Dragonfly in Amber

  Jamie’s hand on my shoulder steered me through the obstacles of the darkened scullery and some smaller chamber that seemed to be a lumber room of some sort; I barked my shin against something, but bit back the exclamation of pain.

  Out in the free night at last, the wind seized my cloak and whirled it out in a exuberant balloon. After the nerve-stretching trek through the darkened house, I felt as though I might take wing, and sail for the sky.

  The men around me seemed to share the mood of relief; there was a small outbreak of whispered remarks and muffled laughter, quickly shushed by Jamie. One at a time, the men flitted across the open space before the house, no more than shadows under the dancing moon. At my side, Jamie watched as they disappeared into the woods of the park.

  “Where’s Murtagh?” he muttered, as though to himself, frowning after the last of his men. “Gone to look for Hugh, I suppose,” he said, in answer to his own question. “D’ye ken where he might be, Sassenach?”

  I swallowed, feeling the wind bite cold beneath my cloak, memory killing the sudden exhilaration of freedom.

  “Yes,” I said, and told him the bad news, as briefly as I could. His expression darkened under its mask of blood, and by the time I had finished, his face was hard as stone.

  “D’ye mean just to stand there all night,” inquired a voice behind us, “or ought we to sound an alarm, so they’ll know where to look first?”

  Jamie’s expression lightened slightly as Murtagh appeared from the shadows beside us, quiet as a wraith. He had a cloth-wrapped bundle under one arm; a joint from the kitchens, I thought, seeing the blotch of dark blood on the cloth. This impression was borne out by the large ham he had tucked beneath the other arm, and the strings of sausages about his neck.

  Jamie wrinkled his nose, with a faint smile.

  “Ye smell like a butcher, man. Can ye no go anywhere without thinkin’ of your stomach?”

  Murtagh cocked his head to one side, taking in Jamie’s blood-spattered appearance.

  “Better to look like the butcher than his wares, lad,” he said. “Shall we go?”

  * * *

  The trip through the park was dark and frightening. The trees were tall and widely spaced here, but there were saplings left to grow between them that changed abruptly into the menacing shapes of gamekeepers in the uncertain light. The clouds were gathering thicker, at least, and the full moon made fewer appearances, which was something to be grateful for. As we reached the far side of the park, it began to rain.

  Three men had been left with the horses. Mary was already mounted before one of Jamie’s men. Plainly embarrassed by the necessity of riding astride, she kept tucking the folds of her nightrobe under her thighs, in a vain attempt to hide the fact that she had legs.

  More experienced, but still cursing the heavy folds of my skirt, I plucked them up and set a foot in Jamie’s offered hand, swinging aboard with a practiced thump. The horse snorted at the impact and set his ears back.

  “Sorry, cully,” I said without sympathy. “If you think that’s bad, just wait ’til he gets back on.”

  Glancing around for the “he” in question, I found him under one of the trees, hand on the shoulder of a strange boy of about fourteen.

  “Who’s that?” I asked, leaning over to attract the attention of Geordie Paul Fraser, who was busy tightening his girth next to me.

  “Eh? Oh, him.” He glanced at the boy, then back at his reluctant girth, frowning. “His name’s Ewan Gibson. Hugh Munro’s eldest stepson. He was wi’ his da, seemingly, when the Duke’s keepers came on ’em. The lad got awa’, and we found him near the edge o’ the moor. He brought us here.” With a final unnecessary tug, he glared at the girth as though daring it to say something, then looked up at me.

  “D’ye ken where the lad’s da is?” he asked abruptly.

  I nodded, and the answer must have been plain in my face, for he turned to look at the boy. Jamie was holding the boy, hugged hard against his chest, and patting his back. As we watched, he held the boy away from him, both hands on his shoulders, and said something, looking down intently into his face. I couldn’t hear what it was, but after a moment, the boy straightened himself and nodded. Jamie nodded as well, and with a final clap on the shoulder, turned the lad toward one of the horses, where George McClure was already reaching down a hand to him. Jamie strode toward us, head down, and the end of his plaid fluttering free behind him, despite the cold wind and the spattering rain.

  Geordie spat on the ground. “Poor bugger,” he said, without specifying whom he meant, and swung into his own saddle.

  Near the southeast corner of the park we halted, the horses stamping and twitching, while two of the men disappeared back into the trees. It cannot have been more than twenty minutes, but it seemed twice as long before they came back.

  The men rode double now, and the second horse bore a long, hunched shape bound across its saddle, wrapped in a Fraser plaid. The horses didn’t like it; mine jerked its head, nostrils flaring, as the horse bearing Hugh’s corpse came alongside. Jamie yanked the rein and said something angrily in Gaelic, though, and the beast desisted.

  I could feel Jamie rise in the stirrups behind me, looking backward as though counting the remaining members of his band. Then his arm came around my waist, and we set off, on our way north.

  * * *

  We rode all night, with only brief stops for rest. During one of these, sheltering under a horse-chestnut tree, Jamie reached to embrace me, then suddenly stopped.

  “What is it?” I said, smiling. “Afraid to kiss your wife in front of your men?”

  “No,” he said, proving it, then stepped back, smiling. “No, I was afraid for a moment ye were going to scream and claw my face.” He dabbed gingerly at the marks Mary had left on his cheek.

  “Poor thing,” I said, laughing. “Not the welcome you expected, was it?”

  “Well, by that time, actually it was,” he said, grinning. He had taken two sausages from one of Murtagh’s strings, and now handed me one. I couldn’t remember when I had last eaten, but it must have been quite some time, for not even my fears of botulism kept the fatty, spiced meat from being delicious.

  “What do you mean by that? You thought I wouldn’t recognize you after only a week?”

  He shook his head, still smiling, and swallowed the bite of sausage.

  “Nay. It’s only, when I got in the house to start, I kent where ye were, more or less, because of the bars on your windows.” He arched one brow. “From the looks of them, ye must have made one hell of an impression on His Grace.”

  “I did,” I said shortly, not wanting to think about the Duke. “Go on.”

  “Well,” he said, taking another bite and shifting it expertly to his cheek while he talked, “I kent the room, but I needed the key, didn’t I?”

  “Oh, yes,” I said. “You were going to tell me about that.”

  He chewed briefly and swallowed.

  “I got it from the housekeeper, but not without trouble.” He rubbed himself tenderly, a few inches below the belt. “From appearances, I’d say the woman’s been waked in her bed a few times before—and didna care for the experience.”

  “Oh, yes,” I said, entertained by the mental picture this provoked. “Well, I daresay you came as rare and refreshing fruit to her.”

  “I doubt it extremely, Sassenach. She screeched like a banshee and kneed me in the stones, then came altogether too near to braining me wi’ a candle-stick whilst I was doubled up groaning.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Thumped her a good one—I wasna feeling verra chivalrous just at the moment—and tied her up wi’ the strings to her nightcap. Then I put a towel in her mouth to put a stop to the things she was callin’ me, and searched her room ’til I found the keys.”

  “Good work,” I said, something occurring to me, “but how did you know where the housekeeper slept?”

  “I didn’t,” he said calmly. “The laundress told me—after I told her who
I was, and threatened to gut her and roast her on a spit if she didna tell me what I wanted to know.” He gave me a wry smile. “Like I told ye, Sassenach, sometimes it’s an advantage to be thought a barbarian. I reckon they’ve all heard of Red Jamie Fraser by now.”

  “Well, if they hadn’t, they will,” I said. I looked him over, as well as I could in the dim light. “What, didn’t the laundress get a lick in?”

  “She pulled my hair,” he said reflectively. “Took a clump of it out by the roots. I’ll tell ye, Sassenach; if ever I feel the need to change my manner of employment, I dinna think I’ll take up attacking women—it’s a bloody hard way to make a living.”

  * * *

  It was beginning to sleet heavily near dawn, but we rode for some time before Ewan Gibson dragged his pony uncertainly to a stop, rose up clumsily in the stirrups to look around, then motioned up the hillside that rose to the left.

  Dark as it was, it was impossible to ride the horses uphill. We had to descend to the ground and lead them, foot by muddy, slogging foot, along the nearly invisible track that zigzagged through heather and granite. Dawn was beginning to lighten the sky as we paused for breath at the crest of the hill. The horizon was hidden, thick with clouds, but a dull gray of no apparent source began to replace the darker gray of the night. Now I could at least see the cold streamlets that I sank in, ankle-deep, and avoid the worst of the foot-twisting snags of rock and bramble that we encountered on the way down the hill.

  At the bottom was a small corrie, with six houses—though “house” was an overdignified word for the rude structures crouched beneath the larch trees there. The thatched roofs came down within a few feet of the ground, leaving only a bit of the stone walls showing.

  Outside one bothy, we came to a halt. Ewan looked at Jamie, hesitating as though lost for direction, then at his nod, ducked and disappeared beneath the low rooftree of the hut. I drew closer to Jamie, putting my hand on his arm.

  “This is Hugh Munro’s house,” he said to me, low-voiced. “I’ve brought him home to his wife. The lad’s gone in to tell her.”

  I glanced from the dark, low doorway of the hut to the limp, plaid-draped bundle that two of the men were now unstrapping from the horse. I felt a small tremor run through Jamie’s arm. He closed his eyes for a moment, and I saw his lips move; then he stepped forward and held out his arms for the burden. I drew a deep breath, brushed my hair back from my face, and followed him, stooping below the lintel of the door.

  It wasn’t as bad as I had feared it might be, though bad enough. The woman, Hugh’s widow, was quiet, accepting Jamie’s soft Gaelic speech of condolence with bowed head, the tears slipping down her face like rain. She reached tentatively for the covering plaid, as though meaning to draw it down, but then her nerve failed, and she stood, one hand resting awkwardly on the curve of the shroud, while the other drew a small child close against her thigh.

  There were several children huddled near the fire—Hugh’s stepchildren—and a swaddled mass in the rough cradle nearest the hearth. I felt some small comfort, looking at the baby; at least this much of Hugh was left. Then the comfort was overwhelmed with a cold fear as I looked at the children, grimy faces blending with the shadows. Hugh had been their main support. Ewan was brave and willing, but he was no more than fourteen, and the next eldest child was a girl of twelve or so. How would they manage?

  The woman’s face was worn and lined, nearly toothless. I realized with a shock that she could be only a few years older than I was. She nodded toward the single bed, and Jamie laid the body gently on it. He spoke to her again in Gaelic; she shook her head hopelessly, still staring down at the long shape upon her bed.

  Jamie knelt down by the bed; bowed his head, and placed one hand on the corpse. His words were soft, but clearly spoken, and even my limited Gaelic could follow them.

  “I swear to thee, friend, and may God Almighty bear me witness. For the sake of your love to me, never shall those that are yours go wanting, while I have aught to give.” He knelt unmoving for a long moment, and there was no sound in the cottage but the crackle of the peat on the hearth and the soft patter of rain on the thatch. The wet had darkened Jamie’s bowed head; droplets of moisture shone jewel-like in the folds of his plaid. Then his hand tightened once in final farewell, and he rose.

  Jamie bowed to Mrs. Munro and turned to take my arm. Before we could leave, though, the cowhide that hung across the low doorway was thrust aside, and I stood back to make way for Mary Hawkins, followed by Murtagh.

  Mary looked both bedraggled and bewildered, a damp plaid clasped around her shoulders and her muddy bedroom slippers protruding under the sodden hem of her nightrobe. Spotting me, she pressed close to me as though grateful for my presence.

  “I didn’t w-want to come in,” she whispered to me, glancing shyly at Hugh Munro’s widow, “but Mr. Murtagh insisted.”

  Jamie’s brows were raised in inquiry, as Murtagh nodded respectfully to Mrs. Munro and said something to her in Gaelic. The little clansman looked just as he always did, dour and competent, but I thought there was an extra hint of dignity in his demeanor. He carried one of the saddlebags before him, bulging heavily with something. Perhaps a parting gift for Mrs. Munro, I thought.

  Murtagh laid the bag on the floor at my feet, then straightened up and looked from me to Mary, to Hugh Munro’s widow, and at last to Jamie, who looked as puzzled as I felt. Having thus assured himself of his audience, Murtagh bowed formally to me, a lock of wet dark hair falling free over his brow.

  “I bring ye your vengeance, lady,” he said, as quietly as I’d ever heard him speak. He straightened and inclined his head in turn to Mary and Mrs. Munro. “And justice for the wrong done to ye.”

  Mary sneezed, and wiped her nose hastily with a fold of her plaid. She stared at Murtagh, eyes wide and baffled. I gazed down at the bulging saddle-bag, feeling a sudden deep chill that owed nothing to the weather outside. But it was Hugh Munro’s widow who sank to her knees, and with steady hands opened the bag and drew out the head of the Duke of Sandringham.

  45

  DAMN ALL RANDALLS

  It was a torturous trip northward into Scotland. We had to dodge and hide, always afraid of being recognized as Highlanders, unable to buy or beg food, needing to steal small bits from unattended sheds or pluck the few edible roots I could find in the fields.

  Slowly, slowly, we made our way north. There was no telling where the Scottish army was by now, except that it lay to the north. With no way of telling where the army was, we decided to make for Edinburgh; there at least there would be news of the campaign. We had been out of touch for several weeks; I knew the relief of Stirling Castle by the English had failed, Jamie knew the Battle of Falkirk had succeeded, ending in victory for the Scots. But what had come after?

  When we rode at last into the cobbled gray street of the Royal Mile, Jamie went at once to the army’s headquarters, leaving me to go with Mary to Alex Randall’s quarters. We hurried up the street together, barely speaking, both too afraid of what we might find.

  He was there, and I saw Mary’s knees give way as she entered the room and collapsed by his bed. Startled from a doze, he opened his eyes and blinked once, then Alex Randall’s face blazed as though he had received a heavenly visitation.

  “Oh, God!” he kept muttering brokenly into her hair. “Oh, God. I thought…oh, Lord, I had prayed…one more sight of you. Just one. Oh, Lord!”

  Simply averting my gaze seemed insufficient; I went out onto the landing, and sat on the stairs for half an hour, resting my weary head on my knees.

  When it seemed decent to return, I went back into the small room, grown grimy and cheerless again in the weeks of Mary’s absence. I examined him, my hands gentle on the wasted flesh. I was surprised that he had lasted so long; it couldn’t be much longer.

  He saw the truth in my face, and nodded, unsurprised.

  “I waited,” he said softly, lying back in exhaustion on his pillows. “I hoped…she would come onc
e more. I had no reason…but I prayed. And now it is answered. I shall die in peace now.”

  “Alex!” Mary’s cry of anguish burst out of her as though his words had struck her a physical blow, but he smiled and pressed her hand.

  “We have known it for a long time, my love,” he whispered to her. “Don’t despair. I will be with you always, watching you, loving you. Don’t cry, my dearest.” She brushed obediently at her pink-washed cheeks, but could do nothing to stem the tears that came streaming down them. Despite her obvious despair, she had never looked so blooming.

  “Mrs. Fraser,” Alex said, clearly mustering his strength to ask one more favor. “I must ask…tomorrow…will you come again, and bring your husband? It is important.”

  I hesitated for a moment. Whatever Jamie found out, he was going to want to leave Edinburgh immediately, to join the army and find the rest of his men. But surely one more day could make no difference to the outcome of the war—and I could not deny the appeal in the two pairs of eyes that looked at me so hopefully.