Virgins: An Outlander Novella (Outlander #0.5)(3)
“Of course. I’m fine.” Jamie spoke crossly, and Ian gave him the look again, even more slit-eyed than the last.
“Aye, right,” he said, in tones of rank disbelief. “Well. We’re near Bèguey, maybe twenty miles from Bordeaux; that’s where we’re going. We’re takin’ the wagon yon to a Jewish moneylender there.”
“Is it full of money, then?” Jamie glanced at the heavy wagon, interested.
“No,” Ian said. “There’s a wee chest, verra heavy, so it’s maybe gold, and there are a few bags that clink and might be silver, but most of it’s rugs.”
“Rugs?” He looked at Ian in amazement. “What sort of rugs?”
Ian shrugged. “Couldna say. Juanito says they’re Turkey rugs and verra valuable, but I dinna ken that he knows. He’s Jewish, too,” Ian added, as an afterthought. “Jews are—” He made an equivocal gesture, palm flattened. “But they dinna really hunt them in France, or exile them anymore, and the captain says they dinna even arrest them, so long as they keep quiet.”
“And go on lending money to men in the government,” Jamie said cynically. Ian looked at him, surprised, and Jamie gave him the I went to the Université in Paris and ken more than you do smart-arse look, fairly sure that Ian wouldn’t thump him, seeing he was hurt.
Ian looked tempted but had learned enough merely to give Jamie back the I’m older than you and ye ken well ye havena sense enough to come in out of the rain, so dinna be trying it on look instead. Jamie laughed, feeling better.
“Aye, right,” he said, bending forward. “Is my shirt verra bloody?”
Ian nodded, buckling his sword belt. Jamie sighed and picked up the leather jerkin the armorer had given him. It would rub, but he wasn’t wanting to attract attention.
—
He managed. The troop kept up a decent pace, but it wasn’t anything to trouble a Highlander accustomed to hill-walking and running down the odd deer. True, he grew a bit light-headed now and then, and sometimes his heart raced and waves of heat ran over him—but he didn’t stagger any more than a few of the men who’d drunk too much for breakfast.
He barely noticed the countryside but was conscious of Ian striding along beside him, and Jamie took pains now and then to glance at his friend and nod, in order to relieve Ian’s worried expression. The two of them were close to the wagon, mostly because he didn’t want to draw attention by lagging at the back of the troop but also because he and Ian were taller than the rest by a head or more, with a stride that eclipsed the others, and he felt a small bit of pride in that. It didn’t occur to him that possibly the others didn’t want to be near the wagon.
The first inkling of trouble was a shout from the driver. Jamie had been trudging along, eyes half closed, concentrating on putting one foot ahead of the other, but a bellow of alarm and a sudden loud bang! jerked him to attention. A horseman charged out of the trees near the road, slewed to a halt, and fired his second pistol at the driver.
“What—” Jamie reached for the sword at his belt, half fuddled but starting forward; the horses were neighing and flinging themselves against the traces, the driver cursing and on his feet, hauling on the reins. Several of the mercenaries ran toward the horseman, who drew his own sword and rode through them, slashing recklessly from side to side. Ian seized Jamie’s arm, though, and jerked him round. “Not there! The back!”
He followed Ian at the run, and, sure enough, there was the captain on his horse at the back of the troop, in the middle of a mêlée, a dozen strangers laying about with clubs and blades, all shouting.
“Caisteal DHOON!” Ian bellowed, and swung his sword over his head and flat down on the head of an attacker. It hit the man a glancing blow, but he staggered and fell to his knees, where Big Georges seized him by the hair and kneed him viciously in the face.
“Caisteal DHOON!” Jamie shouted as loud as he could, and Ian turned his head for an instant, a big grin flashing.
It was a bit like a cattle raid but lasting longer. Not a matter of hit hard and get away; he’d never been a defender before and found it heavy going. Still, the attackers were outnumbered and began to give way, some glancing over their shoulders, plainly thinking of running back into the wood.
They began to do just that, and Jamie stood panting, dripping sweat, his sword a hundredweight in his hand. He straightened, though, and caught the flash of movement from the corner of his eye.
“Dhoon!” he shouted, and broke into a lumbering, gasping run. Another group of men had appeared near the wagon and were pulling the driver’s body quietly down from his seat, while one of their number grabbed at the lunging horses’ bridles, pulling their heads down. Two more had got the canvas loose and were dragging out a long rolled cylinder—one of the rugs, he supposed.
He reached them in time to grab another man trying to mount the wagon, yanking him clumsily back onto the road. The man twisted, falling, and came to his feet like a cat, knife in hand. The blade flashed, bounced off the leather of Jamie’s jerkin, and cut upward, an inch from his face. Jamie squirmed back, off-balance, narrowly keeping his feet, and two more of the bastards charged him.
“On your right, man!” Ian’s voice came suddenly at his shoulder, and without a moment’s hesitation Jamie turned to take care of the man to his left, hearing Ian’s grunt of effort as he laid about with a broadsword.