The Fiery Cross

by Diana Gabaldon

  "What does 'not exactly' mean?"

  "Well, he was showing me something called corps a corpsL-which appears to be French for, 'Get your opponent's sword wrapped round your own, then knee him in the balls and punch his head while he's trying to get loose."' Brianna gave a brief, shocked laugh.

  "You mean he-"

  "No, but it was a near thing," he said, wincing at the memory. "I've a bruise on my thigh the size of my hand."

  "Are you hurt anywhere else?" Brianna was frowning at him, worried. "No." He smiled up at her, keeping his hands in his lap. "Tired. Sore. Starving."

  The frown eased and her smile flickered back, though a small line stayed between her brows. She reached for the wooden platter on the sideboard, turned and squatted by the hearth.

  "Quail," she said with satisfaction, raking a number of blackened bundles out of the ashes with the poker. "Da brought them this morning. He said not to pluck them; just wrap them in mud and bake them. I hope he knows what he's talking about." She jerked her head toward the boiling cauldron. "Jemmy

  rOSS 751 The Fiery C

  ed me with the mud; that's why we had to do another pot of laundry. uch!" She snatched away her hand and sucked a burned finger, then picked the platter and brought it to the table.

  -Let them coot a little," she instructed him. "I'll get some of those pickles u like." so much as charred rocks. Still, a tantalizing The quail looked like nothing few of the blackened lumps - Roger felt like

  drifted up through cracks in a nstead, he fumng one up and eating it on the spot, burned mud and all. I

  d at the doth-covered plate on the table, discovering the maligned flat-bread rneath, Stiff-fingered, he managed to tear off a good chunk, and stuffed it ,0'flently into his mouth.

  :p under the bed, and come to see what Jernmy had abandoned his ball of rags ,

  Ns father was doing. Pulling himself upright by the table leg, he spotted the cad and reached up, making urgent noises of demand. Roger carefully tore s offspring, nearly dropping it in the

  another bit of bread and handed it to hi e knuckles of his right hand blood-process. His hands were cut and battered; th his right thumbnail had grazed, swollen and black with fresh bruising. Half

  Uen knocked away, and the bit of raw nail bed showed red and oozing. u at "Ow-ee,- Clutching his bread, Temmy looked at Roger's hands, then p face, "Daddy owee?" ssured him. "Just tired."

  'Dad's all right," Roger a ) then slowly raised his hand to his mouth Jemmy stared at the injured thuml ,

  land inserted his own thumb, sucking loudly-

  a good idea. His thumb stung and ached, where the It actually looked like and stiff. With a quick glance at Brinail had gone, and all his fingers were cold

  anna's back, he lifted his hand and stuck his thumb in his mouth.

  It felt alien, thick and hard and tasting of silvery blood and cold grime. Then suddenly it fit, and tongue and palate closed round the injured digit in a warm and soothing pressure,

  butted him in the thigh, his usual signal for "up," and he grasped the Jemmy out with his free hand, boosting him up Onto his knee. back of the little boy's c1

  made himself at horned rooting and squirming, then relaxed in sudden Ternmy bread squashed in one hand, sucking quietly on his thumb.

  peace,,, the other arm round Roger slowly relaxed, one elbow propped on the table-,

  warmth and heavy breathing against his ribs were a his son. Jemmy's heavy Brianna was making as she soothing accompamment to the homely noises

  dished the supper. To his surprise, his thumb stopped hurting, but he left it where it was, too tired to question the odd sense of comfort. tate of tensed His muscles were gradually relaxing, too, coming off the s

  readiness in which he'd held them for hours.

  His inner car still rang with brisk instruction. Use your forearm, man-the wrist, the wrist! Dinna move your band out like that, keep it near the body. It"s a sword, aye? Not a bloody club. Use the tip!

  He'd thrown larnie heavily against a tree, at One point. And Fraser had nce, Roger on top. As for any actual darna rock and gone down o

  tripped over have been fighting a cloud.

  age inflicted with a sword, he might as weU had told him, panting, as they Dirty fighting is the only kind there is, Fraser

  752 Diana Gabaldon

  knelt at the stream and splashed cold water over sweating faces. Anything else is no but exhibition.

  His head jerked on his neck and he blinked, coming back abruptly from the grate and crash of wooden swords to the dim warmth of the cabin. The platter was gone; Brianna was cursing softly under her breath at the sideboard, banging the hilt of his dirk against the blackened lumps of clay-baked quail to crack them open.

  Watch yourfooting. Back, back-ayc, now, come back at me! No, dinna reach so far ... keep yourguard up!

  And the stinging whap! of the springy "blade" across arms and thighs and shoulders, the solid thunk of it driven bruising home between his ribs, sunk deep and breathless in his belly. Had it been cold steel, he would have been dead in minutes, cut to bleeding ribbons.

  Don't catch the blade on yours-tbrow it off. Beat, beat it off! Come at me, thrust! Keep it close, keep it close ... aye, good ... ba!

  His elbow slipped and his hand fell. He jerked upright, barely keeping hold of the sleeping child, and blinked, vision swimming with firelight.

  Brianna started guiltily and shut her notebook. Getting to her feet, she thrust it out of sight behind a pewter plate, resting upright on its edge at the back of the sideboard.

  "It's ready," she said hurriedly. "I just-I'll get the milk." She disappeared into the pantry in a rustle of skirts.

  Roger shifted Jemmy, got a grip and lifted the small, solid body up to his shoulder, though his arms felt like cooked noodles. The little boy was sound asleep, but kept his thumb plugged firmly into his mouth.

  Roger's own thumb was wet with spittle, and he felt a flush of embarrassment. Christ, had she been drawing him that way? No doubt; she must have caught sight of him sucking his thumb and thought it "cute;" it wouldn't be the first time she'd drawn him in what he considered a compromising position. Or was she writing dreams again?

  He laid Jemmy gently in his cradle, brushed damp bread crumbs off the coverlet, and stood rubbing his bruised knuckles with the fingers of his other hand. Sloshing noises came from the pantry. Moving quietly, he stepped to the sideboard and extracted the book from its hiding place. Sketches, not dreams.

  It was no more than a few quick lines, the essence of a sketch. A man tired to death, still watchful; head on one hand, neck bowed with exhaustion-free arm clamped tight around a treasured, helpless thing.

  She'd titled it. Engarde, it said, in her slanted, spiky script.

  He closed the book and slid it back behind the plate. She was standing in the pantry doorway, the milk jug in her hand.

  "Come and eat," she said soffly, eyes on his. "You need your strength."

  ROGER BUY$ A SWORD

  Cross Creek November, 1771

  ANDLED EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY broadswords

  ED H him. The basket weight nor the length surprised

  before; neither the enough to interfere with around the hilt was slightly bent, but not nsidH

  He'd done that before, too. There was a co fitting his hand inside the grip

  crable difference, though, beyond reverently placing an antique artifact into a play, and picking up a length of sharpened metal with the conscious museum disl

  through a human body.

  intent of driving it tically down the clit's a bit battered," Fraser had told him, squinting cri

  rd before handing, it to him, "but the blade's well-balanced. length of the swo

  Try the feel of it, to see if it suits"' s hand into the basket and struck a fencing Feeling a total fool, .he slipped hi standing in the busy f Errot Flynn films. They were

  pose, based on memories o a few passersby paused to watch lane outside the smithy in Cross Creek, and
>
  and offer helpful comment.

  someone asked disparagingly. "What's Moore asking for that bit of pot tin?"

  "Anything more than two shillings, and its highway robbery." f his forge "That's a fine sword," said Moore, leaning over the half-door o

  and glowering. "I had it from my uncle, who saw service at Fort StanwYck. I many Frenchmen, and no but the one wee nick to be whyl. that blade's killed a-

  seen in it- 11 sparager. ,Why, the thing's bent so, if YOU went to

  40ne nick!" cried the di I'l

  stick a man, you'd end up cutting off his ear. th's reThere was a laugh from the gathering crowd that drowned the smi sponse. Roger lowered the point of the sword, raised it slowly. How the hell

  rd) ought he to wave it to and frog Stick something did one road-test a swo ding a little way down the lane, loaded with burlap with it? There was a cart stan

  bags of something-raw wool, from the smell. Idn't pick him out from He looked for the proprietor of the bags, but cou ed, hitched to the cart was unattend

  the growing crowd; the huge draft horse

  ears twitching sleepily over his dropped reins. Malachy McCabe has ,,Ah, if it's a sword the young man's wanting) sure and

  a better one than that, left from his service. I think he'd part with it for nay more than three shillings." The cobbler from across the lane pursed his lips, nodding shrewdly at the sword.

  754 Diana Gabaldon

  'Tisn't an elegant piece," one middle-aged ex-soldier agreed, head tilted on one side. "Serviceable, though, I grant you that."

  Roger extended his arm, lunged toward the door of the smithy, and narrowly missed Moore, coming out to defend the quality of his wares. The smith leaped aside with a startled cry, and the crowd roared.

  Roger's apology was interrupted by a loud, nasal voice behind him, "Here, sir! Let me offer a f

  oe more worthy of your steel than an unarmed smith!"

  Whirling round, Roger found himself confronting Dr. Fentiman, who was pulling a long, thin blade from the head of his ornamental cane. The doctor, who was roughly half Roger's size, brandished his rapier with a genial ferocity. Obviously fueled by a liberal luncheon, the tip of his nose glowed like a Christmas bulb,

  "A test of skill, sir? " The doctor whipped his sword to and fro, so the narrow blade sang as it cut the air. "First to pink his man, first to draw blood is the victor, what say you?"

  "Oh, an unfair advantage to the doctor! And isn't drawing blood your business, then?"

  "Ha ha! And if ye run him through instead of pinking him, will ye patch the hole for no charge?" yelled another onlooker. "Or are ye out to drum up business, leech?"

  "Watch yourself, young man! Turn your back on him and he's like to give ye a clyster!"

  "Better a clyster than a blade up the arse!"

  The doctor ignored these and similar vulgar observations, holding his blade upright in readiness. Roger shot a glance at Jamie, who was leaning against the wall, looking amused. Jamie raised one eyebrow and shrugged slightly.

  "Try the feel of it," Jamie'd said. Well, and he supposed a duel with a drunken midget was as good a test as any.

  Roger raised his blade and fixed the doctor with a menacing look. "Engarde, "he said, and the knot of onlookers roared approval,

  'Gardez vous, 'replied the doctor promptly, and lunged. Roger spun on one heel and the doctor shot past, rapier pointed like a lance. Moore the smith leaped aside just in time to avoid being skewered for the second time, cursing fluently.

  "What am 1, a friggin' target?" he shouted, shaking a fist.

  Disregarding the near miss, the doctor regained his balance and charged back toward Roger, uttering shrill cries of self-encouragement.

  It was rather like being attacked by a wasp, Roger thought. If you didn't panic, you found it possible to follow the thing and bat it away. Perhaps the doctor was a decent swordsman when sober; in his current state, his frenzied thrusts and mad flurries were easily fended off-as long as Roger paid attention.

  It occurred to him early on that he could end the contest at any time, merely by meeting the doctor's slender rapier edge-on with his own much heavier weapon. He was beginning to enjoy himself, though, and was careful to parry with the flat of the broadsword.

  Gradually everything disappeared from Roger's view but the flashing point

  The Fiery Cross 755

  the rapier; the shouts of the crowd faded to a bee-buzz, the dirt of the lane sible. He grazed his elbow on the d the wall of the, smithy were scarcely vi room, all without conscious

  1, moved back, moved in a circle to gain more

  ought. his wider blade, engaged and screeched loose with a The rapier beat ong d click and the whish of cmPtY air and the ringing wbinfflg! of metal - Clan an

  s with every blow of the doctor's sword. at that vibrated in his wristbone

  follow it, bat it away, He had no idea what he was doing, watch the stroke, es; he shook his head to fling but did it anyway. The sweat was running in his ey

  away,.nearly missed a low lunge toward his thigh, stopped it close and flung c rapier back. -d thrown off balance, and feral shouts of 'reNOIVI Take The doctor staggere , the dust-filled air. He saw the expanse of the doc-

  'him! Stick bim now!" rang in and Itor's embroidered waistcoat, unguarded, filled with silken butterflies, choked back the visceral urge to lunge for it.

  Shaken by the intensity of the urge, he took a step back. The doctor, sensing leapt forward, bellowing, blade pointed. Roger took a half-step sideweakness, grazing the hock of the, draft horse in his path. ways, and the doctor shot past) cam, and promptly sent swordsman and

  The horse emitted an outraged scr st the front of the cobbler's shop.

  - air, to crash again d by lasts and scattered sword flying through the

  The doctor fell to ground like a crushed fly, surrounde shoes.

  Roger stood still, panting. His whole body was pulsing with every heartbeat) hot with the fighting. He wanted to 90 on, he wanted to taugh, he wanted to hit something. He wanted to get Briantia up against the nearest wall, and now.

  Jamie gently lifted his hand and pried his fingers from the hilt of the sword. He hadn't remembered he was holding it. His arm felt too tight without it, as

  - His fingers were stiff from

  though it might fly up toward the sky, all by itself rigle as the gripping so hard, and he flexed them automatically, fee-ling the ti

  blood came back. He hardly heard the laughter, the offers The blood was tingling everywhere. n rained on his back-

  of drinks, or felt the blows of congratulatio g of apprentices was chantin& "A clyster, a clyster, give him a clyster!" a gan

  doctor was borne off for first-aid in the nearest tavern. following along as the fussing solicitously over the big bay, who looked more The horse's owner was

  bemused than injured. all, he drew first blood."

  "I suppose he's won. After e heard his own voice, strangely Roger didn't realize that he'd spoken until h

  calm in his ears. at him in question, the sword held lightly on ,Will it do?" Jamie was looking

  the palms of his hands. ht and Hed with white dust; it gritted unRoger nodded. The lane was brig his mouth.

  der his eyelids, between his teeth when he closed

  "Aye," he said. "it will do." a he added casualty, turning, away to pay "Good," said Jamie. "SO will yol

  the Smith.

  PART EIGHT

  A-Hunting We Will Go

  THE MOONS OF JUPITER

  Late November, 1771

  OR THE FOURTH TIME in as many minutes, Roger assured himself that it was not medically possible to die of sexual frustration. He doubted that it would even cause lasting damage. On the other hand, it

  n't doing him any great good, either, in spite of his efforts to consider it as n

  ,,!exercise in building character. ex

  He eased himself onto his back, careful of the rustling mattress, and stared at He

&n
bsp; ceiling. No good; from a crack at the edge of the oiled hide covering the ,,Oiec

  dow, early morning sun was streaming in across the bed, and from the cord

  W c 'W

  r01 Vcr of his eye, he could still see the pure golden haunches of his wife, lit as tbough spotlighted.

  ,, She was lying on her stomach, face buried in the pillow, and the linen sheet bad slipped down past the swell of her buttocks, leaving her bare from her nape lo the crack of her arse. She lay so close in the narrow bed that his leg touched hers, and the warmth of her breathing brushed his bare shoulder. His mouth was dry.

  He closed his eyes. That didn't help; he promptly started seeing images of night before: Brianna by the dim light of a smothered fire, the flames of her hair sparking in the shadows, light gleaming sudden across the curve of a naked breast as she slipped the butter-soft linen from her shoulders.

  Late as it was, tired as he was, he'd wanted her desperately. Someone else had wanted her more, though. He cracked an eyelid and raised himself just slightly, enough to see over Brianna's tumbled red locks, to where the cradle stood against the wall, still in shadow. No sign of movement.

  They had a long-standing agreement. He woke instantly when disturbed, she was groggy and maladroit. So when a siren shriek from the cradle jerked him into heart-pounding alertness, it was Roger who would rise, pick up the soggy, yowling bundle, and deal with the immediate necessities of hygiene. By the time he brought Jemmy to his mother, bucking and squirming in the search for sustenance, Brianna would have roused herself far enough to wriggle free of her gown, and would reach up for the child, drawing him down in warm dark to the murmuring, milky refilge of her body.

  Now that Jern was older, he seldom woke at night, but when he did, with bellyache or nightmare, it took a lot longer to settle him back to sleep than it had when he was tiny. Roger had fallen back to sleep while Bree was still administering comfort, but woke when she turned in the narrow bed, her

  760 Diana Gabaldon

  buttocks sliding past his thigh. The corn shucks under them crackled loudly with a noise like a thousand distant firecrackers, all going off down the length of his spine, waking him to full awareness of an urgent, nearly painful arou

  He'd f sal. elt the pressure of her arse against him and narrowly restrained himself from rolling over and assaulting her from the rear. Small suckling noises from the other side of her body stopped him. Jern was still in their bed.

  He'd lain still, listening, praying that she'd stay awake long enough to return the little bugger to his cradle; sometimes they fell asleep together, mother and child, and Roger would wake in the morning to the confusingly mingled scents of a beddable woman and baby pec. And then in the end, he'd fallen asleep himself, in spite of his discomfort, worn out from a day of felling logs on the mountainside.

  He inhaled gently. No, she'd put him back. No scent in his bed now save