The Scottish Prisoner: A Novel

by Diana Gabaldon

  Grey dodged back, too, but not quickly enough, and Jamie heard a strangled cry of protest from his own throat as a line of red opened as if by magic across the top of Grey’s leg, followed by a rapid curtain of blood crawling down the cloth of his breeches.

  Shit.

  Grey lunged, disregarding—or not noticing—the injury, and though his hurt leg gave way and he fell to one knee, he caught Twelvetrees a ringing blow with the flat of his saber, over the left ear. Twelvetrees staggered, shaking his head, and Grey got laboriously to his feet and lunged, missing his aim and slicing through the meat of Twelvetrees’s arm.

  Got you. Bastard. Got you!

  “Pity it’s not his sword arm,” muttered Quarry. “That would end it.”

  “Nothing will end this but death,” said Captain Honey. The young man was white to the lips, and Jamie wondered briefly if he’d ever seen a man killed before.

  Twelvetrees fell back, opening himself, and Grey rushed him, realizing too late that it was a trap; Twelvetrees brought the pommel of his sword down in a vicious thunk on Grey’s head, half-stunning him. Grey dropped his sword and lurched forward into Twelvetrees, though, flung his arms about the other man’s body, and fell back onto his good leg, lifting Twelvetrees over his hip and slamming him to the ground.

  Take that, arse-wipe! Christ, my ears are ringing, damn you … damn …

  “Oh, very pretty, sir, very pretty!” cried Dr. Hunter, beating his hands enthusiastically. “Did you ever see a more beautiful cross-buttock throw?”

  “Well, not in a duel, no,” Quarry said, blinking.

  Grey stood, mouth open and chest heaving. He picked up his saber, half-leaning on it as he fought for breath. Wisps of hair clung wetly to his face, and rivulets of blood coursed slowly down his cheek and his bare calf.

  “Do you … yield, sir?” he said.

  Come on, come on! Get up, let’s finish it! Hurry!

  Twelvetrees, winded from the fall, did not reply but, after a moment, succeeded in rolling over, slowly managing to get to his knees. He crawled to his fallen sword, picked it up, and got slowly to his feet, but in such a manner of deliberate menace as made his answer clear.

  Grey got his own sword up in time, and the sabers met with a sliding clash that locked their hilts. Without hesitation, Grey punched Twelvetrees in the face with his free hand. Twelvetrees grabbed at Grey’s head, caught his clubbed hair, and yanked hard, pulling Grey off balance. His arm was weakened by the cut, though, spattering blood, and he could not keep his grip—Grey got his saber loose and hacked viciously at the other’s body with a loud grunt.

  Jamie winced, hearing Twelvetrees’s hoarse cry and feeling that blow go home. He had a curving scar across his own ribs, inflicted by an English saber at Prestonpans.

  Grey pressed his advantage as Twelvetrees staggered back, but the ferret was wily and ducked under Grey’s lunge, collapsing onto one hand and thrusting upward, straight into Grey’s unprotected chest.

  Fuck!

  There was a gasp from all the watchers. Grey pulled loose, reeled backward, coughing, his shirt reddening. Twelvetrees got his legs under him, but it took him two tries to stand, his legs shaking visibly.

  Grey collapsed slowly to his knees, swaying to and fro, the saber hanging from his hand.

  Fuck …

  “Get up, me lord. Get up, please get up,” Tom was whispering in anguish, his hand clutching Quarry’s coat sleeve. Quarry was breathing like a boiling kettle.

  “He’s got to ask him to yield,” Quarry was muttering. “Got to. Infamous not to—oh, God.”

  Twelvetrees took a step toward Grey, unsteady, face set in a rictus that showed his sharp teeth. His mouth moved, but no words came out. He drew one step closer, drawing back his bloodied sword. One more step.

  One … more …

  And Grey’s saber rose fast and smooth, Grey rising after it, driving it home, hard into the ferret’s belly. There was an inhuman noise, but Jamie couldn’t tell which of them had made it. Grey let go of his sword and sat down suddenly on the grass, looking surprised. He looked up and smiled vaguely at Tom, then his eyes rolled up into his head and he fell backward, sprawled on the wet grass, welling blood.

  Oh … Jesus …

  Twelvetrees was still standing, hands closed around the blade in his belly, looking bemused. Dr. Hunter and Captain Honey were running across the grass and reached him just as he fell, catching him between them.

  Jamie wondered briefly whether Twelvetrees had given Captain Honey instructions regarding his body, but dismissed the thought as he ran across the grass to his friend.

  Take me … ho

  33

  Billets-Doux

  “IF THE BLOW HAD GONE BETWEEN YOUR RIBS, YOU’D BE dead, you know.”

  It wasn’t the first time Grey had heard this—it wasn’t even the first time he’d heard it from Hal—but it was the first time he’d had the strength to reply to it.

  “I know.” The thrust had in fact—he’d been told, first by Dr. Hunter, and then by Dr. Maguire, the Greys’ family physician, and finally by Dr. Latham, the regimental surgeon—struck him in the third rib, then sliced sideways for two or three inches before the tip of the saber had stuck in the bone of his sternum. It hadn’t hurt at the time; he’d just been conscious of the jolting force of the blow.

  “Hurt much?” Hal sat on his bed, peering closely at him.

  “Yes. Get off.”

  Hal didn’t move.

  “In your right mind, are you?”

  “Certainly. Are you?” Grey felt extremely cross. It did hurt, his bum had lost all feeling from sitting in bed, and now that the fever had passed, he was very hungry.

  “Twelvetrees died this morning.”

  “Oh.” He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again, feeling an apologetic gratitude for hunger and pain. “God rest his soul.”

  He’d known Twelvetrees was almost certain to die; it was rare to recover from a serious wound to the abdomen, and he’d felt his sword strike bone somewhere deep inside Twelvetrees; he’d gone through the man’s guts, entire. If blood loss and shock didn’t do for a man, infection would. Still, there was a somber finality to the news that jarred him.

  “Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “Has Reginald Twelvetrees sent round an official demand for my head yet? Or at least my arrest?”

  Hal shook his head, unamused.

  “He can’t say a word, not with everyone thinking—and saying—that Edward was a traitor. You’re more or less being hailed as a public hero.”

  Grey was staggered. “What? What for?”

  Hal gave him a raised eyebrow. “After you exposed Bernard Adams as a Jacobite plotter two years ago? And then what Fraser said to Twelvetrees at the Beefsteak? Everyone thinks you challenged him because of his treasonous behavior—not that they know what that was, thank God.”

  “But that—I didn’t—”

  “Well, I know you didn’t, ass,” his brother said. “But as you didn’t take out a notice in the newpapers saying he’d called you a pederast and you took exception to it—and he didn’t take out a notice saying he thought you were a menace to society and proposed to support his opinion by force of arms—the public has as usual made up its own mind.”

  Grey’s left arm was in a sling, but he rubbed his right hand hard over his stubbled face. He was disturbed by the news but not sure what to do about it, if anything could be done, once—

  “Oh, bloody hell,” he said. “The newspapers have got hold of it.”

  “Oh, yes.” A muscle twitched at the corner of Hal’s mouth. “Minnie’s saved a few of the better ones for you. When you’re feeling up to it.”

  Grey gave Hal a look. “When I feel up to it,” he said, “I have a thing or two to say to your wife.”

  Hal smiled broadly at that. “Be my guest,” he said. “And I hope you’ve a fine day for it.” He got up, jostling Grey’s bad leg. “Are you hungry? Cook has some revolting gruel for you. Also burnt toast
with calf’s-foot jelly.”

  “For God’s sake, Hal!” The mingled outrage and pleading in his voice appeared to move his brother.

  “I’ll see what I can do.” Hal leaned over and patted him quite gently on his good shoulder.

  “I’m glad you’re not dead. Wasn’t sure for a bit.”

  Hal went out before he could reply. Tears welled in John’s eyes, and he dashed at them with the sleeve of his nightshirt, muttering irritably in a vain attempt to convince himself that he wasn’t moved.

  Before he got very far with this, his attention was distracted by noise in the hallway: the sort of disturbance caused by small boys attempting to be quiet, with loud whisperings and shushings, punctuated by shoving and bumping into walls.

  “Come in,” he called, and the door opened. A small head poked cautiously round the corner.

  “Hallo, Ben. What’s a-do?”

  Benjamin’s face, apprehensive, relaxed at once in delight.

  “You all right, Uncle? Mama said if the sword—”

  “I know, I’d be dead. But I’m not, now, am I?”

  Ben squinted carefully at him, dubious, but decided to take this statement at face value and, turning round, rushed to the door, hissing something into the passage. He came dashing back, now followed by his younger brothers, Adam and Henry. All of them leapt on the bed, though Benjamin and Adam prevented Henry—who was only five and didn’t know better—from trying to sit in Grey’s lap.

  “Can we see where the sword went in, Uncle?” Adam asked.

  “I suppose so.” The wound had a dressing, but the doctor was coming later to change it, so no harm in pulling it off, he supposed. He unbuttoned his nightshirt one-handed and rather gingerly detached the bandage. His nephews’ awed admiration was more than adequate recompense for the discomfort involved.

  After the initial chorus of “Ooh!” Ben leaned forward to look more closely. It was a fairly impressive wound, Grey admitted, glancing down; whichever surgeon had seen to him—he hadn’t been in any condition to notice—had lengthened the original slash so as to be able to pick out the fragments of his sternum that Twelvetrees’s saber had dislodged and the bits of his shirt that had been driven into the wound. The result was a six-inch gash across the already scarred left side of his upper chest, a nasty dark red crisscrossed with coarse black stitches.

  “Does it hurt?” Ben asked seriously.

  “Not so bad,” Grey said. “The itching on my leg’s worse.”

  “Lemme see!” Henry began to scrabble at the bedclothes. The resultant squabble among the three brothers nearly pitched Grey onto the floor, but he managed to raise his voice enough to restore order, whereupon he pulled back the blanket and lifted his nightshirt to display the slash across the top of his thigh.

  It was a shallow wound, though impressively long, and while it did still hurt a bit, he’d been honest in saying the itching was worse. Doctor Maguire had recommended a poultice of magnesium sulfate, soap, and sugar, to draw the poisons from the wounds. Doctor Latham, arriving an hour later, had removed the poultice, saying this was all great nonsense, and air would help to dry the stitches.

  Grey had lain inert through both processes, having only enough strength to feel gratitude that Doctor Hunter had not come to give his opinion—he would probably have whipped out his saw and made off with the leg, thus settling the argument. Having renewed his acquaintance with the good doctor, he had somewhat more sympathy with Tobias Quinn and his horror of being anatomized after death.

  “You’ve got a big willy, Uncle John,” Adam observed.

  “About the usual for a grown man, I think. Though I believe it’s given fairly general satisfaction.”

  The boys all sniggered, though Grey thought that only Benjamin had any idea why, and wondered with interest where Ben’s tutor had been taking him. Adam and Henry were too young yet to go anywhere, being still in the nursery with Nanny, but Ben had a young man named Whibley who was meant to be teaching him the rudiments of Latin. Minnie said Mr. Whibley spent much more time making sheep’s eyes at the assistant cook than he did in dividing Gaul into three parts, but he did take Ben to the theater now and then, in the name of culture.

  “Mama says you killed the other man,” Adam remarked. “Where did you stick him?”

  “In the belly.”

  “Colonel Quarry said the other man was an uncon-she-ubble tick,” Benjamin said, working out the syllables carefully.

  “Unconscionable. Yes, I suppose so. I hope so.”

  “For why?” asked Adam.

  “If you have to kill someone, it’s best to have a reason.”

  All three boys nodded solemnly, like a nestful of owls, but then demanded more details of the duel, eager to hear how much blood there had been, how many times Uncle John had stuck the bad fellow, and what they had said to each other.

  “Did he call you vile names and utter foul oaths?” asked Benjamin.

  “Foul oafs,” Henry murmured happily to himself. “Foul oafs, foul oafs.”

  “I don’t think we said anything, really. That’s what your second does—he goes and talks to the other fellow’s second, and they try to see if things can be arranged so that you don’t need to fight.”

  This seemed a most peculiar notion to his audience, and the struggle to explain just why one wouldn’t always want to fight someone exhausted him, so that he greeted with relief the arrival of a footman bearing a tray—even though the tray bore nothing more than a bowl of gray slop that he assumed was gruel and another of bread and milk.

  The boys ate the bread and milk, passing the bowl round the bed in a companionable way, dribbling on the covers and vying with one another to tell him the news of the household: Nasonby had fallen down the front stair and had to have his ankle strapped up; Cook had had a disagreement with the fishmonger, who sent plaice instead of salmon, and so the fishmonger wouldn’t bring any more fish, and so supper last night was pancakes and they all pretended it was Shrove Tuesday; Lucy the spaniel had had her pups in the bottom of the upstairs linen closet, and Mrs. Weston the housekeeper had had a fit—

  “Did she fall down and foam at the mouth?” Grey asked, interested.

  “Probably,” Benjamin said cheerfully. “We didn’t get to look. Cook gave her sherry, though.”

  Henry and Adam were by now cuddling against his sides, their wriggly warmth and the sweet smell of their heads a comfort that, in his weakness, threatened to make him tearful again. To avoid this, Grey cleared his throat and asked Ben to recite something for him.

  Ben frowned thoughtfully, looking so much like Hal considering a hand of cards that Grey’s emotion changed abruptly to amusement. He managed not to laugh—it hurt his chest very much to laugh—and relaxed, listening to an execrably performed rendition of “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” this interrupted by the entrance of Minnie, followed by Pilcock with a second tray from which appetizing smells wafted.

  “Whatever are you doing to your poor uncle John?” she demanded. “Look what you’ve done to his bed! Off with the lot of you!”

  The bedroom purged, she looked down her nose at John and shook her head. She had on a tiny lace cap, with her ripe-wheat hair put up, and looked charmingly domestic.

  “Hal says the doctor be damned and Cook, too: you are to have steak and eggs, with a mixed grill. So steak you shall have, and if you die or burst or rot as a result, it will be your own fault.”

  Grey had already plunged a fork into a succulent grilled tomato and was chewing blissfully.

  “Oh, God,” he said. “Thank you. Thank Hal. Thank Cook. Thank everybody.” He swallowed and speared a mushroom.

  Despite her earlier disavowal, Minnie looked pleased. She loved feeding people. She motioned the footman off and sat down on the edge of the bed to enjoy the spectacle.

  “Hal said you wanted to scold me about something.” She didn’t look at all apprehensive at the prospect.

  “I didn’t say that,” Grey protested, pausing with a chunk of bloo
dy steak held in transit. “I just said I could do with a word.”

  She folded her hands and looked at him, not quite batting her eyelashes.

  “Well, actually, I meant to reproach you with sharing your insights regarding my motives with Mr. Fraser, but as it is …”

  “As it is, I was right about them?”

  He shrugged, mouth too full of steak to answer.

  “Of course I was,” she answered for him. “And as Mr. Fraser is no fool, I doubt he needed telling. He did, however, ask me why I thought you’d challenged Edward Twelvetrees. So I told him.”

  “Where … um … where is Mr. Fraser at the moment?” he asked, swallowing and reaching at once for a forkful of egg.

  “I suppose he’s where he has been for the last three days, reading his way through Hal’s library. And speaking of reading …” She lifted a small stack of letters—which he hadn’t noticed, his whole attention being focused on food—off the tray and deposited them on his stomach.

  They were tinted pink or blue and smelled of perfume. He looked at her, brows raised in inquiry.

  “Billets-doux,” she said sweetly. “From your admirers.”

  “What admirers?” he demanded, setting down his fork in order to remove the letters. “And how do you know what’s in them?”

  “I read them,” she said without the faintest blush. “As for whom, I doubt you know many of the ladies, though you’ve likely danced with some of them. There are a great many women, though—particularly young and giddy ones—who positively swoon over men who fight duels. The ones who survive, that is,” she added pragmatically.

  He opened a letter with his thumb and held it in one hand, going on eating with the other as he read it. His brows went up.

  “I’ve never met this woman. Yet she professes herself besotted with me—well, she’s certainly besotted, I’ll say that much—consumed with admiration for my valor, my excessive courage, my … Oh, dear.” He felt a slow blush rising in his own cheeks and put the letter down. “Are they all like that?”