Mornings were always strange things in this world. You'd arrive halfway through a conversation, halfway through the food. Some were still drinking from the night before, hoping to delay the point where the hangover hit, some were trying to fight the hangover they hadn't managed to escape. Some had forgotten the night's anger, or upsets. Some couldn't.
Dougal and his men sat quietly on one table, eating in silence. Claire and Ned sat talking in a low tone, Ned's quiet authority meeting Claire's disapproval. Between the two groups was a small table of younger men, talking loudly, laughing even more aggressively loud. Glances were shot towards Claire. Scots were not renowned for their subtlety, but luckily, Claire was as oblivious as the men were explicit.
And then the dreaded words fell from the raucous young man's mouth, just as Lise walked past him to sit down.
The world burst into movement. Chairs scraped along the flagstone floor as Dougal sprung up to his feet, the others only a fraction of a second behind him. Ned flung himself backwards, grabbing Claire's arm, pulling her to the corner of the room, moving out of the way of the fight that was about to burst forth, the tsunami of anger and violence crashing into the room.
They all moved quickly, but none as fast as Lise. She had barely moved an inch past the man, and so as soon as the Gaelic word dropped out from between his lips, she twisted, drawing her arm back and landing her fist solidly between his eyes. She'd had the added bonus of her full body weight behind the punch, and the crunch of the bone (for Lise was sure she'd splintered his skull as well as the cartilage in his nose) filled the room. Blood splattered across her knuckles, which crunched on the impact, spreading across the man's face and flying across the room as he leapt up to meet her. Dougal grasped him as he stood, pinning his arms behind his back, and other punches flew about the room. Lise panted slightly as the fight blew around her, whipping her hair manically about as though she was caught in a thunderstorm. When any of the younger men made the mistake of coming too close to her, she elbowed, kneed and kicked her way out of the fray. And regretted none of the damage she inflicted. She pushed her way free, moving to stand by Claire, and pushed her hair back off her face, finding a wet patch on her eyebrow. Somewhere in her fight to the side of the room, a stray limb had connected with her skull and she hadn't even noticed.
"Oh, I hope this doesn't bruise. I was having such a good skin week," she moaned, flicking the blood off her fingers.
Claire strode between the men, scrubbing the blood off of her hand. She gave off the air of a disapproving mother so well.
"Three split lips, two bloody noses, twelve smashed knuckles, four loosened teeth and Lise." Claire looked across pointedly at her. Lise lifted the cloth off her eyebrow enough to see Claire and smile sheepishly.
"My ribs hurt bit too," pipped up Willie. The look Claire gave him was withering.
"Aye, cos you dinnae know how to protect yourself in a fight. Idiot," Lise began, before being elbowed in the ribs sharply by Angus. She shut up. Unwillingly.
"The bastard's fingernail was as sharp as a boar's tooth," Rupert muttered, gesturing to his wounded cheek. The cut was shallow, but reasonably long. Claire flicked some water at him and rolled her eyes. She swiped the cut on his arm, causing a wince from him and a small yelp of pain.
"You're such cry-babies. I've tended to six-year-olds braver than you," Claire muttered. She glanced back over her shoulder at Lise. "I expected this of them, but really Lise? Breaking the poor guy's nose."
"Maybe, Claire," Lise began, tossing the cloth onto the table, "you should get a translation of what the 'poor guy' said before you get all sympathetic." Claire continued looking at her, dismissing her retort with a simple grumble of:
"Any excuse for a fight. You punch first, think later."
"You were the excuse," Rupert cut in. "It was your honour we were defending."
"Me?"
The group of injured men, and Lise, quickly exchanged looks. It was the rapid glance around of siblings who'd just been caught in a fight and didn't want to be the one to explain why to their mother. Finally, all eyes landed on Angus, who breathed in with a sharp wince of pain. "The lout called you a whore," he explained. "You're a guest of the Mackenzie. We can insult ye. God help any other man that does."
Claire glanced at Lise, sat beside him, as though to ask for a secondary reason from her. Lise merely shrugged and stood up. She squeezed Claire's hand lightly as she passed.
"I'd consider you a friend in any circumstance. And I'd been wanting to punch ever since I caught him staring at my tits last night." Lise paused. She turned to Claire with a grin on her face that made Claire want to roll her eyes before she'd even heard the words that passed her lips. "Also, I'll take any excuse for a fight that I can find."
Outside, Rupert was lewd.
And Lise was cold. Her hand ached more in the cold than it had immediately after she punched that stupid boy who thought calling Claire a whore would go unpunished. She pushed it under her armpit and slouched against the wall, letting the men run around packing bags on to horses, and assorted belongings into the bags.
Claire glanced over at her and mouthed a quick 'thank you' to her. Lise responded only by rolling her eyes. She wasn't going to take thanks for something as dumb as a bar brawl – especially not for a bar brawl that took place in the morning with no alcohol present.
"They started arguing bout who I'm going to swive first – can you believe it?" bragged Rupert. Claire couldn't help the amused smile that rose to her lips, and retorted.
"I believe your left hand gets jealous of your right. That's about all I believe."
Silence.
Lise raised an eyebrow at Claire, holding back the laugh that was so determined to break through.
Then Rupert laughed, and the avalanche tumbled. Laughter broke all around, and even Jamie smiled at her.
"You're a witty one," he said. Claire smiled and raised an eyebrow at him.
Over on the wall, Lise rolled her eyes. Honestly, flirting before they'd even set off.
"I've never heard a woman make a joke," Rupert called, still laughing uproariously.
"First time for everything." Claire responded as Lise muttered.
"Aye, cos you have tae be within earshot to hear the joke, and you've never been that close tae woman in your life."
Thankfully no one heard the bitterness. She pushed herself off the wall and moved towards her horse, lifting a hand to its muzzle. Jamie had moved from helping Claire mount her horse back to his own and nodded at Lise, not unfriendly. Lise wasn't in a mood to talk. Culloden moor was only a three day ride away, and she knew it's history better than anyone else in this group. The only other person with a chance of understanding the agony to come was English, and Lise was sure tourist-narratives were very different from the narrative she knew growing up. From the horrors that her own family survived through – and the fact that Culloden wasn't even the worst of it.
"Do you need a hand?"
"Huh?" Lise wasn't entirely sure where the voice had come from, and turned, half-confused to see Jamie by her side. "Oh. Yeah, please."
Jamie easily lifted her by the waist, helping her up on to the enormous horse before swinging up himself behind her. At least Lise would no longer be cold.
"Claire and yourself make quite a pair," Jamie was saying to her as Lise shuffled in the saddle. "With your punch and her wit. It's dangerous being around you two."
"I'm witty." Was the only response Lise could bear to make, stroking the mane of the horse as they moved into a slow trot with the rest of the group.
"No, Lise, you're rude and abrupt."
Lise stiffened slightly at that.
"Wit is just rudeness with more bells attached," she grumbled. God, would he just stop talking. "At least when you hit someone, you know they understand what you're saying."
"How did you learn to punch like that?" Jamie asked. Ah, so that was why he was being chatty today. He tried to ask it lightly, but Lise felt the weight of it push down upon her shoulders heavily. She sighed and tilted to the side slightly, just enough to look Jamie in the eye when she answered.
"Practise. On people who didn't stop asking stupid questions."
They travelled in silence for near on a mile before Lise quietly muttered an apology.
"Sorry. The idiot this morning got to me more than I realised."
Jamie dismissed it as soon as the apology was out, but Lise was determined.
"Men – men like that, you ken," she said, twisting her fingers in the mane of the horse, watching the coarse hair tangle in her grasp, "treat women as…conquests, as objects, as emotional, stupid things to collect and toss aside, and I'm sick o' it. All through history you see these stories of men sleeping with women just because they can – shit like the Rape of Lucretia and, and, taking war brides – but then we're ruined by it. We're considered used and I never –" she cut off abruptly. Sniffing aggressively, she looked away. "I didnae realise how much there was to lose from some arsehole thinking with his dick instead of his head."
Jamie shuffled uncomfortably behind her.
"You dinnae need to explain yerself to me, mistress," he said softly.
A moment passed quietly. Jamie couldn't shake the memory of Lise, dishevelled and broken in the stables that night. He didn't need reminding of her very personal experience of the very worst of men – it was little consolation that Dougal didn't brag of it.
Lise hoped she'd caught herself in time. Hoped she'd remembered to include something about it ruining her marriage prospects, so it sounded plausible and not entirely out of time. Rants about the male gaze and objectification were very 20th Century and onwards, and not very 18th Century.
They stopped.
Claire continued to fumble with the ties on her horse even after the tents had been fully erected. Lise hadn't bothered to remove any of her borrowed belongings, and had rather gathered any kindling she could fine to start a fire. Dougal had been somewhat surprised when she knelt and started to light it herself, but whilst his face showed the surprise, he didn't object. Lise warmed her hands over the flames, then stacked up some of the larger logs that they'd brought from the previous town. The pile was within easy reach, but sufficiently far that no stray sparks could light the pile, nor could they tumble into the fire itself. Those school trips when she was a teenager were paying off in some way, at least.
It was hard not to notice the coldness with which Claire was treated. The men even seemed warier of Lise – Lise wondered absent-mindedly what she'd done to get this kind of reaction from men, after all, they'd been fairly tolerant of her very holey story.
Then, it clicked. The conversation that had happened that morning – Claire and Ned – Lise had seen his face and known instantly the conversation was about the rebellion. Stupid, stupid Englishwoman, always sticking her nose where it didn't belong. Lise chose to forget that she'd had a very similar conversation with Jamie the evening before. After all, that was different. Somehow.
"I'm going to the river. To wash." Claire turned to the men, challenging them to argue. Three of them stepped towards her as she moved away from them, lifting herself up on to the horse.
"Let her go," Dougal said, quiet authority filling his voice as he watched her ride the short distance to the river. The rolling of the hillside meant that she disappeared from view quickly, the trees starting as the small slope began its descent to the water.
Lise stood and scratched at her arm, something urging her to go, to follow Claire. Instinct, premonition, or just the urge to have a good old argument, she didn't know, but she decided nonetheless.
"Dougal," she called. It was the first time she'd used his name in a while, and she felt it stick in her throat. His eyes penetrated her and she wavered, before steeling her gut and continuing. "I'm going to follow her. Make sure she disnae fall in the river."
The curt nod was all she needed. She turned heel and strode away, leaving Ned to mutter to Dougal in a conspiratorial manner.
"What the hell were you thinking?"
Claire jumped at the voice, splashing water all the way up her arm in her surprise. Lise had sat down on one of the mossy branches behind Claire, elbows resting on her knees.
"Trying to warn them about the rebellion like that," Lise continued. "It's fucking stupid, is what that is."
"Oh, like you haven't said anything," Claire snapped back. "Like you haven't wanted to stop them all from dying on that moor."
Lise stood, closing the distance between them with a few short steps. Her eyes were the ice to Claire's fire.
"Aye. I have warned them – but here's the fundamental difference, Claire," she said the name with an emphasis that Claire didn't understand, "I am Scottish. My warnings sound like a worried kinsmen no wanting my people to die. You're from Oxford."
"And?" Claire met her with equal hostility. Lise dropped her voice, letting it turn to a murmur, letting the anger in her abide a little.
"And, you idiot, they're going to think that you're an English spy. String the both of us up for good measure." Lise sighed and went to run her hands through her hair before she remembered it was tangled back in a bun that she'd never be able to recreate. She pressed a hand to her forehead instead.
"Who are you?"
Lise muttered at the sound of Dougal's voice, refusing to turn to look at him. Claire held back any emotion as she turned her head to look at the Scotsman.
"An English lady of Oxfordshire," continued Dougal, "that's what ye'd have us believe. But a lady of strong political opinions, eh?"
Lise scoffed lightly, and Dougal turned to her. She rolled her eyes as he opened his mouth.
"Aye, Dougal, I do expect you to believe that I am the bastard of James Stuart, because I am," she snapped, with surprising conviction. She almost managed to convince herself. Claire straightened and looked at Dougal square in the eye.
"There's no harm in an opinion." Claire was acutely aware of how far her head had to tilt up to look at Dougal, the height difference dampening her indignation slightly.
"You've both seen things on the road. Either of you tell the redcoats and we'll be bound to crosses just like the men we cut down."
Now Lise stood. She didn't say a word, merely watched Dougal as his lined face looked down at them. Claire took a step towards him, emboldened in the moment.
"I'm not a spy." Her words came out sharp, articulate. Enunciated with anger, only serving to mark her Englishness out further.
"Maybe not. But ye're sowin the seeds of doubt in our midst, working behind the cover of yer woman's skirts to undermine the cause." Dougal lent towards Claire, as she protested she was only trying to warn him.
"She's trying to warn you that you're all going to die. But they ken that, Claire," Lise said, pushing past Dougal as she headed back up the hill. His hands clasped around her wrist, holding her in place, and she rounded on him, eyes burning. "For God's sake, Dougal. If I were a spy, I'd be a spy for my father, no for the fucking English. I ken you dinnae care aboot dying because the point isnae in the winning but the trying." Her voice was nothing more than a hiss. "Now. Let go o' me."
Then, the redcoats appeared on horseback, guns strapped at their backs and all three of them felt their chests tighten slightly.
"Madam," the lead redcoat said, dismounting his horse and walking slowly towards Claire. "Pleasure to see you again. Once more, I ask you. Is everything alright?"
Foster and Dougal faced off, staring at each other with barely disguised hatred, using Claire as their bargaining chip. Dougal turned to look at Claire, Lise all but forgotten, as the redcoat asked if she was being held against her will.
Claire paused, and the moment dragged. The world seemed to still in the moment, hanging by a thread which Claire would either mend or snap.
Then an English voice answered.
"She is perfectly welcome to leave whenever she wishes to. Your concern is appreciated, but my lady and I are welcome guests of the MacKenzies."