desperately to say to her—one of them being that the time he had spent with her had been the most exquisitely beautiful days and nights of his life.

  * * *

  Henrietta could not sleep. She was aware of the faintest trembling deep in her limbs. Not because she was cold or fearful as such, but rather because a feeling of unease gripped her. She lay cocooned beneath a heavy quilted coverlet, listening to the mice scratching in the rafters above her bed and the wind softly moaning as it went searching across the land. Moonlight bathed the room in an unworldly hue that revealed the room’s contents—the washstand on which sat a washbasin and pitcher, a chair strewn with her clothes.

  In the early hours she kicked off the covers and went over to the window. Her breath misted the pane and she shivered now as she stared out at the moon-washed landscape and the dark mountains in the distance. But then something in the near distance caught her eye, some movement that made her start, a sudden intake of breath catching in her throat where it stayed as her senses prickled. She was aware of her own heartbeat throbbing against the windowpane as her eyes strained to see better the moving shape from the outcrop of boulders some way from the cottage. It was a man, she realised, but whoever it was was trying to keep to the shadow of the rocks.

  A creeping dread raised tiny bumps on her arms and stiffened the hairs on the nape of her neck. Part of her was tempted to go and wake her uncle. To warn him. Another part of her preferred to watch a while longer. This was the stronger instinct and so she waited. Watching.

  A man stood there shrouded in a mud-soaked cloak. He was swaying and holding the rocks for support. But then the figure suddenly moved and looked up, as if sensing her eyes on him. And then the moonlight revealed his face as his eyes locked with hers.

  ‘Simon!’

  She stared at him a moment longer, wondering why the sight of him did not disperse the feeling of dread. Then she turned and, throwing a cloak over her nightdress, shivering with a sense of trepidation, she opened her bedchamber door and descended the stairs and across the parlour and opened the door. He was crossing the open ground to the door, breathing hard, as though he had been running. Shock hit her like a blow in the stomach.

  ‘Simon!’ she called softly. He didn’t raise his head or answer her and she felt a thrill of fear. ‘Simon.’

  He looked up then—his face was white, unshaven and sheened with a cold sweat.

  ‘Henrietta!’ he gasped, speaking hoarsely through lips cracked with dryness. ‘I won’t stay long—don’t want to put you in danger.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Seeing his legs were about to give way beneath him, she ran to him and pulled him inside, closing the door. ‘What has happened to you?’

  ‘Shot. I’ve been shot. A damn pistol ball got me.’

  Bracing him up with her own body, she eased him to the sofa. The sound of the door opening brought her around with a start. Her breath came out in a long sigh of relief when she saw her uncle.

  Totally astounded, he looked at his niece bending over the wounded man whose eyes were closed. ‘What happened?’

  ‘It’s Simon,’ she replied anxiously. ‘He’s wounded.’

  ‘How badly?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she replied, looking at Simon. ‘I think he’s passed out.’

  A debilitating coldness swept through Henrietta, but she gritted her teeth in sudden determination and refused to yield to her pervading fear. The situation demanded action. Her confidence quickly returned.

  Matthew took a couple of candles from the mantel over the hearth and with the poker stirred the embers of the fire which he had banked before retiring to bed. When a flame licked up the chimney back he lit the candles and carefully placed some kindling on the embers, hoping to dispel the night chill that filled the parlour.

  ‘I’ll see how badly wounded he is,’ Matthew said, standing over the wounded man. ‘I cannot lay such a task on you. You have no experience of tending such wounds—and I cannot allow you to be so familiar with a man who is not your husband. However, I know the bounds of my limitation and will rely on your assistance. I’m going to need plenty of hot water, fresh linens and a knife.’

  Henrietta nodded and Matthew turned his attention to Simon. He had thrown off his cloak and his shirt was stained with an ever-increasing redness. Ripping the neck of the shirt, Matthew felt his stomach tighten precariously as the gaping wound was exposed. Dread shivered through him with a coldness that was oppressing. The raw red hole welled blood with every heartbeat. He wondered with dismay if he would ever manage to staunch its flow.

  Taking the fresh linens Henrietta handed to him, he pressed the cloth over the wound. Carefully, so he would not disturb him more than necessary, he slid his hand under Simon’s back to measure the extent of the damage and felt a sticky wetness. He sighed with relief.

  ‘There will be no need of the knife, Henrietta. I will not have to dig the musket ball out of his body so he will be less likely to die of blood poisoning.’ He examined the wound more closely. ‘Another fortunate aspect of his wound is that the ball has penetrated the left side of his chest, not so close as to threaten his heart. My only worry now is that he might die from loss of blood.’

  Henrietta hung back, cringing as now and then the pain of the probin
g fingers penetrated Simon’s oblivion. A moan came from his pale lips as he writhed in agony and she muffled a frightened sob beneath her hand. She had not known how deeply she cared for Simon until this moment when she saw him helpless and in need. He had always been so strong, so capable. It was her torment that she could not touch him in a loving manner and tell him that she cared.

  Tearing the linen into strips, Matthew put one behind the injured man to apply pressure to the chest wound. Soaking more linen in warm water, he then placed it on the open wound. Simon groaned in his unnatural sleep. Matthew glanced with concern at him. His face was slick with sweat and pain twisted his features. He sighed with relief, deciding the pain was probably a blessing, for it was so unbearable, it kept him from waking and feeling the full onslaught of his ministering.

  * * *

  ‘He cannot remain in the house,’ Matthew said when the wound was clean and bound and he had managed to get him into one of his clean nightshirts. ‘The Dragoons are probably searching for those who escaped the battle. They will come this way soon. We have to move him.’

  ‘But what can we do?’ Henrietta cried frantically. ‘Where can he go?’

  ‘The cave.’

  She stared at him with astonishment. ‘Cave? What cave?’

  ‘In the outcrop of rocks beyond the back of the house.’

  ‘I know nothing about a cave. Is it large?’

  ‘Not very, but large enough to conceal a wounded man. It was last used for such purpose after Cromwell defeated the Royalists at Dunbar. I believe several Royalists made use of it when hiding from the Roundheads. No one will think of looking for him there. Leave it to me. I’ll go and make it habitable.’

  * * *

  Half an hour later, between the two of them, they carried Simon out to the low cart, which was drawn by the horse to the cave’s entrance. Henrietta couldn’t believe she had walked past the rocks almost every day since she had arrived at the cottage and not been aware of its existence. But the entrance was small and well hidden and no one would think the accumulation of boulders concealed a hidden chamber. She was also surprised how dry and warm it was. A single lamp placed on a rocky ledge lit the interior.

  They placed the wounded man on the makeshift bed, which was comfortably made up with a mattress and pillows. Simon seemed to rest easier now, having entered into a deeper sleep that even her ministering could not disrupt.

  Henrietta gently shaved the dark stubble from his face, and with his cheeks devoid of the prickly growth, he looked more like himself, making her suddenly and acutely conscious of his naked chest wrapped round with strips of linen. In the dim lamplight, his bronze-hued skin showed dark against the sheet. The long, muscular form was so superbly proportioned, with broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips and lean thighs, that Henrietta felt her cheeks grow hot as she realised that her gaze was lingering overlong and she hastily pulled the covers over him.

  ‘You sit with him for a while, Uncle. I think we should change the bandages every hour.’

  ‘I agree, and we’ll take it in turns to watch over him.’

  ‘Yes,’ Henrietta said, smiling gratefully at him.

  ‘I’ll also get word to Moira, telling her not to come out here until things have settled down. It could prove difficult should she suspect we are harbouring a rebel from Culloden.’

  Henrietta agreed. She passed a hand over her face, unmindful that she was stained with Simon’s blood. ‘I’ll go and tidy up in the house and change my clothes, then I’ll relieve you. Until Simon comes round we’ll have to be with him.’

  She excused herself quickly and left without waiting for her uncle to reply. She sought the night air to cool her flaming cheeks, and it was a long time before the trembling in her body ceased.

  In her chamber she quickly stripped off the bloodied clothing, washing until all the blood was removed from her and dressing in clean clothes. Lying on the bed, she closed her eyes to snatch a moment’s rest. But rest eluded her. The events of the past few hours had simply happened too speedily, and she needed to review them in her mind.

  She thought how happy she had been to see him when he had entered the cottage—at least until she had noticed his ashen face and how he had struggled to remain upright. And now he lay very ill in the cave, and perhaps, she thought, tears stinging her eyes, perhaps he would not live to open his eyes again.

  She released the tears to flow freely now, turned her head into the pillows and wept.

  * * *

  For the next two days Simon tossed in a fevered slumber as Henrietta and her uncle alternated watching over him. As she listened to his moans and watched him twist and turn in the sweat-drenched sheets, it wrung her heart. How she wished she could call a doctor to take a look at his wound. But these were not normal times and she dared not take the risk. The doctor would insist on knowing his identity and word might reach the Dragoons. They would come and take him away, and she would no doubt be taken with him, along with her uncle.

  Alone with Simon, she stared sadly into his face. Dark circles lay under his eyes and when he opened them from time to time he saw nothing. Yet his blue eyes were bright with fever. His face had become pinched and his skin hot to touch. Picking up his hand, she held it in her own cool ones. When he groaned she released it and, wringing out a cloth that had been soaking in cool water, sponged off his face and neck, hoping it would bring his fever down.

  ‘What can we do?’ she asked her uncle despairingly when he came to relieve her. ‘The fever shows no sign of abating.’

  ‘I believe it is in God’s hands,’ Matthew replied quietly.

  ‘Yes, I believe you are right.’

  Henrietta continued to watch over him, tortured as she watched him wrestle with his unseen demons. Time passed her by. In this, his most crucial hour, she wanted her full attention focused on him. She was willing him to live, to fight the fever, for his eyes to open and look at her, and for his beautiful mouth to smile. She prayed, she talked to him, occasionally weeping over him, and when exhaustion took over, she fell asleep still sitting beside him.

  Chapter Eight

  Simon lay still for a moment. A small sound from somewhere close by convinced him he was awake. Slowly he opened his eyes and his amazement was complete as he took in the place he was in. It was some kind of small cave, lit by a lamp, and from the comfort of the mattress beneath him and the clean sheet over him, he guessed that he was in a bed. There was a dull, throbbing pain in his chest, but when his finger touched it, he found it snugly wrapped in a neat bandage.

  The slender form of a woman moved in the cave, and though he had no idea who she was, when she looked towards the bed, he’d have known that pert profile anywhere. He tried to wet his dry, parched lips with the tip of his tongue and called out to her.

  ‘Henrietta?’ His best effort was a hoarse croak.

  Henrietta came quickly to his bedside, her eyes questioning as they searched his face in anxious concern. Touching his brow, she was relieved that his temperature was normal and his cheeks were no longer ashen. With his eyelids opened she found herself drowning in his vivid blue stare.

  ‘Welcome back to the land of consciousness,’ she said. ‘You gave us quite a scare. How do you feel?’

  ‘Can you get me a drink?’ His voice was little more that a rasping whisper.

  She moved away from the bed, then returned. He opened his eyes to find her watching him closely. Accepting her assistance, he rose slightly and drank deeply to satisfy his burning thirst. The fever was gone, but every muscle in his body was on fire and there seemed to be no ease from the pain that ebbed and flowed through his chest.

  Henrietta’s face mirrored his grimace. ‘Does it hurt very much?’

  Simon lightly kneaded the bandage over the wound. ‘Like hell.’ His eyes crinkled at the corners. His stare was so tender that her
heart contracted. ‘I had forgotten how beautiful you are, Henrietta,’ he managed to say, finding it easier to speak. ‘Where am I?’

  ‘In a cave close to the house. You’re quite safe, but you’ll have to stay here if you want to remain so. English soldiers are looking for those they rousted from Culloden Field. You must not be found in the house if they come.’

  ‘I apologise if I put you in danger. It was not my intention.’

  ‘You would have died had you not come here. You were shot—you do remember that, don’t you, Simon?’

  He nodded, his eyes suddenly bleak as memories of the battle came flooding back. ‘I was not the only one wounded that day. How long has it been?’

  ‘Three days.’

  ‘And now? What time of day is it?’

  ‘Early evening.’

  Closing his eyes, he let his head fall back onto the pillow. ‘Those who fled the field will not get far, weakened as they were by cold, hunger and fatigue. It was a slaughter. As far as I am aware all the men under my command from Barradine were wiped out. Cumberland authorised the immediate execution of any man found to have engaged in the rebellion. His troops will ravage the Highlands in their thirst for revenge.’

  ‘Charles Stuart is a fugitive,’ Henrietta told him quietly. ‘You are also a fugitive. For now your cause is lost. You have to save yourself, Simon.’

  ‘I will—when I am recovered. I will make my way to the Western Isles. From there I will try to take ship for France. It will not be easy.’

  ‘It is best to wait until the furore has died down. You are still very weak. Don’t speak any more. You lost a great deal of blood.’

  A spasm of pain clouded his eyes. He closed them for a moment while it passed. When he opened them again they focused on her face bent to his. Raising his arm, he attempted to touch her hair, which curled about her cheeks and almost to her shoulders, but the effort proved too much.

  ‘What is it?’ she queried softly.

  ‘Your hair...’