"Mm?"
"Who in God's name is John Wayne?"
"You are," I said. "Go to sleep."
* * *
37
Escape
His color was better in the morning, though the bruiseshad darkened through the night and now mottled a good part of his face. He sighed deeply, then stiffened with a groan and let his breath out much more cautiously.
"How do you feel?" I laid a hand on his head. Cool and damp. No fever, thank God.
He grimaced, eyes still closed. "Sassenach, if I've got one, it hurts." He extended his good hand, groping. "Help me up; I'm stiff as pudding."
The snow stopped at mid-morning. The sky was still grey as wool, threatening further flurries, but the threat of search from Wentworth was greater yet, so we set out from Eldridge Manor just before noon, heavily cloaked against the weather. Murtagh and Jamie bristled with arms beneath their cloaks. I carried nothing but my dagger, and that well hidden. Much against my own will, I was to pose as a kidnapped English hostage, should the worst happen.
"But they've seen me at the prison," I had argued. "Sir Fletcher already knows who I am."
"Aye." Murtagh was carefully loading the pistols, an array of balls, wadding, powder, patches, rods, and pouches neatly spread on Lady Annabelle's polished table, but looked up to nail me with a black glance. "That's just the point, lass. We must keep ye out o' Wentworth, no matter what. Do no one any good to have ye in there along wi' us."
He rammed a short rod down the mouth of a scroll-butted dag, punching the wad into place with hard, economical strokes. "Sir Fletcher willna be doin' his own huntin', not on a day like this. Any Redcoats we meet will likely not know ye. If we're found out, ye mun say we forced ye along wi' us unwillin', and convince the Redcoats ye've nothin' to do wi' a pair o' Scottish scalawags like me an' yon ragtag." He nodded at Jamie, balancing gingerly on a stool with a bowl of warm bread and milk.
Sir Marcus and I had padded Jamie's hips and thighs as thickly as we could with linen bandages under a pair of worn breeches and hose, dark in color to hide any telltale blood spots that might seep through. Lady Annabelle had split one of her husband's shirts down the back to accommodate the breadth of Jamie's shoulders and the thickness of the bandage across them. Even so, the shirt would not meet across the front, and the ends of the strapping around his chest peeked through. He had refused to comb his hair, on grounds that even his scalp was sore, and he looked a wild and woolly sight, red spikes sticking up above a swollen purple face with one eye squeezed disreputably shut.
"If ye're taken," Sir Marcus chipped in, "tell them ye're a guest of mine, kidnapped while riding near the estate. Make them bring ye to Eldridge for me to identify. That should convince 'em. We'll tell 'em you're a friend of Annabelle's, from London."
"And then get you safely out of here before Sir Fletcher comes round to offer his regards," Annabelle added, practically.
Sir Marcus had offered us Hector and Absalom as escorts, but Murtagh pointed out that this would certainly implicate Eldridge, should we meet any English soldiers. So there were only the three of us, bundled against the cold, on the road toward Dingwall. I carried a fat purse and a note from the Master of Eldridge, one or both of which should ensure our passage across the Channel.
It was hard going through the snow. Less than a foot deep, the treacherous white stuff hid rocks, holes, and other obstacles, making footing for the horses slippery and dangerous. Clods of snow and mud flew up with each step, spattering bellies and hocks, and clouds of horse-breath vanished steaming into the frozen air.
Murtagh led the way, following the faint depression that marked the road. I rode beside Jamie, to help if he should lose consciousness, though he was, at his own insistence, tied to his horse. Only his left hand was free, resting on the pistol looped to the saddle bow, concealed under his cloak.
We passed a few scattered bothies, smoke rising from the thatched roofs, but the inhabitants and their beasts seemed all within, secured against the cold. Here and there a lone man passed from cot to shed, carrying buckets or hay, but the road was deserted for the most part.
Two miles from Eldridge we passed under the shadow of Wentworth Castle, a grim bulk set in the hillside. The road was trampled here; traffic in and out did not cease even in the worst of weathers.
Our passage had been timed to coincide with the midday meal, in hopes that the sentries would be immersed in their pasties and ale. We plodded slowly past the short road that led to the gate, just a parry of travelers with the ill-luck to be abroad on such a miserable day.