Dragonfly in Amber, Page 48

  “All right,” I said at last. “I promise.”

  * * *

  The stables at Argentan were clean and airy, redolent of summer and the smell of horses. In an open box stall, Jamie circled a Percheron mare, enamored as a horsefly.

  “Ooh, what a bonnie wee lass ye are! Come here, sweetheart, let me see that beautiful fat rump. Mm, aye, that’s grand!”

  “I wish my husband would talk that way to me,” remarked the Duchesse de Neve, provoking giggles from the other ladies of the party, who stood in the straw of the central aisle, watching.

  “Perhaps he would, Madame, if your own back view provided such stimulation. But then, perhaps your husband does not share my lord Broch Tuarach’s appreciation for a finely shaped rump.” The Comte St. Germain allowed his eyes to drift over me with a hint of contemptuous amusement. I tried to imagine those black eyes gleaming through the slits of a mask, and succeeded only too well. Unfortunately, the lace of his wrist frills fell well past his knuckles; I couldn’t see the fork of his thumb.

  Catching the byplay, Jamie leaned comfortably on the mare’s broad back, only his head, shoulders and forearms showing above the bulk of the Percheron.

  “My lord Broch Tuarach appreciates beauty wherever it may be encountered, Monsieur le Comte; in animal or woman. Unlike some I might name, though, I am capable of telling the difference between the two.” He grinned maliciously at St. Germain, then patted the mare’s neck in farewell as the party broke out laughing.

  Jamie took my arm to lead me toward the next stable, followed more slowly by the rest of the party.

  “Ah,” he said, inhaling the mixture of horse, harness, manure, and hay as though it were incense. “I do miss the smell of a stable. And the country makes me sick for Scotland.”

  “Doesn’t look a lot like Scotland,” I said, squinting in the bright sun as we emerged from the dimness of the stable.

  “No, but it’s country,” he said, “it’s clean, and it’s green, and there’s nay smoke in the air, or sewage underfoot—unless ye count horse dung, which I don’t.”

  The sun of early summer shone on the roofs of Argentan, nestled among gently rolling green hills. The Royal stud was just outside the town, much more solidly constructed than the houses of the King’s subjects nearby. The barns and stables were of quarried stone, stone-floored, slate-roofed, and maintained in a condition of cleanliness that surpassed that of L’Hôpital des Anges by a fair degree.

  A loud whooping came from behind the corner of the stable, and Jamie stopped short, just in time to avoid Fergus, who shot out in front of us as though fired from a slingshot, hotly pursued by two stable-lads, both a good deal bigger. A dirty green streak of fresh manure down the side of the first boy’s face gave some clue as to the cause of the altercation.

  With considerable presence of mind, Fergus doubled on his tracks, shot past his pursuers, and whizzed into the middle of the party, whence he took refuge behind the bulwark of Jamie’s kilted hips. Seeing their prey thus safely gone to earth, his pursuers glanced fearfully at the oncoming phalanx of courtiers and gowns, exchanged a look of decision, and, as one, turned and loped off.

  Seeing them go, Fergus stuck his head out from behind my skirt and yelled something in gutter French that earned him a sharp cuff on the ear from Jamie.

  “Off wi’ ye,” he said brusquely. “And for God’s sake, dinna be throwin’ horse apples at people bigger than you are. Now, go and keep out of trouble.” He followed up this advice with a healthy smack on the seat of the breeches that sent Fergus staggering off in the opposite direction to that taken by his erstwhile assailants.

  I had been of two minds as to the wisdom of taking Fergus with us on this expedition, but most of the ladies were bringing pageboys with them, to run errands and carry the baskets of food and other paraphernalia deemed essential to a day’s outing. And Jamie had wanted to show the lad a bit of country, feeling that he’d earned a holiday. All well and good, except that Fergus, who had never been outside Paris in his life, had got the exhilaration of air, light, and beautiful huge animals right up his nose, and, demented with excitement, had been in constant trouble since our arrival.

  “God knows what he’ll do next,” I said darkly, looking after Fergus’s retreating form. “Set one of the hayricks on fire, I expect.”

  Jamie was unperturbed at the suggestion.

  “He’ll be all right. All lads get into manure fights.”

  “They do?” I turned around, scrutinizing St. Germain, immaculate in white linen, white serge, and white silk, bending courteously to listen to the Duchesse, as she minced slowly across the straw-strewn yard.

  “Maybe you did,” I said. “Not him. Not the Bishop, either, I don’t think.” I was wondering whether this excursion had been a good idea, at least on my part. Jamie was in his element with the giant Percherons, and the Duke was clearly impressed with him, which was all to the good. On the other hand, my back ached miserably from the carriage ride, and my feet felt hot and swollen, pressing painfully against the tight leather of my shoes.

  Jamie looked down at me and smiled, pressing my hand where it lay on his arm.

  “None so long now, Sassenach. The guide wants to show us the breeding sheds, and then you and the other ladies can go and sit down wi’ the food, while the men stand about makin’ crude jests about the size of each other’s cock.”

  “Is that the general effect of watching horses bred?” I asked, fascinated.

  “Well, on men it is; I dinna ken what it does to ladies. Keep an ear out, and ye can tell me later.”

  There was in fact an air of suppressed excitement among the members of the party as we all pressed into the rather cramped quarters of a breeding shed. Stone, like the other buildings, this one was equipped not with partitioned stalls down both sides, but with a small fenced pen, with holding stalls at either side, and a sort of chute or runway along the back, with several gates that could be opened or closed to control a horse’s movement.

  The building itself was light and airy, owing to huge, unglazed windows that opened at either end, giving a view of a grassy paddock outside. I could see several of the enormous Percheron mares grazing near the edge of this; one or two seemed restless, breaking into a rocking gallop for a few paces, then dropping back to a trot or a walk, shaking heads and manes with a high, whinnying noise. Once, when this happened, there was a loud, nasal scream from one of the holding stalls at the end of the shed, and the paneling shook with the thud of a mighty kick from its inhabitant.

  “He’s ready,” a voice murmured appreciatively behind me. “I wonder which is the lucky mademoiselle?”

  “The one nearest the gate,” the Duchesse suggested, always ready to wager. “Five livres on that one.”

  “Ah, no! You’re wrong, Madame, she’s too calm. It will be the little one, under the apple tree, rolling her eyes like a coquette. See how she tosses her head? That one’s my choice.”

  The mares had all stopped at the sound of the stallion’s cry, lifting inquiring noses and flicking their ears nervously. The restless ones tossed their heads and whickered; one stretched her neck and let out a long, high call.

  “That one,” Jamie said quietly, nodding at her. “Hear her call him?”

  “And what is she saying, my lord?” the Bishop asked, a glint in his eye.

  Jamie shook his head solemnly.

  “It is a song, my lord, but one that a man of the cloth is deaf to—or should be,” he added, to gales of laughter.

  Sure enough, it was the mare who had called who was chosen. Once inside, she stopped dead, head up, and stood testing the air with flaring nostrils. The stallion could smell her; his cries echoed eerily off the timbered roof, so loud that conversation was impossible.

  No one wanted to talk now, anyway. Uncomfortable as I was, I could feel the quick tingle of arousal through my breasts, and a tightening of my swollen belly as the mare once more answered the stallion’s call.

  Percherons are very large hor
ses. A big one stands over five feet at the shoulder, and the rump of a well-fed mare is almost a yard across, a pale, dappled gray or shining black, adorned with a waterfall of black hair, thick as my arm at the root of it.

  The stallion burst from his stall toward the tethered mare with a suddenness that made everyone fall back from the fence. Puffs of dust flew up in clouds as the huge hooves struck the packed dirt of the pen, and drops of saliva flew from his open mouth. The groom who had opened his stall door jumped aside, tiny and insignificant next to the magnicent fury let loose in the pen.

  The mare curvetted and squealed in alarm, but then he was on her, and his teeth closed on the sturdy arch of her neck, forcing her head down into submission. The great swathe of her tail swept high, leaving her naked, exposed to his lust.

  “Jésus,” whispered Monsieur Prudhomme.

  It took very little time, but it seemed a lot longer, watching the heaving of sweat-darkened flanks, and the play of light on swirling hair and the sheen of great muscles, tense and straining in the flexible agony of mating.

  Everyone was very quiet as we left the shed. Finally the Duke laughed, nudged Jamie, and said, “You are accustomed to such sights, my lord Broch Tuarach?”

  “Aye,” Jamie answered. “I’ve seen it a good many times.”

  “Ah?” the Duke said. “And tell me, my lord, how does the sight make you feel, after so many times?”

  One corner of Jamie’s mouth twitched as he replied, but he remained otherwise straight-faced.

  “Verra modest, Your Grace,” he said.

  * * *

  “What a sight!” the Duchesse de Neve said. She broke a biscuit, dreamy-eyed, and munched it slowly. “So arousing, was it not?”

  “What a prick, you mean,” said Madame Prudhomme, rather coarsely. “I wish Philibert had one like that. As it is…” She cocked an eyebrow toward a plate of tiny sausages, each perhaps two inches long, and the ladies seated on the picnic cloth broke into giggles.

  “A bit of chicken, please, Paul,” said the Comtesse St. Germain to her pageboy. She was young, and the bawdy conversation of the older ladies was making her blush. I wondered just what sort of marriage she had with St. Germain; he never took her out in public, save on occasions like this, where the presence of the Bishop prevented his appearing with one of his mistresses.

  “Bah,” said Madame Montresor, one of the ladies-in-waiting, whose husband was a friend of the Bishop’s. “Size isn’t everything. What difference if it’s the size of a stallion’s, if he lasts no longer than one? Less than two minutes? I ask you, what good is that?” She held up a cornichon between two fingers and delicately licked the tiny pale-green pickle, the pink tip of her tongue pointed and dainty. “It isn’t what they have in their breeches, I say; it’s what they do with it.”

  Madame Prudhomme snorted. “Well, if you find one who knows how to do anything with it but poke it into the nearest hole, tell me. I would be interested to see what else can be done with a thing like that.”

  “At least you have one who’s interested,” broke in the Duchesse de Neve. She cast a glance of disgust at her husband, huddled with the other men near one of the paddocks, watching a harnessed mare being put through her paces.

  “Not tonight, my dearest,” she imitated the sonorous, nasal tones of her husband to perfection. “I am fatigued.” She put a hand to her brow and rolled her eyes up. “The press of business is so wearing.” Encouraged by the giggles, she went on with her imitation, now widening her eyes in horror and crossing her hands protectively over her lap. “What, again? Do you not know that to expend the male essence gratuitously is to court ill-health? Is it not enough that your demands have worn me to a nubbin, Mathilde? Do you wish me to have an attack?”

  The ladies cackled and screeched with laughter, loud enough to attract the attention of the Bishop, who waved at us and smiled indulgently, provoking further gales of hilarity.

  “Well, at least he is not expending all his male essence in brothels—or elsewhere,” said Madame Prudhomme, with an eloquently pitying glance at the Comtesse St. Germain.

  “No,” said Mathilde gloomily. “He hoards it as though it were gold. You’d think there was no more to be had, the way he…oh, Your Grace! Will you not have a cup of wine?” She smiled charmingly up at the Duke, who had approached quietly from behind. He stood smiling at the ladies, one fair brow slightly arched. If he had heard the subject of our conversation, he gave no sign of it.

  Seating himself beside me on the cloth, His Grace made casual, witty conversation with the ladies, his oddly high-pitched voice forming no contrast to theirs. While he seemed to pay close attention to the conversation, I noticed that his eyes strayed periodically to the small cluster of men who stood by the paddock fence. Jamie’s kilt was bright even amid the gorgeous cut velvets and stiffened silk.

  I had had some hesitation in meeting the Duke again. After all, our last visit had ended in the arrest of Jonathan Randall, upon my accusation of attempted rape. But the Duke had been all charming urbanity on this outing, with no mention of either of the Randall brothers. Neither had there been any public mention of the arrest; whatever the Duke’s diplomatic activities, they seemed to rank highly enough to merit a Royal seal of silence.

  On the whole, I welcomed the Duke’s appearance at the picnic cloth. For one thing, his presence kept the ladies from asking me—as some bold souls did every so often, at parties—whether it was true about what Scotsmen wore beneath their kilts. Given the mood of the present party, I didn’t think my customary reply of “Oh, the usual” would suffice.

  “Your husband has a fine eye for horses,” the Duke observed to me, freed for a moment when the Duchesse de Neve, on his other side, leaned across the cloth to talk to Madame Prudhomme. “He tells me that both his father and his uncle kept small but quite fine stables in the Highlands.”

  “Yes, that’s true.” I sipped my wine. “But you’ve visited Colum MacKenzie at Castle Leoch; surely you’ve seen his stable for yourself.” I had in fact first met the Duke at Leoch the year before, though the meeting had been brief; he had left on a hunting expedition shortly before I was arrested for witchcraft. I thought surely he must have known about that, but if so, he gave no sign of it.

  “Of course.” The Duke’s small, shrewd blue eyes darted left, then right, to see whether he was observed, then shifted into English. “At the time, your husband informed me that he did not reside upon his own estates, owing to an unfortunate—and mistaken—charge of murder laid against him by the English Crown. I wondered, my lady, whether that charge of outlawry still holds?”

  “There’s still a price on his head,” I said bluntly.

  The Duke’s expression of polite interest didn’t change. He reached absently for one of the small sausages on the platter.

  “That is not an irremediable matter,” he said quietly. “After my encounter with your husband at Leoch, I made some inquiries—oh, suitably discreet, I assure you, my dear lady. And I think that the matter might be arranged without undue difficulty, given a word in the right ear—from the right sources.”

  This was interesting. Jamie had first told the Duke of Sandringham about his outlawry at Colum MacKenzie’s suggestion, in the hopes that the Duke might be persuaded to intervene in the case. As Jamie had not in fact committed the crime in question, there could be little evidence against him; it was quite possible that the Duke, a powerful voice among the nobles of England, could indeed arrange to have the charges dismissed.

  “Why?” I said. “What do you want in return?”

  The sketchy blond brows shot upward, and he smiled, showing small white even teeth.

  “My word, you are direct, are you not? Might it not be only that I appreciate your husband’s expertise and assistance in the selection of horses, and would like to see him restored to a place where that skill might once again be profitably exercised?”

  “It might be, but it isn’t,” I said. I caught Madame Prudhomme’s sharp eyes on us,
and smiled pleasantly at him. “Why?”

  He popped the sausage whole into his mouth and chewed it slowly, his bland round face reflecting nothing more than enjoyment of the day and the meal. At last he swallowed and patted his mouth delicately with one of the linen napkins.

  “Well,” he said, “as a matter of supposition only, you understand—”

  I nodded, and he went on. “As a matter of supposition, then, perhaps we may suppose that your husband’s recent friendship with—a certain personage recently arrived from Rome? Ah, I see you understand me. Yes. Let us suppose that that friendship has become a matter of some concern to certain parties who would prefer this personage to return peaceably to Rome—or alternatively, to settle in France, though Rome would be better—safer, you know?”

  “I see.” I took a sausage myself. They were richly spiced, and little bursts of garlic wafted up my nose at each bite. “And these parties take a sufficiently serious view of this friendship to offer a dismissal of the charges against my husband in return for its severance? Again, why? My husband is no one of great importance.”