Just updated this chapter because I noticed something very funky.
Chapter Four
The soft sound of crickets accompanied the three men's footsteps as they moved through the fields. Hamish and Andrew knew their leader was right on this count--the fields proved to be perfect cover. Thick and lush with unharvested wheat, they disguised even Hamish's burliness. Add to that the gurgling of the nearby river Nith, and any sound made by them was undetectable.
No one spoke. Each step carried them closer to the stone and mortar of Bramblebury, until finally, they reached the edge of the fields; the front of the large estate cast its moonlit shadow upon their faces.
William turned, put a finger to his lips, pointed to the front door. He shook his head, and then pointed to his right. The other two nodded, knowing--without the need for words--exactly what he meant: Don't go in the front door. We head for the servant's entrance. In past experience, the servant's entrance usually rested on the right side of the house, near the river; the servants needed to be within close proximity to water for the household's bathing and cooking needs, he figured.
This knowledge served him well…the trek led them to a large wooden door, worn with much use.
He held a hand up to Hamish and Andrew. Wait here. They watched as he tried to open the door--much to their surprise, it came open rather easily.
The ignorance, William sighed to himself. Only servants working for an English household would leave a door unlocked.
Beckoning to his men, follow me, he took a careful step inside...
Nothing, save a large cooking area. 'Twas too dark to see much of anything, nevertheless, he sensed no others in there with him. He could only hear Hamish and Andrew, coming in after him...and the sound of his own breathing. He was very surprised that no servants were around; mayhap they resided in different quarters? He didn't know; he'd still remain on guard.
"William, this place, it is rather large," Andrew whispered. "How do you propose we find our way around? We know nothing about Bramblebury--"
"Save for the fact it's one of the largest estates in the Scottish Borderlands, I know," he whispered back. He didn't know why, but he possessed an uncanny instinct--thus far, it never failed him. He trusted this instinct now. He knew that he--along with his friends--could navigate through the interior. They would find the girl.
Walking through the dark felt, to them, like walking blind; somehow, they were able to make their way out of the kitchens. They ended up in the dining area, the room lit softly by candles mounted on wall brackets.
Hamish whistled under his breath. "Good God in heaven, have you ever seen anything such as this?"
William shook his head. "No, not as such." Did Debaye have nothing better to spend his wealth on? The dining area was lavish; the centerpiece being the ebony dining table, surrounded by thick plush dining chairs of the same hue. The wood was polished to a fine sheen--possibly with beeswax, and the tabletop covered with a white linen tablecloth.
"How do they eat without getting the tablecloth dirty?" Andrew wondered aloud.
William let a small laugh escape his lips. "Leave it to yourself, Andrew, to think on such things."
Hamish snorted. "Knowing their filthy eating habits, it gets dirty rather often. No matter, they have their English servants to tend to their every need, I suppose."
To the untrained ear, Hamish's scathing tongue sounded heartless and cruel. William knew better. 'Twas only his nature, his way of being.
"Let us leave this area, and continue our search." The other two nodded, and they quietly made their way out of the dining area, landing once again in unfamiliar territory. Just from looking, one could tell it was the main hall. It too, lavishly decorated. A winding staircase led to another floor above.
"Now, remember what I said." He urged Hamish in the direction of the left wing, and motioned for Andrew to take the right wing. William headed for the stairs.
Marjory stirred restlessly. Gods, she couldn't sleep! No matter how hard she tried, she could not drift into her dreams.
"I suppose I am not meant to sleep tonight, eh?" she mumbled to herself, kicking the covers off and swinging her legs over the edge. Fumbling around for a lighting implement, she walked over to the wall bracket and lit a torch, the room glowing from its dull orange light. The light did nothing to warm her; so, she fumbled around for her discarded robe, as well as her slippers; both discarded under her bed. She pulled her robe back on, feeling warmth radiate through her skin, much like slipping into a warm bath.
"Much better." She sighed in contentment and lay back down.
William did a careful search of all the rooms upstairs. He wished he owned a better weapon; the only weapon he carried was a rusty broadsword he confiscated off one of the Lanark Englishmen he killed. Not that he intended to kill anyone here…there was comfort in knowing he had a good weapon at his side.
He only wished he had a weapon when those damned Englishmen hurt his wife.
By now, it spread that he killed those ten English soldiers, along with his small band of twenty men. Rumors already abounded as to why, which puzzled him. He did not wish to gain notoriety. All he wanted was a free Scotland. Those bastards deserved it, though.
They delivered his wife into the hands of Heselrig, the sheriff of Lanark. He and his Marion were at market. For whatever reason, they took the Englishmen's fancy and overpowered them, leaving him dazed and bloodied on the ground, her, they ripped her clothes from her body and tortured her cruelly. The sheriff came to the soldiers' aid, almost killing William with his beatings. He raped his wife right in front of him, only after slitting her throat and tossing her lifeless body on the ground, as if she were offal.
To this day, he could hear her screams. Guilt marred him. Guilt mixed with rage and fueled the fires of rebellion. He never expected to have men join his cause--join they did. Not long after he buried his wife's body, he gathered a small group of men and marched straight to the marketplace. The same English recognized him; by then, it was too late. Their bodies lay strewn in the streets, discarded without care or incident.
Marion. Oh God, my Marion. He swallowed the lump building in his throat, chastising himself. Now wasn't the time to think about such things. There was a time, a place. Now, he must focus on the task at hand.
Room after room turned up nothing. He almost gave up hope; did the girl go to Newcastle with her father? The only room left was at the very end of the hall. A faint light came from underneath the door.
Taking a deep breath, he shoved open the door…
At the sound of the door opening, Marjory bolted upright, turned her eyes toward the intrusion.
"Oh my God!" She scrambled out of bed and to the nearest corner of the room, crouching and shaking in fear at what she saw.
A silhouette of a man stood in her door, a hooded cloak pulled around him. His head nearly touched the top of the doorway; his height was terrifying. The only thing she could see in the dim was his eyes--a pale blue, much like her own. Lit with an almost insane light.
"Go away! Go away, or I'll call my father in here!"
"Your father's not here," the man said quietly. "He's in Newcastle."
Even though she could barely hear the man, she detected a Scottish brogue. How dare a Scotsman show up in her father's house? She forgot her fear for a moment.
"How did you…" She shook her head and sneered, pulling her robe tighter around her to ward off the chill. "Leave my room. Leave my father's house."
William could barely see his soon-to-be captive in the gloom, and it did not matter. He already knew what the woman looked like, for God's sake; what interest did he have in her looks? None. What he could see was her fear. Very evident.
"Miss Debaye, you need not be afraid of me." He took a step forward, and saw her body flatten against the wall.
Her eyes went wide with shock. "How do you know my name?"
"Young Marjory, I know a whole lot more than you think," He removed the hood, revealing his crop of shaggy blond hair. "Your father is John William Debaye, one of Longshanks' generals. And you are his only offspring. This is why you will fetch a fine price. Your father will pay any amount to have you safe. But then, I'm getting ahead of myself." He swept into a mocking bow, and came back upright. "I am William Wallace."
William Wallace? The Scottish rebel her father and King Edward were trying to get rid of? She grew more afraid, and vowed not to let him see it. He killed those Englishmen! He'd probably kill her! She lifted her chin, and crossed her arms.
"Ecossais stupide. Mon père vous tuera ; vous ne descendrez jamais de n'importe quel argent de ma capture." The French words flowed easily off her tongue as if they were her first language. Thank God for the tutors who drilled the subjects into her while she was young. Being the barbarian that he was, he wouldn't understand what she said to him.
William sighed. French? He understood it easily enough. After his father and brother died--when he was a young lad of ten--his uncle, Argyle, took him in. He was a priest, and traveled to many different countries on various pilgrimages, taking William with him. He learned many different things, one of them being languages.
"Miss Debaye, you think me ignorant, oui? Regarding your capture, ce doit où je prie de différer, manquer. J'obtiendrai l'argent de votre capture; vastes montants."
She looked at him in shock. He understood what she said? Scots were supposed to be barbaric!
"What…why…" for the first time in her life, Marjory was speechless.
"Now, mademoiselle, you're coming with me…" he took one more step forward, "…and that's all there is to it."
"By God, I am not," Marjory fumed, her eyes darting wildly around the room for a place to escape. She almost wished Adelaide was here--why, she didn't know; what good would the woman do? What did she want her for, company? At least if she was here, she could go and get help! Why did she insist that her governess have her living quarters far away?
The only exit was her chamber door; the bastard now between her and the door. Maybe if she took off her slippers, she could outrun him…no. No time. This was her only chance…taking a deep breath, she rose and sprinted to her freedom…
William knew she'd try to escape. 'Twas only natural; if he was in her position, he'd try to do the same thing. She may be fast, but he had the advantage of longer limbs. He shot out one hand, grabbing her wrist and roughly pulling her to his form.
"Let me go!" She raised her free hand to slap him--he grabbed that wrist as well. She was of a fair height; however, compared to this bastard, she was diminutive. Squirming in his grasp, she managed to wrench one wrist free, feeling the bones go with a guttural snap.
Marjory screamed in pain. "You…you bloody Scotsman!" She spat out the epithet as if it tasted bad.
He didn't offer an apology, only stating, "If you hadn't squirmed about, you wouldn't be in pain right now." He turned her to where her back was facing him; one arm he secured tightly about her waist, the other hand reaching up, covering her mouth.
She struggled in his viselike grip, biting the skin of his hand, tasting dirt and blood. His blood. Eventually, her struggles ceased, and she fell limp in his arms, her world fading to black…
William did not feel sorry for her; he found her to be extremely judgmental and apathetic. It wasn't to say that he would hurt the woman purposefully; he hated that she ended up injured. While she was unconscious, either he or one of his men would examine her wrist. At the same time, he'd examine his hand. Little hellcat, he mused. She went out fighting, for sure.
Cradling her in his arms, he carried her out of the room.
End note: Here are the translations as to what they are saying in French.
Marjory--Stupid Scot. My father will kill you; you will never get any money from my capture.
William--That is where I beg to differ, mademoiselle. I will get money from your capture; vast amounts.
