I sank down on the bed, gazing around helplessly.
“Now what do we do?” I asked. Dinner had passed with little to remark, but I had felt the weight of Lovat’s eyes on me from time to time.
Jamie shrugged, pulling his shirt over his head.
“Damned if I know, Sassenach,” he said. “They asked me the state of the Highland army, the condition of the troops, what I knew of His Highness’s plans. I told them. And then they asked it all again. My grandfather’s no inclined to think anyone could be giving him a straight answer,” he added dryly. “He thinks everyone must be as twisted as himself, wi’ a dozen different motives; one for every occasion.”
He shook his head and tossed the shirt onto the bed next to me.
“He canna tell whether I might be lying about the state of the Highland army or no. For if I wanted him to join the Stuarts, then I might say as how things were better than they are, where if I didna care personally, one way or the other, then I might tell the truth. And he doesna mean to commit himself one way or the other until he thinks he knows where I stand.”
“And just how does he mean to tell whether you are telling the truth?” I asked skeptically.
“He has a seer,” he replied casually, as though this were one of the normal furnishings of a Highland castle. For all I knew, it was.
“Really?” I sat up on the bed, intrigued. “Is that the odd-looking woman he threw out into the hall?”
“Aye. Her name’s Maisri, and she’s had the Sight since she was born. But she couldna tell him anything—or wouldn’t,” he added. “It was clear enough she knows something, but she’d do naught but shake her head and say she couldn’t see. That’s when my grandsire lost patience and struck her.”
“Bloody old crumb!” I said, indignant.
“Well, he’s no the flower o’ gallantry,” Jamie agreed.
He poured out a basin of water and began to splash handfuls over his face. He looked up, startled and streaming, at my gasp.
“Hah?”
“Your stomach …” I said, pointing. The skin between breastbone and kilt was mottled with a large fresh bruise, spreading like a large, unsightly blossom on his fair skin.
Jamie glanced down, said “Oh, that,” dismissively, and returned to his washing.
“Yes, that,” I said, coming to take a closer look. “What happened?”
“It’s no matter,” he said, speech coming thickly through a towel. “I spoke a bit hasty this afternoon, and my grandsire had Young Simon give me a small lesson in respect.”
“So he had a couple of minor Frasers hold you while he punched you in the belly?” I said, feeling slightly ill.
Tossing the towel aside, Jamie reached for his nightshirt.
“Verra flattering of you to suppose it took two to hold me,” he said, grinning as his head popped through the opening. “Actually, there were three; one was behind, chokin’ me.”
“Jamie!”
He laughed, shaking his head ruefully as he pulled back the quilt on the bed.
“I don’t know what it is about ye, Sassenach, that always makes me want to show off for ye. Get myself killed one of these days, tryin’ to impress ye, I expect.” He sighed, gingerly smoothing the woolen shirt over his stomach. “It’s only play-acting, Sassenach; ye shouldna worry.”
“Play-acting! Good God, Jamie!”
“Have ye no seen a strange dog join a pack, Sassenach? The others sniff at him, and nip at his legs, and growl, to see will he cower or growl back at them. And sometimes it comes to biting, and sometimes not, but at the end of it, every dog in the pack knows his place, and who’s leader. Old Simon wants to be sure I ken who leads this pack; that’s all.”
“Oh? And do you?” I lay down, waiting for him to come to bed. He picked up the candle and grinned down at me, the flickering light picking up a blue gleam in his eyes.
“Woof,” he said, and blew out the candle.
* * *
I saw very little of Jamie for the next two weeks, save at night. During the day, he was always with his grandfather, hunting or riding—for Lovat was a vigorous man, despite his age—or drinking in the study, as the Old Fox slowly drew his conclusions and laid his plans.
I spent most of my time with Frances and the other women. Out of the shadow of her redoubtable old father, Frances gained enough courage to speak her own mind, and proved an intelligent and interesting companion. She had the responsibility for the smooth running of the castle and its staff, but when her father appeared on the scene, she dwindled into insignificance, seldom raising her eyes or speaking above a whisper. I wasn’t sure I blamed her.
Two weeks after our arrival, Jamie came to fetch me from the drawing room where I sat with Frances and Aline, saying that Lord Lovat wished to see me.
Old Simon waved a casual hand at the decanters set on the table by the wall, then sat down in a wide-seated chair of carved walnut, with crushed padding in well-worn blue velvet. The chair fitted his short, stocky form as though it had been built around him; I wondered whether it had in fact been built to order, or whether, from long use, he had grown into the shape of the chair.
I sat down quietly in a corner with my glass of port, and kept quiet while Simon questioned Jamie once again about Charles Stuart’s situation and prospects.
For the twentieth time in a week, Jamie patiently rehearsed the number of troops available, the structure of command—insofar as one existed—the armament on hand and its condition—mostly poor—the prospects of Charles being joined by Lord Lewis Gordon or the Farquharsons, what Glengarry had said following Prestonpans, what Cameron knew or deduced of the movement of English troops, why Charles had decided to march south, and so on and so forth. I found myself nodding over the cup in my hand, and jerked myself into wakefulness, just in time to keep the ruby liquid from tipping onto my skirt.
“… and Lord George Murray and Kilmarnock both think His Highness would be best advised to pull back into the Highlands for the winter,” Jamie concluded, yawning widely. Cramped on the narrow-backed chair he had been given, he rose and stretched, his shadow flickering on the pale hangings that covered the stone walls.
“And what d’ye think, yourself?” Old Simon’s eyes glittered under half-fallen lids as he leaned back in his chair. The fire burned high and bright on the hearth; Frances had smoored the fire in the main hall, covering it with peats, but this one had been rekindled at Lovat’s order, and with wood, not peat. The smell of pine resin from the burning wood was sharp, mingled with the thicker smell of smoke.
The light cast Jamie’s shadow high on the wall as he turned restlessly, not wanting to sit down again. It was close and dark in the small study, with the window draped against the night—very different from the open, sunny kirkyard in which Column had asked him the same question. And the situation now had shifted; no longer the popular darling to whom clan chieftains deferred, Charles now was sending to the chiefs, grimly calling in his obligations. But the shape of the problem was the same—a dark, amorphous shape, hanging like a shadow over us.
“I’ve told ye what I think—a dozen times or more.” Jamie spoke abruptly. He moved his shoulders impatiently, shrugging as though the fit of his coat was too tight.
“Oh, aye. You’ve told me. But this time I think we shall have the truth.” The old man settled more comfortably into his padded chair, hands linked across his belly.
“Will ye, then?” Jamie uttered a short laugh, and turned to face his grandfather. He leaned back against the table, hands braced behind him. Despite the differences in posture and figure, there was a tension between the two men that brought out a fugitive resemblance between them. The one tall and the other squat, but both of them strong, stubborn, and determined to win this encounter.
“Am I not your kinsman? And your chief? I command your loyalty, do I not?”
So that was the point. Colum, so accustomed to physical weakness, had known the secret of turning another man’s weakness to his own purposes. Simon Fra
ser, strong and vigorous even in old age, was accustomed to getting his own way by more direct means. I could see from the sour smile on Jamie’s face that he, too, was contrasting Colum’s appeal with his grandfather’s demand.
“Can ye? I dinna recall that I’ve sworn ye an oath.”
Several long stiff hairs grew out of Simon’s eyebrows, in the way of old men. These quivered in the firelight, though I couldn’t tell whether with indignation or amusement.
“Oath, is it? And is it not Fraser blood in your veins?”
Jamie’s mouth twisted wryly as he answered. “They do say that it’s a wise child as kens his own father, no? My mother was a MacKenzie; I know that much.”
Simon’s face grew dark with blood, and his brows drew together. Then his mouth fell open, and he shouted with laughter. He laughed until he was forced to pull himself up in the chair and bend forward, sputtering and choking. At last, beating one hand on the arm of the chair in helpless mirth, he reached into his mouth with the other and pulled out his false teeth.
“Dod,” he sputtered, gasping and wheezing. Face streaming with tears and saliva, he groped blindly for the small table by his chair, and dropped the teeth onto the cake plate. The gnarled fingers closed on a linen napkin, and he pressed it to his face, still emitting strangled grunts of laughter as he conducted his mopping up.
“Chritht, laddie,” he said at last, lisping heavily. “Path me the whithky.”
Eyebrows raised, Jamie took the decanter from the table behind him and passed it to his grandfather, who removed the stopper and gulped a substantial amount of the contents without bothering about the formality of a glass.
“You think you’re not a Frather?” he said, lowering the decanter and exhaling gustily. “Ha!” He leaned back once more, belly rising and falling rapidly as he caught his breath. He pointed a long, skinny finger at Jamie.
“Your own father thtood right where you’re thstanding, laddie, and told me jutht what you did, the day he left Beaufort Cathtle once and for all.” The old man was growing calmer now; he coughed several times and wiped his face again.
“Did ye know that I’d tried to thtop your parents’ marriage by claiming that Ellen MacKenzie’s child wathn’t Brian’s?”
“Aye, I knew.” Jamie was leaning back on the table again, surveying his grandfather through narrowed eyes.
Lord Lovat snorted. “I’ll not thay there’s been always goodwill atween me and mine, but I know my thons. And my grandthons,” he added pointedly. “De’il take me and I think any one of ’em could be a cuckold, nay more than I could.”
Jamie didn’t turn a hair, but I couldn’t stop myself from glancing away from the old man. I found myself staring at his discarded teeth, the stained beechwood gleaming wetly amid the cake crumbs. Luckily Lord Lovat hadn’t noticed my slight motion.
He went on, serious once more. “Now, then. Dougal MacKenzie of Leoch hath declared for Charles. D’ye call him your chief? Is that what ye’re telling me—that ye’ve given him an oath?”
“No. I havena sworn to anyone.”
“Not even Charles?” The old man was fast, pouncing on this like a cat on a mouse. I could almost see his tail twitch as he watched Jamie, slanted eyes deep-set and gleaming under crepey lids.
Jamie’s eyes were fixed on the leaping flames, his shadow motionless on the wall behind him.
“He hasna asked me.” This was true. Charles had had no need to request an oath from Jamie—having precluded the necessity by signing Jamie’s name to his Bond of Association. Still, I knew that he had not, in fact, given his word to Charles was important to Jamie. If he must betray the man, let it not be as an acknowledged chief. The idea that the entire world thought such an oath existed was a matter of much less concern.
Simon grunted again. Without his false teeth, his nose and chin came close together, making the lower half of his face oddly foreshortened.
“Then nothing hampers you to thwear to me, as chief of your clan,” he said quietly. The twitching tail was less visible, but still there. I could almost hear the thoughts in his head, gliding round on padded feet. With Jamie’s loyalty sworn to him, rather than Charles, Lovat’s power would be increased. As would his wealth, with a share of the income from Lallybroch that he might claim as his chieftain’s due. The prospect of a dukedom drew slightly nearer, gleaming through the mist.
“Nothing save my own will,” Jamie agreed pleasantly. “But that’s some small obstacle, no?” His own eyes creased at the corners as they narrowed further.
“Mmphm.” Lovat’s eyes were almost closed, and he shook his head slowly from side to side. “Oh, aye, lad, you’re your father’s thon. Thtubborn as a block, and twith ath thtupid. I thould have known that Brian would thire nothing but fools from that harlot.”
Jamie reached forward and plucked the beechwood teeth from the plate. “Ye’d better put these back, ye auld gomerel,” he said rudely. “I canna understand a word ye say.”
His grandfather’s mouth widened in a humorless smile that showed the yellowed stump of a lone broken tooth in the lower jaw.
“No?” he said. “Will ye underthand a bargain?” He shot a quick look at me, seeing nothing more than another counter to be put into play. “Your oath for your wife’s honor, how’s that?”
Jamie laughed out loud, still holding the teeth in one hand.
“Oh, aye? D’ye mean to force her before my eyes, then, Grandsire?” He lounged back contemptuously, hand on the table. “Go ahead, and when she’s done wi’ ye, I’ll send Aunt Frances up to sweep up the pieces.”
His grandfather looked him over calmly. “Not I, lad.” One side of the toothless mouth rose in a lopsided smile as he turned his head to look at me. “Though I’ve taken my pleasure with worthe.” The cold malice in the dark eyes made me want to pull my cloak over my breasts in protection; unfortunately, I wasn’t wearing one.
“How many men are there in Beaufort, Jamie? How many, who’d be of a mind to put your thathenach wench to the only uth thee’s good for? You cannot guard her night and day.”
Jamie straightened slowly, the great shadow echoing his movements on the wall. He stared down at his grandfather with no expression on his face.
“Oh, I think I needna worry, Grandsire,” he said softly. “For my wife’s a rare woman. A wisewoman, ye ken. A white lady, like Dame Aliset.”
I had never heard of Dame Aliset, but Lord Lovat plainly had; his head jerked round to stare at me, eyes sprung wide with shocked alarm. His mouth drooped open, but before he could speak, Jamie had gone on, an undercurrent of malice clearly audible in his smooth speech.
“The man that takes her in unholy embrace will have his privates blasted like a frostbitten apple,” he said, with relish, “and his soul will burn forever in hell.” He bared his teeth at his grandfather, and drew back his hand. “Like this.” The beechwood teeth landed in the midst of the fire with a plop, and at once began to sizzle.
41
THE SEER’S CURSE
Most of the Lowland Scots had gone over to Presbyterianism in the two centuries before. Some of the Highland clans had gone with them, but others, like the Frasers and MacKenzies, had kept their Catholic faith. Especially the Frasers, with their strong family ties to Catholic France.
There was a small chapel in Beaufort Castle, to serve the devotional uses of the Earl and his family, but Beauly Priory, ruined as it was, remained the burying place of the Lovats, and the floor of the open-roofed chancel was paved thick with the flat tombstones of those who lay under them.
It was a peaceful place, and I walked there sometimes, in spite of the cold, blustery weather. I had no idea whether Old Simon had meant his threat against me, or whether Jamie’s comparing me to Dame Aliset—who turned out to be a legendary “white woman” or healer, the Scottish equivalent of La Dame Blanche—was sufficient to put a stop to that threat. But I thought that no one was likely to accost me among the tombs of extinct Frasers.
One afternoon, a few days after
the scene in the study, I walked through a gap in the ruined Priory wall and found that for once, I didn’t have it to myself. The tall woman I had seen outside Lovat’s study was there, leaning against one of the red-stone tombs, arms folded about her for warmth, long legs thrust out like a stork.
I made to turn aside, but she saw me, and motioned me to join her.
“You’ll be my lady Broch Tuarach?” she said, though there was no more than a hint of question in her soft Highland voice.
“I am. And you’re … Maisri?”
A small smile lit her face. She had a most intriguing face, slightly asymmetrical, like a Modigliani painting, and long black hair that flowed loose around her shoulders, streaked with white, though she was plainly still young. A seer, hm? I thought she looked the part.
“Aye, I have the Sight,” she said, the smile widening a bit on her lopsided mouth.
“Do mind-reading, too, do you?” I asked.
She laughed, the sound vanishing on the wind that moaned through the ruined walls.
“No, lady. But I do read faces, and …”
“And mine’s an open book. I know,” I said, resigned.
We stood side by side for a time then, watching tiny spatters of fine sleet dashing against the sandstone and the thick brown grass that overgrew the kirkyard.
“They do say as you’re a white lady,” Maisri observed suddenly. I could feel her watching me intently, but with none of the nervousness that seemed common to such an observation.
“They do say that,” I agreed.
“Ah.” She didn’t speak again, just stared down at her feet, long and elegant, stockinged in wool and clad in leather sandals. My own toes, rather more sheltered, were growing numb, and I thought hers must be frozen solid, if she’d been here any time.
“What are you doing up here?” I asked. The Priory was a beautiful, peaceful place in good weather, but not much of a roost in the cold winter sleet.
“I come here to think,” she said. She gave me a slight smile, but was plainly preoccupied. Whatever she was thinking, her thoughts weren’t overly pleasant.
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