Dragonfly in Amber, Page 69

  Jamie, still pale and tight-faced, was beginning to recover.

  “Aye, he has,” he said briefly. His hand snaked out for the unopened letter remaining on the table—a heavy vellum, with the Stuart crest showing plainly in the wax seal. Jamie ripped the letter open impatiently, tearing the paper. He read it quickly, then dropped it on the table as though it burned his hands.

  “An apology,” he said hoarsely. “For lacking the time to send me the document, in order that I might sign it myself. And his gratitude, for my loyal support. Jesus, Claire! What am I going to do?”

  It was a cry from the heart, and one to which I had no answer. I watched helplessly as he sank onto a hassock and sat staring, rigid, at the fire.

  Jenny, transfixed by all this drama, moved now to take up the letters and the broadsheet. She read them over carefully, her lips moving slightly as she did so, then set them gently down on the polished tabletop. She looked at them, frowning, then crossed to her brother, and laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “Jamie,” she said. Her face was very pale. “There’s only the one thing ye can do, my dearie. Ye must go and fight for Charles Stuart. Ye must help him win.”

  The truth of her words penetrated slowly through the layers of shock that wrapped me. The publication of this Bond of Association branded those who signed it as rebels, and as traitors to the English crown. It didn’t matter now how Charles had managed, or where he had gotten the funds to begin; he was well and truly launched on the seas of rebellion, and Jamie—and I—were launched with him, willy-nilly. There was, as Jenny had said, no choice.

  My eye caught Charles’s letter, where it had fallen from Jamie’s hand. “…Though there be manie who tell me I am foolish to embark in this werk without the support of Louis—or at least of his bankes!—I will entertain no notion at all of returning to that place from whence I come,” it read. “Rejoice with me, my deare frend, for I am come Home.”

  35

  MOONLIGHT

  As the preparations for leaving went forward, a current of excitement and speculation ran all through the estate. Weapons hoarded since the Rising of the ’15 were excavated from thatch and hayrick and hearth, burnished and sharpened. Men met in passing and paused to talk in earnest groups, heads together under the hot August sun. And the women grew quiet, watching them.

  Jenny shared with her brother the capacity to be opaque, to give no clue of what she was thinking. Transparent as a pane of glass myself, I rather envied this ability. So, when she asked me one morning if I would fetch Jamie to her in the brewhouse, I had no notion of what she might want with him.

  Jamie stepped in behind me and stood just within the door of the brewhouse, waiting as his eyes adjusted to the dimness. He took a deep breath, inhaling the bitter, damp pungency with evident enjoyment.

  “Ahh,” he said, sighing dreamily. “I could get drunk in here just by breathing.”

  “Weel, hold your breath, then, for a moment, for I need ye sober,” his sister advised.

  He obligingly inflated his lungs and puffed out his cheeks, waiting. Jenny poked him briskly in the stomach with the handle of her masher, making him double over in an explosion of breath.

  “Clown,” she said, without rancor. “I wanted to talk to ye about Ian.”

  Jamie took an empty bucket from the shelf, and upturning it, sat down on it. A faint glow from the oiled-paper window above him lit his hair with a deep copper gleam.

  “What about Ian?” he asked.

  Now it was Jenny’s turn to take a deep breath. The wide bran tub before her gave off a damp warmth of fermentation, filled with the yeasty aroma of grain, hops, and alcohol.

  “I want ye to take Ian with you, when ye go.”

  Jamie’s eyebrows flew up, but he didn’t say anything immediately. Jenny’s eyes were fixed on the motions of the masher, watching the smooth roil of the mixture. He looked at her thoughtfully, big hands hanging loose between his thighs.

  “Tired of marriage, are ye?” he asked conversationally. “Likely it would be easier just for me to take him out in the wood and shoot him for ye.” There was a quick flash of blue eyes over the mash tub.

  “If I want anyone shot, Jamie Fraser, I’ll do it myself. And Ian wouldna be my first choice as target, either.”

  He snorted briefly, and one corner of his mouth quirked up.

  “Oh, aye? Why, then?”

  Her shoulders moved in a seamless rhythm, one motion fading into the next.

  “Because I’m asking ye.”

  Jamie spread his right hand out on his knee, absently stroking the jagged scar that zigzagged its way down his middle finger.

  “It’s dangerous, Jenny,” he said quietly.

  “I know that.”

  He shook his head slowly, still gazing down at his hand. It had healed well, and he had good use of it, but the stiff fourth finger and the roughened patch of scar tissue on the back gave it an odd, crooked appearance.

  “You think ye know.”

  “I know, Jamie.”

  His head came up, then. He looked impatient, but was striving to stay reasonable.

  “Aye, I know Ian will ha’ told ye stories, about fighting in France, and all. But you’ve no notion how it really is, Jenny. Mo cridh, it isna a matter of a cattle raid. It’s a war, and likely to be a damn bloody shambles of one, too. It’s—”

  The masher struck the side of the tub with a clack and fell back into the mash.

  “Don’t tell me I dinna ken what it’s like!” Jenny blazed at him. “Stories, is it? Who d’ye think nursed Ian when he came home from France wi’ half a leg and a fever that nearly killed him?”

  She slapped her hand flat on the bench. The stretched nerves had snapped.

  “Don’t know? I don’t know? I picked the maggots out of the raw flesh of his stump, because his own mother couldna bring herself to do it! I held the hot knife against his leg to seal the wound! I smelled his flesh searing like a roasted pig and listened to him scream while I did it! D’ye dare to stand there and tell me I…don’t…KNOW how it is!”

  Angry tears ran down her cheeks. She brushed at them, groping in her pocket for a handkerchief.

  Lips pressed tight together, Jamie rose, pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve, and handed it to her. He knew better than to touch or try to comfort her. He stood staring at her for a moment as she wiped furiously at her eyes and dripping nose.

  “Aye, well, ye know, then,” he said. “And yet you want me to take him?”

  “I do.” She blew her nose and wiped it briskly, then tucked the handkerchief in her pocket.

  “He kens well enough that he’s crippled, Jamie. Kens it a good bit too well. But he could manage with ye. There’s a horse for him; he wouldna have to walk.”

  He made an impatient gesture with one hand.

  “Could he manage is no the question, is it? A man can do what he thinks he must—why do you think he must?”

  Composed once more, she fished the tool out of the mash and shook it. Brown droplets spattered into the tub.

  “He hasna asked ye, has he? Whether ye’ll need him or no?”

  “No.”

  She stabbed the masher back into the tub and resumed her work.

  “He thinks ye wilna want him because he’s lame, and that he’d be no use to ye.” She looked up then, troubled dark-blue eyes the twins of her brother’s. “Ye knew Ian before, Jamie. He’s different now.”

  He nodded reluctantly, resuming his seat on the bucket.

  “Aye. Well, but ye’d expect it, no? And he seems well enough.” He looked up at his sister and smiled.

  “He’s happy wi’ ye, Jenny. You and the bairns.”

  She nodded, black curls bobbing.

  “Aye, he is,” she said softly. “But that’s because he’s a whole man to me, and always will be.” She looked directly at her brother. “But if he thinks he’s of no use to you, he wilna be whole to himself. And that’s why I’ll have ye take him.”

  Jamie laced his ha
nds together, elbows braced on his knees, and rested his chin on his linked knuckles.

  “This wilna be like France,” he said quietly. “Fighting there, ye risk no more than your life in battle. Here…” He hesitated, then went on. “Jenny, this is treason. If it goes wrong, those that follow the Stuarts are like to end on a scaffold.”

  Her normally pale complexion went a shade whiter, but her motions didn’t slow.

  “There’s nay choice for me,” he went on, eyes steady on her. “But will ye risk us both? Will ye have Ian look down from the gallows on the fire waiting for his entrails? You’ll chance raising your bairns wi’out their father—to save his pride?” His face was nearly as pale as hers, glimmering in the darkness of the brewhouse.

  The strokes of the masher were slower now, without the fierce velocity of her earlier movements, but her voice held all the conviction of her slow, inexorable mashing.

  “I’ll have a whole man,” she said steadily. “Or none.”

  Jamie sat without moving for a long moment, watching his sister’s dark head bent over her work.

  “All right,” he said at last, quietly. She didn’t look up or vary her movements, but the white kertch seemed to incline slightly toward him.

  He sighed explosively, then rose and turned abruptly to me.

  “Come on out of here, Sassenach,” he said. “Christ, I must be drunk.”

  * * *

  “What makes ye think you can order me about?” The vein in Ian’s temple throbbed fiercely. Jenny’s hand squeezed mine tighter.

  Jamie’s assertion that Ian would accompany him to join the Stuart army had been met first with incredulity, then with suspicion, and—as Jamie persisted—anger.

  “You’re a fool,” Ian declared flatly. “I’m a cripple, and ye ken it well enough.”

  “I ken you’re a bonny fighter, and there’s none I’d rather have by my side in a battle,” Jamie said firmly. His face gave no sign of doubts or hesitation; he had agreed to Jenny’s request, and would carry it out, no matter what. “You’ve fought there often enough; will ye desert me now?”

  Ian waved an impatient hand, dismissing this flattery. “That’s as may be. If my leg comes off or gives way, there’s precious little fighting I’ll do—I’ll be lyin’ on the ground like a worm, waiting for the first Redcoat who comes by to spit me. And beyond that”—he scowled at his brother-in-law—“who d’ye think will mind this place for ye until you come back, and I’m off to the wars with ye?”

  “Jenny,” Jamie replied promptly. “I shall leave enough men behind that they can be seeing to the work; she can manage the accounts well enough.”

  Ian’s brows shot up, and he said something very rude in Gaelic.

  “Pog ma mahon! You’ll ha’ me leave her to run the place alone, wi’ three small bairns at her apron, and but half the men needed? Man, ye’ve taken leave o’ your senses!” Flinging up both hands, Ian swung around to the sideboard where the whisky was kept.

  Jenny, seated next to me on the sofa with Katherine on her lap, made a small sound under her breath. Her hand sought mine under cover of our mingled skirts, and I squeezed her fingers.

  “What makes ye think ye can order me about?”

  Jamie eyed his brother-in-law’s tense back for a moment, scowling. Suddenly, a muscle at the corner of his mouth twitched.

  “Because I’m bigger than you are,” he said belligerently, still scowling.

  Ian rounded on him, incredulity stamped on his face. Indecision played in his eyes for less than a second. His shoulders squared up and his chin lifted.

  “I’m older than you,” he answered, with an identical scowl.

  “I’m stronger.”

  “No, you’re not!”

  “Aye, I am!”

  “No, I am!”

  A vein of dead seriousness underlay the laughter in their voices; while this little confrontation might be passed off as all in fun, they were as intent on each other as they had ever been in youth or childhood, and the echoes of challenge rang in Jamie’s voice as he ripped loose his cuff and jerked back the sleeve of his shirt.

  “Prove it,” he said. He cleared the chess table with a careless sweep of the hand, sat down and braced his elbow on the inlaid surface, fingers flexed for an offensive. Deep blue eyes glared up into Ian’s dark-brown ones, hot with the same anger.

  Ian took half a second to appraise the situation, then jerked his head in a brief nod of acceptance, making his heavy sheaf of dark hair flop into his eyes.

  With calm deliberation, he brushed it back, unfastened his cuff, and rolled his sleeve to the shoulder, turn by turn, never taking his eyes from his brother-in-law.

  From where I stood, I could see Ian’s face, a little flushed under his tan, long, narrow chin set in determination. I couldn’t see Jamie’s face, but the determination was eloquently expressed by the line of back and shoulders.

  The two men set their elbows carefully, maneuvering to find a good spot, rubbing back and forth with the point of the elbow to be sure the surface was not slippery.

  With due ritual, Jamie spread his fingers, palm toward Ian. Ian carefully placed his own palm against it. The fingers matched, touching for a moment in a mirror image, then shifted, one to the right and one to the left, linked and clasping.

  “Ready?” Jamie asked.

  “Ready.” Ian’s voice was calm, but his eyes gleamed under the feathery brows.

  The muscles tensed at once, all along the length of the two arms, springing into sharp definition as they shifted in their seats, seeking leverage.

  Jenny caught my eye and rolled her eyes heavenward. Whatever she had been expecting of Jamie, it wasn’t this.

  Both men were focused on the straining knot of fingers, to the exclusion of everything else. Both faces were deep red with exertion, sweat damping the hair on their temples, eyes bulging slightly with effort. Suddenly I saw Jamie’s gaze break from its concentration on the clenched fists as he saw Ian’s lips clamp tighter. Ian felt the shift, looked up, met Jamie’s eyes…and the two men burst into laughter.

  The hands clung for a moment longer, locked in spasm, then fell apart.

  “A draw, then,” said Jamie, pushing back a strand of sweat-damp hair. He shook his head good-naturedly at Ian.

  “All right, man. If I could order ye, I wouldna do it. But I can ask, no? Will ye come with me?”

  Ian dabbed at the side of his neck, where a runnel of sweat dampened his collar. His gaze roamed about the room, resting for a moment on Jenny. Her face was no paler than usual, but I could see the hasty pulse, beating just below the angle of her jaw. Ian stared at her intently as he rolled his sleeve down again, in careful turns. I could see a deep pink flush begin to rise from the neck of her gown.

  Ian rubbed his jaw as though thinking, then turned toward Jamie and shook his head.

  “No, my jo,” he said softly. “Ye need me here, and here I shall stay.” His eyes rested on Jenny, with Katherine held against her shoulder, and on small Maggie, clutching her mother’s skirt with grubby hands. And on me. Ian’s long mouth curled in a slight smile. “I shall stay here,” he repeated. “Guardin’ your weak side, man.”

  * * *

  “Jamie?”

  “Aye?” The answer came at once; I knew he hadn’t been asleep, though he lay still as a figure carved on a tomb. It was moon-bright in the room, and I could see his face when I rose on my elbow; he was staring upward, as though he could see beyond the heavy beams to the open night and the stars beyond.

  “You aren’t going to try to leave me behind, are you?” I wouldn’t have thought of asking were it not for the scene with Ian, earlier in the evening. For once it was settled that Ian would stay, Jamie had sat down with him to issue orders—choosing who would march with the laird to the aid of the Prince, who would stay behind to tend to animals and pasture and the maintenance of Lallybroch.

  I knew it had been a wrenching process of decision, though he gave no sign of it, calmly discussing with Ia
n whether Ross the smith could be spared to go and deciding that he could, though the ploughshares needed for the spring must all be in good repair before leaving. Whether Joseph Fraser Kirby might go, and deciding that he should not, as he was the main support not only of his own family but that of his widowed sister. Brendan was the oldest boy of both families, and at nine, ill-prepared to replace his father, should Joseph not come home.

  It was a matter for the most delicate planning. How many men should go, to have some impact on the course of the war? For Jenny was right, Jamie had no choice now—no choice but to help Charles Stuart win. And to that end, as many men and arms as could possibly be summoned should be thrown into the cause.

  But on the other side was me, and my deadly knowledge—and lack of it. We had succeeded in preventing Charles Stuart from getting money to finance his rebellion; and still the Bonnie Prince, reckless, feckless, and determined to claim his legacy, had landed to rally the clans at Glenfinnan. From a further letter from Jared, we had learned that Charles had crossed the Channel with two small frigates, provided by one Antoine Walsh, a sometime-slaver with an eye for opportunity. Apparently, he saw Charles’s venture as less risky than a slaving expedition, a gamble in which he might or might not be justified. One frigate had been waylaid by the English; the other had landed Charles safe on the isle of Eriskay.