||COUNTDOWN ||SEASON 2 EPISODE 09 ||JE SUIS PREST ||
#83daysofoutlander☆
The men sat around the fire after their supper, lazily enjoying the feeling of full stomachs, exchanging stories and scratching.[..]
I was still standing by the fire, frozen in my original position, when Jamie reemerged from the Stygian dark of the forest, a captive before him, one arm twisted behind its back. Loosing his grip, he whirled the dark figure around and gave it an abrupt shove that sent it crashing backward into a tree. The man hit the trunk hard, loosing a shower of leaves and acorns, and slid slowly down to lie dazed in the leaf-meal. Attracted by the noise, Murtagh, Ross, and a couple of the other Fraser men materialized by the fire. Hauling the intruder to his feet, they pulled him roughly into the circle of firelight. Murtagh grabbed the captive by the hair and jerked his head backward, bringing his face into view. It was a small, fine-boned face, with big, long-lashed eyes that blinked dazedly at the crowding faces. “But he’s only a boy!” I exclaimed. “He can’t be more than fifteen!” “Sixteen!” said the boy. He shook his head, senses returning. “Not that that makes any difference,” he added haughtily, in an English accent. Hampshire, I thought. He was a long way from home. “It doesn’t,” Jamie grimly agreed. “Sixteen or sixty, he’s just made a verra creditable attempt at cutting my throat.” I noticed then the reddened handkerchief pressed against the side of his neck. “I shan’t tell you anything,” the boy said. His eyes were dark pools in the pale face, though the firelight shone on the gleam of fair hair. He was clutching one arm tightly in front of him; I thought perhaps it was injured. The boy was clearly making a major effort to stand upright among the men, lips compressed against any wayward expression of fear or pain.
“Some things you don’t need to tell me,” said Jamie, looking the lad over carefully. “One, you’re an Englishman, so likely you’ve come with troops nearby. And two, you’re alone.” The boy seemed startled. “How do you know that?” Jamie raised his eyebrows. “I suppose that ye’d not have attacked me unless you thought that the lady and I were alone. If you were with someone else who also thought that, they would presumably have come to your assistance just now—is your arm broken, by the way? I thought I felt something snap. If you were with someone else who knew we were not alone, they would ha’ stopped ye from trying anything so foolish.” Despite this diagnosis, I noticed three of the men fade discreetly into the forest in response to a signal from Jamie, presumably to check for other intruders. The boy’s expression hardened at hearing his act described as foolish. Jamie dabbed at his neck, then inspected the handkerchief critically. “If you’re tryin’ to kill someone from behind, laddie, pick a man who’s not sitting in a pile of dry leaves,” he advised. “And if you’re using a knife on someone larger than you, pick a surer spot; throat-cutting’s chancy unless your victim will sit still for ye.”
“Thank you for the valuable advice,” the boy sneered. He was doing a fair job at maintaining his bravado, though his eyes flicked nervously from one threatening, whiskered face to another. None of the Highlanders would have won any beauty prizes in broad daylight; by night, they weren’t the sort of thing you wanted to meet in a dark place. Jamie answered courteously, “You’re quite welcome. It’s unfortunate that ye won’t get the chance to apply it in future. Why did you attack me, since I think to ask?” Men, attracted by the noise, had begun filtering in from the surrounding campsites, sliding wraithlike out of the woods. The boy’s glance flickered around the growing circle of men, resting at length on me. He hesitated for a moment, but answered, “I was hoping to release the lady from your custody.” A small stir of suppressed amusement ran around the circle, only to be quelled by a brief gesture from Jamie. “I see,” he said noncommittally. “You heard us talking and determined that the lady is English and well-born. Whereas I—” “Whereas you, sir, are a conscienceless outlaw, with a reputation for thievery and violence! Your face and description are on broadsheets throughout Hampshire and Sussex! I recognized you at once; you’re a rebel and an unprincipled voluptuary!” the boy burst out hotly, face stained a deeper red even than the firelight.[...]
“Aye, well, I’m afraid that I’m no prepared to kill ye—just yet.” Jamie’s voice was soft, filled with a quiet menace all the more frightening for its control. “Who d’ye march with?” The question snapped like a whip, making its hearers flinch. The knife point hovered slightly nearer, smoking in the night wind. “I’ll—I’ll not tell you!” The boy’s lips closed tight on the stammered answer, and a tremor ran down the delicate throat. “Nor how far away your comrades lie? Nor their number? Nor their direction of march?” The questions were put lightly again, with a finicking touch of the blade along the edge of the boy’s jaw. His eyes showed white all around, like a panicked horse, but he shook his head violently, making the golden hair fly. Ross and Kincaid tightened their grip against the pull of the boy’s arms. The darkened blade pressed suddenly flat along its length, hard under the angle of the jaw. There was a thin and breathy scream, and the stink of burning skin. “Jamie!” I said, shocked beyond bearing. He did not turn to look at me, but kept his eyes fixed on his prisoner, who, released from the grip on his arms, had sunk to his knees in the drift of dead leaves, hand clutched to his neck. “This is no concern of yours, Madam,” he said between his teeth. Reaching down, he grabbed the boy by the shirtfront and jerked him to his feet. Wavering, the knife blade rose between them, and poised itself just under the lad’s left eye. Jamie tilted his head in silent question, to receive a minimal but definite negative shake in return. The boy’s voice was no more than a shaky whisper; he had to clear his throat to make himself heard. “N-no,” he said. “No. There is nothing you can do to me that will make me tell you anything.” Jamie held him for a moment longer, eye to eye, then let go of the bunched fabric and stepped back. “No,” he said slowly, “I dinna suppose there is. Not to you. But what about the lady?”[...]
“You may be indifferent to your own welfare, but ye might perhaps have some concern for the lady’s honor, since you were at such pains to rescue her.” Turning me toward himself, he twined his fingers in my hair, forced my head back and kissed me with a deliberate brutality that made me squirm involuntarily in protest.[...]Freeing my hair, he pulled me hard against him, facing the boy on the other side of the fire. The boy’s eyes were enormous, aghast with reflections of flame in the wide dark pupils. “Let her go!” he demanded hoarsely. “What are you proposing to do with her?” Jamie’s hands reached to the neck of my gown. With a sudden jerk, he tore the fabric of gown and shift, baring most of my bosom. Reacting instinctively, I kicked him in the shin. The boy made an inarticulate sound and jerked forward, but was stopped short once more by Ross and Kincaid.“Stop it!” The boy’s voice was trembling, but with outrage now rather than fear. “You—you unspeakable poltroon! How dare you dishonor a lady, you Scottish jackal!” He stood for a moment, chest heaving with emotion, then made up his mind. He raised his jaw and thrust out his chin. “Very well. I do not see that in honor I have any choice. Release the lady and I will tell you what you want to know.”
Face like stone, the boy gave the required information, speaking in brief syllables. His name was William Grey, second son of Viscount Melton. He accompanied a troop of two hundred men, traveling to Dunbar, intending to join there with General Cope’s army. His fellows were presently encamped some three miles to the west. He, William, out walking through the forest, had seen the light of our fire, and come to investigate. No, he had no companion with him. Yes, the troop carried heavy armament, sixteen carriage-mounted “galloper” cannon, and two sixteen-inch mortars. Most of the troop were armed with muskets, and there was one company of thirty horse.[...] He turned back to the prisoner, busying himself in checking the priming and loading of the pistol. The twelve inches of heart-butted metal gleamed dark, the firelight picking out sparks of silver at trigger and priming pin. “Head or heart?” Jamie asked casually, raising his head at last. “Eh?” The boy’s mouth hung open in blank incomprehension. “I am going to shoot you,” Jamie explained patiently. “Spies are usually hanged, but in consideration of your gallantry, I am willing to give you a quick, clean death. Do ye prefer to take the ball in the head, or the heart?” The boy straightened quickly, squaring his shoulders. “Oh, ah, yes, of course.” He licked his lips and swallowed. “I think … in the—in the heart. Thank you,” he added, as an obvious afterthought. He raised his chin, compressing lips that still held a suggestion of their soft, childish curve. Nodding, Jamie cocked the pistol with a click that echoed in the silence under the oak trees. “Wait!” said the prisoner. Jamie looked at him inquiringly, pistol leveled at the thin chest. “What assurance have I that the lady will remain unmolested after I am—after I have gone?” the boy demanded, looking belligerently around the circle of men. His single working hand was clenched hard, but shook nonetheless. Ross made a sound which he skillfully converted into a sneeze.
Jamie lowered the pistol, and with an iron control, kept his face carefully composed in an expression of solemn gravity. “Weel,” he said, the Scots accent growing broader under the strain, “ye ha’ my own word, of course, though I quite see that ye might have some hesitation in accepting the word of a …”—his lip twitched despite himself—“of a Scottish poltroon. Perhaps ye would accept the assurances of the lady herself?” He raised an eyebrow in my direction and Kincaid sprang at once to free me, fumbling awkwardly with the gag. “Jamie!” I exclaimed furiously, mouth freed at last. “This is unconscionable! How could you do such a thing? You—you—”[...]
“James Fraser,” I hissed between clenched teeth. “If you touch that boy, you’ll certainly never share my bed again!” Jamie raised one eyebrow. His canines gleamed briefly in the firelight. “Well, that’s a serious threat, to an unprincipled voluptuary such as myself, but I dinna suppose I can consider my own interests in such a situation. War’s war, after all.” The pistol, which had been allowed to fall, began to rise once more. “Jamie!” I screamed. He lowered the pistol again, and turned to me with an expression of exaggerated patience. “Yes?” I took a deep breath, to keep my voice from shaking with rage. I could only guess what he was up to, and hoped I was doing the right thing. Right or not, when this was over … I choked off an intensely pleasing vision of Jamie writhing on the ground with my foot on his Adam’s apple, in order to concentrate on my present role. “You haven’t any evidence whatever that he’s a spy,” I said. “He says he stumbled on you by accident. Who wouldn’t be curious if they saw a fire out in the woods?” Jamie nodded, following the argument. “Aye, and what about attempted murder? Spy or no, he tried to kill me, and admits as much.” He tenderly fingered the raw scratch at the side of his throat.
“Well, of course he did,” I said hotly. “He says he knew you were an outlaw. There’s a bloody price on your head, for heaven’s sake!” Jamie rubbed his chin dubiously, at last turning to the prisoner. “Well, it’s a point,” he said. “William Grey, your advocate makes a good case for ye. It’s no the policy either of His Highness Prince Charles or myself to execute persons unlawfully, enemy or no.” He summoned Kincaid with a wave of the hand. “Kincaid, you and Ross take this man in the direction he says his camp lies. If the information he gave us proves to be true, tie him to a tree a mile from the camp in the line of march. His friends will find him there tomorrow. If what he told us is not true …”—he paused, cold eyes bent on the prisoner—“cut his throat.” He looked the boy in the face and said, without a shadow of mockery, “I give you your life. I hope ye’ll use it well.”[...]
“I owe you my life,” he said formally. “I should greatly prefer not to, but since you have forced the gift upon me, I must regard it as a debt of honor. I shall hope to discharge that debt in the future, and once it is discharged …” The boy’s voice shook slightly with suppressed hatred, losing all its assumed formality in the utter sincerity of his feelings. “… I’ll kill you!”
Jamie rose from the log to his full height. His face was calm, free of any taint of amusement. He inclined his head gravely to his departing prisoner. “In that case, sir, I must hope that we do not meet again.” The boy straightened his shoulders and returned the bow stiffly. “A Grey does not forget an obligation, sir,” he said, and vanished into the darkness, Kincaid at his elbow. There was a discreet interval of breathless waiting, as the leaf-shuffling sounds of feet moved off through the darkness. Then the laughter started, first with a soft, fizzing noise through the nostrils of one man, then a tentative chuckle from another. Never raucous, still it gathered volume, spiraling round the circle of men.
Dragonfly in amber
