The day broke the next morning as bright and fresh as the previous day had been. The ground underfoot was still damp from the overnight rain, but there was not a cloud in the sky. All the Scottish Highlands needed now was some warmth to be injected into them, and it would be a beautiful day. As it was, both Claire and Lise were grateful for the thick layers they wore, glad their hosts (or captors depending on which you asked) were kind enough to grace them with such good quality clothing.
Another day of collecting rent loomed ahead of them, having arrived in the town early that morning; Dougal ready to fund both the clan and the rebellion. This time however, the women were not dumped like school children in the care of Angus, told to sit put and play nice. They were not held under his watchful eye, but milled near Ned Gowan, both aimlessly looking around for some means of entertainment. It was no surprise that within the first half hour of Ned and Dougal's rent collection that both women had wandered off.
Singing had ensnared Claire's attention, causing her to meander through buildings, trying to find the women producing the melodic soundtrack. The rhythmic beat to their singing lured her in, a siren call urging her away from her flock. She stepped carefully between the buildings, hands securely in her pockets as she swayed along the gap between the low houses. She was in a reverie of her own imagination when a woman, clad in greying clothes, fraying slightly at the wrists, stepped out of the building closest to Claire.
"Something I can do for ye, Mistress?"
Claire blinked, slightly startled at the voice before replying with a smile.
"Forgive me, I was just curious. I've never heard singing quite like that before." Claire tried to sound welcoming, light in her words, but the sinking of her heart reminded her that she was eternally the outsider here, and her lack of knowledge about the land she now dwelled in could not always be dismissed with her accent. The slight frown on the woman's forehead confirmed that Claire's comment was unusual.
"'Tis a waulking song. We're waulking wool," The woman explained. Despite her confused expression, there was no malice or attempt to pry in her words. It was simply what it appeared to be, an explanation. With that, the two women began talking. A familiarity seemed to set in quickly, and Claire joining them seemed like the natural progression from their conversation.
Meanwhile, Lise had found a cat, so she was content until the cat decided that it wasn't a happy kitty anymore.
Lise and the cat briefly wandered over to the women waulking wool, stopping only long enough to translate the words Claire was singing for her.
After her use as a translator was complete, Lise was invited to join the women. She smiled, stroked the cat and took a deliberately large sniff.
"Is that piss I smell?"
"Yes," Claire replied. "Apparently it helps the dye set." She smiled at Lise, and Lise grinned back. She cocked her head to one side, pretending to think about the offer. She looked unnervingly feline as she faux-mused over the offer, the dark lashes framing her sparkling eyes as she glanced up to the increasingly overcast sky. Then, she shook her head, and beamed broadly.
"Hard pass," Lise laughed, and walked back towards the men collecting the rent, cooing at the cat in her arms.
As she sauntered back over to the men, Claire's gaze trailed after her. Her eyes darkened as she watched Dougal standing guard, collecting the rent. Claire's suspicions of Dougal only grew as the day passed into a murky darkness. Claire hadn't understood the Gaelic of the night before, but she had seen what was happening. Dougal was abusing his position, his men, in order to raise more money. Money that Claire knew in her gut would never reach Colum. Claire had seen the way that Lise watched him with a burning rage, anger brewing just below the surface; contained, but who knew for how long. Something had to have caused such pure hatred. Something as inherently selfish and cruel as using other's pain to line your own pockets, perhaps?
Claire couldn't think what else it could have been. Nor could she quite place why she felt an abrupt surge in her gut as Lise leapt up on to the cart next to Jamie. Something drew Claire to her feet as she watched Lise laugh lightly and place a hand on Jaime's thigh. She watched the interaction with a stirring in her gut and a fog in her mind, before wandering vaguely towards the cart.
The tips of Jamie's fingers were surprisingly soft as they brushed along the raised red ridge trailing across Lise's arm. Despite the calluses that decorated his own palms, the tickling of his gentle touch was enough to raise hairs on Lise's arms, tingling at his caring touch.
"What is it with you and cats?" Jamie asked, lifting his fingers from Lise's skin and allowing her to breathe once more. "I mean, that's twice now."
"I like their fur," Lise mused, stretching out her fingers as though trying to tangle them in the ginger fur of the moggy prowling around Dougal's feet. "And their temperament. They don't take anyone's shite and spend most of their days sleeping."
That brought out a laugh, brewing up through Jamie's chest, spearing its way through the gloomy mood of the village and lifting spirits enough to earn him a glare from Dougal. Lise let out a shorter, quieter wry laugh that died as Dougal glanced across at the two of them. Against her will, her fingers curled into her palm, nails ripping into the tender flesh of her palm.
Jamie glanced down, and caught her hand, stopping any further damage. Lise felt the seeping warmth of gratitude ebb out to Jamie, the weight and warmth of his hand comforting to her. Her fist relaxed, letting her fingers unfurl, allowing Jaime access to her palm, tracing gentle circles with that same soft fingertip.
"He willnae do anything to ye."
"I ken that. He's sober," Lise muttered back.
"No, lass," Jamie cut across, neither of them looking at the other but instead watching Dougal as he turned back, "I mean, I willnae let him do anything to ye ever again."
They stayed that night in the village, with Claire and Lise both sleeping indoors, on thin, scrawny mats. It didn't do much to alleviate the coldness, nor the hardness, of the stone floor they lay on. The smouldering of a dying fire spat out the tiniest hint of warmth, breathing sticky air over the two women. Lise was wide awake still, despite the late hour, lying on her side and gazing into the dying embers of the fire. The smoke stung at her eyes, but the tears formed for a very different reason. Gratitude oozed out of her eyes in liquid form, the words Jamie had spoken hanging around her ears, rushing past like the wind and breathing comfort to her. She hadn't realised how needed hearing Jamie's promised protection was, how she needed to hear the words be said, even though she already knew. She knew, in her heart of hearts, that Jamie wouldn't let him touch her again, in any form. His suppressed anger had been promise enough of that, but hearing in said in such certain terms was a huge relief. She felt the remnants of heat blow on to her face, breathing ashy dust over her face as the wind rattled down the chimney. Tears were sparked by the smoke and ash, but Lise no longer cared for such a trivial thing.
For the first time since that fateful night, she rolled over and let herself fall into a deep sleep.
And asleep she stayed, until Claire's arm landed in her stomach the next morning.
Claire had stumbled on the uneven stone floor, one hand managing to brace itself against the stonework of the house, but the other slipped, and fell sideways across Lise's stomach, winding her away.
"Fuck, Claire," Lise spluttered, her stomach clenching itself into a small ball, trying to cradle away the pain. Lise brought her knees up protectively and curled around the bruised organ. "Could ye no find a gentler way of waking me?"
Claire pushed herself up, taking care to press against the stone wall, and not the soft flesh of Lise's stomach. She brushed herself off, feigning dignity, and cleared her throat.
"Oh good, you're up." She spoke curtly, squashing down the embarrassment at having literally fallen on top of someone else. Lise lifted her head slightly, eyeing Claire with suspicion. "Don't look at me like that. I just want you to tell me what Dougal is saying tonight, I don't like not knowing what's being said." Claire crossed her arms protectively over her chest, wrapping the shawl around her tightly as she did so. Lise rolled over, staying in her tight ball of mock pain. Any true injury had faded to a dull ache, but she was enjoying the mildly guilty look that tried to hide itself from spreading across Claire's face.
"Well, if that's all you want to know, I'll tell you now," Lise said, with a melodramatic groan to her voice. She straightened out her legs, stretching the muscles that were tight from a night of cold on the floor, and stood before answering. "It'll be the same as last time. Raising funds to fight wi' Bonnie Prince Charlie of course."
Claire's face wiped itself of any guilt, and replaced it with shock, confusion and then finally, understanding.
"The Jacobite rebellion? It's political, not personal – he's using Jamie to stir outrage, not fear?"
"You gonna think aloud all day? Cos if so, ye can fuck off to the lawyer again," Lise groaned. She snatched up her clothes from the foot of her bed and then paused. Her back was to Claire as she held herself still. Then she turned, sheepish, and grinned at Claire. "If I apologise, will ye help me dress?"
Claire resisted the urge to roll her eyes, unsuccessfully, and waiting for the apology.
They moved out of the village in a pack. Dougal grumbling at how slow the women were and griping at them until they hurried towards the men, moving fractionally faster. Once they were moving, Lise began to begin her usual joking routine, mocking everyone and everything. She even debated winding up Dougal, just out of spite, but then Jamie nudged her gently, so gently she would have fallen off the horse, had Jamie's arm not been around her. As his voice dropped away, the hush of his call to:
"Wheest."
Lise almost objected.
Then, noticed why she was being told to be quiet.
The crucifixion of two men stood tall on the hill. Their shirts were ripped open, dirtied and tarnished with their own slowly decaying corpses, a mark carved, or burnt, into each of their torsos. Lise pressed a hand to her own stomach, as though she could feel the searing pain that those wounds must have caused. The group was entirely silent. Only the noise of the wind flapping their tattered clothing disrupted the scene as they drew closer to the men. As they closed the gap, the mark on their chests revealed itself as a 'T' cut into their flesh.
"Traitors," Dougal murmured, his voice closed and grim. His expression was unreadable as he spoke, looking straight at the men and nowhere else. Jaime moved in Lise's peripheral vision, a hand twitching to make the sign of the cross over his chest. Lise's gaze moved unwillingly to watch the movement and caught Claire's eye. The unspoken words that passed between them said more than enough. This was evidently not the work of the Watch. They were brutal but not that brutal. This was the work of the redcoats.
There was something brutal about the sound the ripped cloth made as it blew in the wind, the slap of fabric against leathering skin. It was abnormally loud amongst the silence of the group.
"Bastards," spat a voice from behind Lise. She couldn't even work out who it was that spoke, it was simply white noise behind her, secondary to repeated slam of cloth on skin. She was stuck on the sound, the world around her blurring into that repeated slap. It was the only thing she could hear. People moved around her, but Lise didn't move. The men moved towards the crosses, and the slapping died.
The night's rousing talk was about the men who died on the crosses. It was not Jamie's back that was exploited but a genuine, fierce anger that Dougal spat out. A fire burned through the words that he spoke, imbuing everyone with a sorry, a blood curling despair. A need for something better, a hope.
Claire returned to bed early, escaping the wayward looks that burned in her direction. During Dougal's speech glowers were sent her way, not necessarily deliberatively, but the air of suspicion was enough. No one felt particularly kindly towards the English at that moment in time – seeing your neighbours pinned up like Christ, paying penance for sins that did not exist, made it hard to separate the English from the redcoats. Every single Englishman and woman was guilty in the eyes of these Scots. It had made sense for Claire to leave, and being a woman, it wasn't even unexpectedly early. But Lise was stuck in her reverie. She didn't allow herself an escape, her knuckles white in her skirts. The horror in her eyes has faded, her silence and rigidity had not. She did not move until Jamie handed her a drink, placing a hand on her shoulder. The single, sympathetic gesture nearly broke her. Her eyes watered and she bit her own lip, holding it in.
"I am not going to cry here. Not surrounded by this lot," she spoke in a low tone, her voice starting to crack.
"No one would blame ye if ye did."
"Still not going to cry." The words were somewhat clipped. "Fucking hell, I wish this bloody revolution wasn't a bloodbath. The redcoats deserve to know this suffering, sadist fuckers." Her voice had risen, given a strength that she thought would fail her. The whiskey in the glass handed to her sloshed manically as her hand trembled, the anger that she had attempted to quash releasing itself in her hand. Her limbs clenched in amongst themselves.
"Ye speak as if the future is written," Jaime said, almost petulantly defiant. There wasn't a hostility to his voice, simply a naïve hope – a genuine belief that a few angered Scots had a chance against the English. The Scottish never had had a chance against the English.
"The future is written," Lise snapped. "The English army has more men than Scotland has people. The Battle of Culloden will go down in history as a blood bath and nothing changes for the English." She downed the rest of her drink and stood up abruptly. "I think I ought to go to bed."
Lise was already half-way to the door when Jaime opened his mouth. By the time he'd shut it again the door was slamming shut.
He took one look around the room filled with angry Scots, half-drunk, half-mad, entirely hating the English. The course of action of lain out for him.
A/N: I'm baack... but still part way through doing a degree and also haven't watched Outlander in ages so almost certainly still going to be sporadic in updates. I'm sorry. Ish. :)