Seven Stones to Stand or Fall

by Diana Gabaldon

  Jamie’s heart bounced into his throat. “Jesus. Did ye tell him what happened?”

  “I did not,” Ian said tersely. “I told him we’d had an accident wi’ the coach, and ye’d gone ahead with the women; I was comin’ back to fetch something left behind.”

  “Aye, good.” Jamie’s heart dropped back into his chest. The last thing he wanted was to have to tell the captain that they’d lost the girl and the Torah scroll. And he’d be damned if he would.

  THEY TRAVELED FAST, stopping only to ask questions now and then, and by the time they pounded into the village of Aubeterre-sur-Dronne, they were sure that their quarry lay no more than an hour ahead of them—if the women had passed on through the village.

  “Oh, those two?” said a woman, pausing in the act of scrubbing her steps. She stood up slowly, stretching her back. “I saw them, yes. They rode right by me and went down the lane there.” She pointed.

  “I thank you, madame,” Jamie said, in his best Parisian French. “What lies down that lane, please?”

  She looked surprised that they didn’t know and frowned a little at such ignorance.

  “Why, the chateau of the Vicomte Beaumont, to be sure!”

  “To be sure,” Jamie repeated, smiling at her, and Ian saw a dimple appear in her cheek in reply. “Merci beaucoup, madame!”

  “WHAT THE DEVIL…?” Ian murmured. Jamie reined up beside him, pausing to look at the place. It was a small manor house, somewhat run down but pretty in its bones. And the last place anyone would think to look for a runaway Jewess, he’d say that for it.

  “What shall we do now, d’ye think?” he asked, and Jamie shrugged and kicked his horse.

  “Go knock on the door and ask, I suppose.”

  Ian followed his friend up to the door, feeling intensely conscious of his grubby clothes, sprouting beard, and general state of uncouthness. Such concerns vanished, though, when Jamie’s forceful knock was answered.

  “Good day, gentlemen!” said the yellow-haired bugger Ian had last seen locked in combat in the roadbed with Jamie the day before. The man smiled broadly at them, cheerful despite an obvious black eye and a freshly split lip. He was dressed in the height of fashion, in a plum velvet suit; his hair was curled and powdered, and his yellow beard was neatly trimmed. “I hoped we would see you again. Welcome to my home!” he said, stepping back and raising his hand in a gesture of invitation.

  “I thank you, monsieur…?” Jamie said slowly, giving Ian a sidelong glance. Ian lifted one shoulder in the ghost of a shrug. Did they have a choice?

  The yellow-haired bugger bowed. “Pierre Robert Heriveaux d’Anton, Vicomte Beaumont, by the grace of the Almighty, for one more day. And you, gentlemen?”

  “James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser,” Jamie said, with a good attempt at matching the other’s grand manner. Only Ian would have noticed the faint hesitation or the slight tremor in his voice when he added, “Laird of Broch Tuarach.”

  “Ian Alastair Robert MacLeod Murray,” Ian said, with a curt nod, and straightened his shoulders. “His…er…the laird’s…tacksman.”

  “Come in, please, gentlemen.” The yellow-haired bugger’s eyes shifted just a little, and Ian heard the crunch of gravel behind them, an instant before he felt the prick of a dagger in the small of his back. No, they didn’t have a choice.

  Inside, they were relieved of their weapons, then escorted down a wide hallway and into a commodious parlor. The wallpaper was faded, and the furniture was good but shabby. By contrast, the big Turkey carpet on the floor glowed like it was woven from jewels. A big roundish thing in the middle was green and gold and red, and concentric circles with wiggly edges surrounded it in waves of blue and red and cream, bordered in a soft, deep red, and the whole of it so ornamented with unusual shapes it would take you a day to look at them all. He’d been so taken with it the first time he saw it, he’d spent a quarter of an hour looking at them, before Big Georges caught him at it and shouted at him to roll the thing up, they hadn’t all day.

  “Where did ye get this?” Ian asked abruptly, interrupting something the vicomte was saying to the two rough-clad men who’d taken their weapons.

  “What? Oh, the carpet! Yes, isn’t it wonderful?” The vicomte beamed at him, quite unself-conscious, and gestured the two roughs away toward the wall. “It’s part of my wife’s dowry.”

  “Your wife,” Jamie repeated carefully. He darted a sideways glance at Ian, who took the cue.

  “That would be Mademoiselle Hauberger, would it?” he asked. The vicomte blushed—actually blushed—and Ian realized that the man was no older than he and Jamie were.

  “Well. It—we—we have been betrothed for some time, and in Jewish custom, that is almost like being married.”

  “Betrothed,” Jamie echoed again. “Since…when, exactly?”

  The vicomte sucked in his lower lip, contemplating them. But whatever caution he might have had was overwhelmed in what were plainly very high spirits.

  “Four years,” he said. And, unable to contain himself, he beckoned them to a table near the window and proudly showed them a fancy document covered with colored scrolly sorts of things and written in some very odd language that was all slashes and tilted lines.

  “This is our ketubah,” he said, pronouncing the word very carefully. “Our marriage contract.”

  Jamie bent over to peer closely at it. “Aye, verra nice,” he said politely. “I see it’s no been signed yet. The marriage hasna taken place, then?”

  Ian saw Jamie’s eyes flick over the desk and could sense him passing the possibilities through his mind: grab the letter opener off the desk and take the vicomte hostage? Then find the sly wee bitch, roll her up in one of the smaller rugs, and carry her to Paris? That would doubtless be his own job, Ian thought.

  A slight movement as one of the roughs shifted his weight, catching Ian’s eye, and he thought, Don’t do it, eejit! at Jamie, as hard as he could. For once, the message seemed to get through; Jamie’s shoulders relaxed a little and he straightened up.

  “Ye do ken the lass is meant to be marrying someone else?” he asked baldly. “I wouldna put it past her not to tell ye.”

  The vicomte’s color became higher. “Certainly I know!” he snapped. “She was promised to me first, by her father!”

  “How long have ye been a Jew?” Jamie asked carefully, edging round the table. “I dinna think ye were born to it. I mean—ye are a Jew now, aye? For I kent one or two, in Paris, and it’s my understanding that they dinna marry people who aren’t Jewish.” His eyes flicked round the solid, handsome room. “It’s my understanding that they mostly aren’t aristocrats, either.”

  The vicomte was quite red in the face by now. With a sharp word, he sent the roughs out—though they were disposed to argue. While the brief discussion was going on, Ian edged closer to Jamie and whispered rapidly to him about the rug in Gàidhlig.

  “Holy God,” Jamie muttered in the same language. “I didna see him or either of those two at Bèguey, did you?”

  Ian had no time to reply and merely shook his head, as the roughs reluctantly acquiesced to Vicomte Beaumont’s imperious orders and shuffled out with narrowed eyes aimed at Ian and Jamie. One of them had Jamie’s dirk in his hand and drew this slowly across his neck in a meaningful gesture as he left.

  Aye, they might manage in a fight, Ian thought, returning the slit-eyed glare, but not that wee velvet gomerel. Captain D’Eglise wouldn’t have taken on the vicomte, and neither would a band of professional highwaymen, Jewish or not.

  “All right,” the vicomte said abruptly, leaning his fists on the desk. “I’ll tell you.”

  And he did. Rebekah’s mother, the daughter of Dr. Hasdi, had fallen in love with a Christian man and run away with him. The doctor had declared his daughter dead, as was the usual way in such a situation, and done formal mourning for her. But she was his only child, and he had not been able to forget her. He had arranged to have information brought to him and knew about Rebekah’
s birth.

  “Then her mother died. That’s when I met her—about that time, I mean. Her father was a judge, and my father knew him. She was fourteen and I sixteen; I fell in love with her. And she with me,” he added, giving the Scots a hard eye, as though daring them to disbelieve it. “We were betrothed, with her father’s blessing. But then her father caught a flux and died in two days. And—”

  “And her grandfather took her back,” Jamie finished. “And she became a Jew?”

  “By Jewish belief, she was born Jewish; it descends through the mother’s line. And…her mother had told her, privately, about her lost heritage. She embraced it, once she went to live with her grandfather.”

  Ian stirred and cocked a cynical eyebrow. “Aye? Why did ye not convert then, if ye’re willing to do it now?”

  “I said I would!” The vicomte had one fist curled round his letter opener as though he would strangle it. “The miserable old wretch said he did not believe me. He thought I would not give up my—my—this life.” He waved a hand dismissively around the room, encompassing, presumably, his title and property, both of which would be confiscated by the government the moment his conversion became known.

  “He said it would be a sham conversion and that the moment I had her I would become a Christian again and force Rebekah to be Christian, too. Like her father,” he added darkly.

  Despite the situation, Ian was beginning to have some sympathy for the wee popinjay. It was a very romantic tale, and he was partial to those. Jamie, however, was still reserving judgment. He gestured at the rug beneath their feet.

  “Her dowry, ye said?”

  “Yes,” said the vicomte, but sounded much less certain. “She says it belonged to her mother. She had some men bring it here last week, along with a chest and a few other things. Anyway,” he said, resuming his self-confidence and glowering at them, “when the old beast arranged her marriage to that fellow in Paris, I made up my mind to—to—”

  “To abduct her. By arrangement, aye? Mmphm,” Jamie said, his noise indicating his opinion of the vicomte’s skills as a highwayman. He raised one red brow at Pierre’s black eye but forbore to make any more remarks, thank God. It hadn’t escaped Ian that they were prisoners, though it maybe had Jamie.

  “May we speak with Mademoiselle Hauberger?” Ian asked politely. “Just to be sure she’s come of her own free will, aye?”

  “Rather plainly she did, since you followed her here.” The vicomte hadn’t liked Jamie’s noise. “No, you may not. She’s busy.” He raised his hands and clapped them sharply, and the rough fellows came back in, along with a half dozen or so male servants as reinforcement, led by a tall, severe-looking butler armed with a stout walking-stick.

  “Go with Ecrivisse, gentlemen. He’ll see to your comfort.”

  “COMFORT” PROVED TO be the chateau’s wine cellar, which was fragrant but cold. Also dark. The vicomte’s hospitality did not extend so far as a candle.

  “If he meant to kill us, he’d have done it already,” Ian reasoned.

  “Mmphm.” Jamie sat on the stairs, the fold of his plaid pulled up around his shoulders against the chill. There was music coming from somewhere outside: the faint sound of a fiddle and the tap of a little hand drum. It started, then stopped, then started again.

  Ian wandered restlessly to and fro; it wasn’t a very large cellar. If he didn’t mean to kill them, what did the vicomte intend to do with them?

  “He’s waiting for something to happen,” Jamie said suddenly, answering the thought. “Something to do wi’ the lass, I expect.”

  “Aye, reckon.” Ian sat down on the stairs, nudging Jamie over. “A Dhia, that’s cold!”

  “Mm,” said Jamie absently. “Maybe they mean to run. If so, I hope he leaves someone behind to let us out and doesna leave us here to starve.”

  “We wouldna starve,” Ian pointed out logically. “We could live on wine for a good long time. Someone would come before it ran out.” He paused a moment, trying to imagine what it would be like to stay drunk for several weeks.

  “That’s a thought.” Jamie got up, a little stiff from the cold, and went off to rummage the racks. There was no light to speak of, save what seeped through the crack at the bottom of the door to the cellar, but Ian could hear Jamie pulling out bottles and sniffing the corks.

  He came back in a bit with a bottle and, sitting down again, drew the cork with his teeth and spat it to one side. He took a sip, then another, and tilted back the bottle for a generous swig, then handed it to Ian.

  “No bad,” he said.

  It wasn’t, and there wasn’t much conversation for the next little while. Eventually, though, Jamie set the empty bottle down, belched gently, and said, “It’s her.”

  “What’s her? Rebekah, ye mean. I daresay.” Then after a moment, “What’s her?”

  “It’s her,” Jamie repeated. “Ken what the Jew said—Ephraim bar-Sefer? About how his gang knew where to strike, because they got information from some outside source? It’s her. She told them.”

  Jamie spoke with such certainty that Ian was staggered for a moment, but then he marshaled his wits.

  “That wee lass? Granted, she put one over on us—and I suppose she at least kent about Pierre’s abduction, but…”

  Jamie snorted. “Aye, Pierre. Does the mannie strike ye either as a criminal or a great schemer?”

  “No, but—”

  “Does she?”

  “Well…”

  “Exactly.”

  Jamie got up and wandered off into the racks again, this time returning with what smelled to Ian like one of the very good local red wines. It was like drinking his mam’s strawberry preserves on toast with a cup of strong tea, he thought approvingly.

  “Besides,” Jamie went on, as though there’d been no interruption in his train of thought, “mind what ye told me the maid said, when I got my heid half-stove in? ‘Perhaps he’s been killed, too. How would you feel then?’ Nay, she’d planned the whole thing—to have Pierre and his lads stop the coach and make away with the women and the scroll and doubtless Monsieur Pickle, too. But,” he added, sticking up a finger in front of Ian’s face to stop him interrupting, “then Josef-from-Alsace tells ye that thieves—and the same thieves as before, or some of them—attacked the band wi’ the dowry money. Ye ken well that canna have been Pierre. It had to be her who told them.”

  Ian was forced to admit the logic of this. Pierre had enthusiasm but couldn’t possibly be considered a professional highwayman.

  “But a lass…” he said helplessly. “How could she—”

  Jamie grunted. “D’Eglise said Dr. Hasdi’s a man much respected among the Jews of Bordeaux. And plainly he’s kent as far as Paris, or how else did he make the match for his granddaughter? But he doesna speak French. Want to bet me that she didna manage his correspondence?”

  “No,” Ian said, and took another swallow. “Mmphm.”

  Some minutes later he said, “That rug. And the other things Monsieur le Vicomte mentioned—her dowry.”

  Jamie made an approving noise. “Aye. Her percentage of the take, more like. Ye can see our lad Pierre hasna got much money, and he’d lose all his property when he converted. She was feathering their nest, like—makin’ sure they’d have enough to live on. Enough to live well on.”

  “Well, then,” Ian said, after a moment’s silence. “There ye are.”

  THE AFTERNOON dragged on. After the second bottle, they agreed to drink no more for the time being, in case a clear head should be necessary if or when the door at last opened, and aside from going off now and then to have a pee behind the farthest wine racks, they stayed huddled on the stairs.

  Jamie was singing softly along to the fiddle’s distant tune when the door finally did open. He stopped abruptly and lunged awkwardly to his feet, nearly falling, his knees stiff with cold.

  “Monsieurs?” said the butler, peering down at them. “If you will be so kind as to follow me, please?”

  To their surprise, t
he butler led them straight out of the house and down a small path, in the direction of the distant music. The air outside was fresh and wonderful after the must of the cellar, and Jamie filled his lungs with it, wondering what the devil…?

  Then they rounded a bend in the path and saw a garden court before them, lit by torches driven into the ground. Somewhat overgrown, but with a fountain tinkling away in the center—and just by the fountain a sort of canopy, its cloth glimmering pale in the dusk. There was a little knot of people standing near it, talking, and as the butler paused, holding them back with one hand, Vicomte Beaumont broke away from the group and came toward them, smiling.

  “My apologies for the inconvenience, gentlemen,” he said, a huge smile splitting his face. He looked drunk, but Jamie thought he wasn’t—no smell of spirits. “Rebekah had to prepare herself. And we wanted to wait for nightfall.”

  “To do what?” Ian asked suspiciously, and the vicomte giggled. Jamie didn’t mean to wrong the man, but it was a giggle. He gave Ian an eye and Ian gave it back. Aye, it was a giggle.

  “To be married,” Pierre said, and while his voice was still full of joie de vivre, he said the words with a sense of deep reverence that struck Jamie somewhere in the chest. Pierre turned and waved a hand toward the darkening sky, where the stars were beginning to prick and sparkle. “For luck, you know—that our descendants may be as numerous as the stars.”

  “Mmphm,” Jamie said politely.

  “But come with me, if you will.” Pierre was already striding back to the knot of…well, Jamie supposed they must be wedding guests. The vicomte beckoned to the Scots to follow.

  Marie the maid was there, along with a few other women; she gave Jamie and Ian a wary look. But it was the men with whom the vicomte was concerned. He spoke a few words to his guests, and three men with enormous beards came back with him, all dressed formally, if somewhat oddly, with little velvet skullcaps decorated with beads.

  “May I present Monsieur Gershom Sanders and Monsieur Levi Champfleur. Our witnesses. And Reb Cohen, who will officiate.”