Outlander aka Cross Stitch

by Diana Gabaldon

  I didn’t trust myself to speak, but nodded and buried my nose in my cup of claret.

  Sir Fletcher seemed relieved, whether at disposing of the box, or at the thought of my imminent departure. He sat back, wheezing slightly, and smiled expansively at me.

  “That is very kind of you, Mrs. Beauchamp. I know such a thing cannot but be a painful duty to a young woman of feeling, and I am most sensible of your kindness in undertaking it, I do assure you.”

  “N-not at all,” I stammered. I managed to stand up, and to gather up the box. It measured about eight inches by six, and was four or five inches deep. A small, light box, to hold the remains of a man’s life.

  I knew the things it held. Three fishing lines, neatly coiled; a cork stuck with fishhooks; a flint and steel; a small piece of broken glass, edges blunt with wear; various small stones that looked interesting or had a good feel between the fingers; a dried mole’s foot, carried as a charm against rheumatism. A Bible – or perhaps they had let him keep that? I hoped so. A ruby ring, if it hadn’t been stolen. And a small wooden snake, carved of cherry wood, with the name SAWNY scratched on its underside.

  I paused at the door, gripping the frame with my fingers to steady myself.

  Sir Fletcher, following courteously to see me out, was at my side in a moment.

  “Mrs. Beauchamp! Are you feeling faint, my dear? Guard, a chair!”

  I could feel the prickles of a cold sweat breaking out along the sides of my face, but I managed to smile and wave away the proffered chair. I wanted more than anything to get out of there – I needed fresh air, in large quantities. And I needed to be alone to cry.

  “No, I’m quite all right,” I said, trying to sound convincing. “It’s only… a bit close in here, perhaps. No, I shall be perfectly all right. My groom is waiting outside, in any case.”

  Forcing myself to stand up straight and smile, I had a thought. It might not help, but it couldn’t hurt.

  “Oh, Sir Fletcher…”

  Still worried by my appearance, he was all gallantry and attention.

  “Yes, my dear?”

  “It occurred to me… How sad for a young man in this situation to be estranged from his family. I thought perhaps… if he wished to write to them – a letter of reconciliation, perhaps? I would be pleased to deliver it to – to his mother.”

  “You are thoughtfulness itself, my dear.” Sir Fletcher was jovial, now that it seemed I was not going to collapse on his carpet after all. “Of course. I will inquire. Where are you staying, my dear? If there is a letter, I shall have it sent to you.”

  “Well,” I was doing better with the smile, though it felt pasted on my face. “That is rather uncertain at the moment. I have several relatives and close acquaintances in the town, with whom I fear I shall be obliged to stay in turn, in order to avoid offending anyone, you see.” I managed a small laugh.

  “So if it does not disturb you too much, perhaps my groom could call to inquire for the letter?”

  “Of course, of course. That will do excellently, my dear. Excellently!”

  And with a quick glance back at his decanter, he took my arm to escort me to the gate.

  “Better, lassie?” Rupert pushed back the curtain of my hair to peer at my face. “Ye look like an ill-cured pork belly. Here, better have a bit more.”

  I shook my head at the proffered whisky flask and sat up, wiping the damp rag he had brought across my face.

  “No, I’m all right now.” Escorted by Murtagh, who was disguised as my groom, I had barely made it out of sight of the prison before sliding off my horse and being sick in the snow. There I remained, weeping, with Jamie’s box clutched to my bosom, until Murtagh had gathered me up bodily, forced me to mount, and led me to the small inn in Wentworth town where Rupert had found lodgings. We were in an upper room, from which the bulk of the prison was barely visible in the gathering dusk.

  “Is the lad dead then?” Rupert’s broad face, half-obscured by his beard, was grave and kind, lacking any of its usual clowning.

  I shook my head and took a deep breath. “Not yet.”

  After hearing my story, Rupert paced slowly around the room, pushing his lips in and out as he thought. Murtagh sat still, as usual, no sign of agitation on his features. He would have made a wonderful poker player, I thought.

  Rupert returned, sinking down on the bed beside me with a sigh.

  “Weel, he’s alive still, and that’s the most important thing. Damned if I see what to do next, though. We’ve no way to get into the place.”

  “Aye, we have,” Murtagh said, suddenly. “Thanks to the wee lassie’s thought about the letter.”

  “Mmmphm. One man, though. And only so far as the governor’s office. But aye, it’s a start.” Rupert drew his dirk and idly scratched his thick beard with the point. “It’s a damn big place to search.”

  “I know where he is,” I said, feeling better with the planning, and the knowledge that my companions weren’t giving up, no matter how hopeless our enterprise seemed. “At least I know which wing he’s in.”

  “Do ye, then? Hmm.” He replaced the dirk and resumed his pacing, stopping to demand, “How much money have ye, lass?”

  I fumbled in the pocket of my gown. I had Dougal’s purse, the money Jenny had forced me to take, and my string of pearls. Rupert rejected the pearls, but took the purse, pouring a stream of coins into the palm of one capacious hand.

  “That’ll do,” he said, jingling them experimentally. He cocked an eye at the Coulter twins. “You twa laddies and Willie – come wi’ me. John and Murtagh can stay here wi’ the lassie.”

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  He poured the coins into his sporran, keeping back one, which he tossed meditatively in the air.

  “Och,” he said vaguely. “Happen there’s another inn, the other side of the town. The guards from the prison go there when they’re off duty, for it’s closer, and the drink’s a penny cheaper.” He flipped the coin with his thumb, and turning his hand, caught it between two knuckles.

  I watched it, with a growing idea of what he intended.

  “Is that so?” I said. “I wouldn’t suppose they play cards there, too, would you?”

  “I wouldna ken, lassie, wouldna ken,” he answered. He tossed the coin once more and clapped his hands together, trapping it, then spread his hands apart, to show nothing but thin air. He smiled, teeth white in the black beard.

  “But we might go and see, no?” He snapped his fingers, and the coin appeared once more between them.

  Shortly past one o’clock on the following afternoon, I passed again beneath the spiked portcullis that had guarded the gate of Wentworth since its construction in the late sixteenth century. It had lost very little of its forbidding aspect in the succeeding two hundred years, and I touched the dagger in my pocket for courage.

  Sir Fletcher should now be well dug in at his midday repast, according to the information Rupert and his assistant spies had extracted from the prison guards during their foray the evening before. They had staggered in, red-eyed and reeking of ale, just before dawn. All Rupert would say in response to my questions was “Och, lassie, all it takes to win is luck. It takes skill to lose!” He curled up in the corner then and went soundly to sleep, leaving me to pace the floor in frustration, as I had been doing all night.

  He woke an hour later, though, clear-eyed and clear-headed, and laid out the rudiments of the plan I was about to put into execution.

  “Sir Fletcher doesna allow anyone or anything to disturb his meals,” he said. “Anyone wantin’ him then must just go on wantin’ until he’s done wi’ his food and drink. And after the midday meal, it’s his habit to retire to his quarters for a wee sleep.”

  Murtagh, in the character of my groom, had arrived a quarter of an hour previously, and been admitted without difficulty. Presumably, he would be shown to Sir Fletcher’s office and asked to wait. While there, he was to search the office, first for a plan of the west wing, and then, o
n the off-chance, for keys that might open the cells.

  I hung back a bit, glancing at the sky to judge the time. If I arrived before he had sat down, I might be invited to join Sir Fletcher for luncheon, which would be highly inconvenient. But Rupert’s card-playing acquaintances among the guards had assured him that the governor’s habits were invariable; the bell for dinner was rung promptly at one, and the soup served five minutes later.

  The guard on duty at the entrance was the same as the day before. He looked surprised, but greeted me courteously.

  “So vexing,” I said, “I had meant my groom to bring a small present for Sir Fletcher, as some return for his kindness to me yesterday. But I found that the silly man had ridden off without it, and so I was obliged to follow with it myself, hoping to catch him up. Has he arrived already?” I displayed the small package I carried and smiled, thinking that it would help if I had dimples. Since I hadn’t, I settled for a brilliant display of teeth.

  It seemed to be sufficient. I was admitted and led through the corridors of the prison toward the governor’s office. Though this part of the castle was decently furnished, there was little mistaking the place for anything other than a prison. There was a smell about the place, which I imagined as the smell of misery and fear, though I supposed it was no more than the niff of ancient squalor and an absence of drains.

  The guard allowed me to precede him down the hall, following discreetly so as not to step on my cloak. And a damn good thing he did, for I rounded the corner toward Sir Fletcher’s office a few feet ahead of him, just in time to see Murtagh through the open door, dragging the unconscious form of the office guard behind the enormous desk.

  I took one step back and dropped my package onto the stone floor. There was a shattering of glass, and the air was filled with the smothering aroma of peach brandy.

  “Oh, dear,” I said, “what have I done?”

  While the guard was calling for a prisoner to clear up the mess, I tactfully murmured something about waiting for Sir Fletcher in his private office, slipped in, and hastily shut the door behind me.

  “What the bloody hell have you done?” I snapped at Murtagh. He looked up from his rummaging of the body, unconcerned at my tone.

  “Sir Fletcher doesna keep keys in his office,” he informed me in a low voice, “but this wee laddie has a set.” He pulled the huge ring free of the man’s coat, careful to keep the keys from jingling.

  I dropped to my knees behind him. “Oh, good show!” I said. I cast an eye over the prostrate soldier; still breathing, at least. “What about a plan of the prison?”

  He shook his head. “Not that either, but my friend here told me a bit while we waited. The condemned cells are on the same floor as this, in the middle of the west corridor. There’re three cells, though, and I couldna ask more than that – he was a bit suspicious as it was.”

  “It’s enough – I hope. All right, give me the keys and get out.”

  “Me? It’s you should leave, lassie, and right smart too.” He glanced at the door, but there was no sound on the other side.

  “No, it has to be me,” I said, reaching again for the keys. “Listen,” I said impatiently. “If they find you wandering round the prison with a bunch of keys, and the guard here laid out like a mackerel, we’re both done for, because why didn’t I cry out for help?” I snatched the keys and crammed them in my pocket, with some difficulty.

  Murtagh was still skeptical, but had risen to his feet.

  “And if you’re caught?” he demanded.

  “I swoon,” I said crisply. “And when I recover – eventually – I say that I saw you apparently murdering the guard and fled in terror, with no idea where I was going. I lost my way looking for help.”

  He nodded slowly. “Aye, all right.” He moved toward the door, then stopped.

  “But why did I – oh.” He crossed swiftly to the desk and pulled out one drawer after another, stirring the contents with one hand and tossing items onto the floor with the other.

  “Theft,” he explained, coming back to the door. He opened it a crack, looking out.

  “If it’s theft, shouldn’t you take something?” I suggested, looking about for something small and portable. I picked up an enameled snuffbox. “This, perhaps?”

  He made an impatient gesture to me to put it down, still peering through the crack.

  “Nay, lass! If I’m found wi’ Sir Fletcher’s property, that’s a hanging offense. Attempted theft is only flogging or mutilation.”

  “Oh.” I put the snuffbox down hastily and stood behind him, peering over his shoulder. The hall seemed empty.

  “I go first,” he said. “If I meet anyone, I’ll draw ’ em off. Wait to the count of thirty, then follow. We’ll meet ye in the small wood to the north.” He opened the door, then paused and turned back.

  “If you’re caught, mind ye throw the keys awa’.” Before I could speak, he was through the door like an eel and down the corridor, moving silently as a shadow.

  It seemed to take an eternity to find the west wing, dodging through the corridors of the old castle, peering around corners and hiding behind columns. I saw only one guard on my way, though, and managed to avoid him by diving back around a corner, pressing myself to the wall with hammering heart until he passed.

  Once I found the west wing, though, I had little doubt that I was in the right place. There were three large doors in the corridor, each with a tiny barred window from which I could catch no more than a frustrating glimpse of the room behind it.

  “Eenie, meenie, minie, mo,” I muttered to myself, and headed for the center cell. The keys on the ring were unlabeled, but of different sizes. Clearly only one of three big ones would fit the lock before me. Naturally, it was the third one. I took a deep breath as the lock clicked, then wiped my sweating hands on my skirt and shoved the door open.

  I sorted frantically through the stinking mass of men in the cell, stepping over outstretched feet and legs, pushing past heavy bodies that moved with maddening sluggishness out of my way. The stir occasioned by my abrupt entrance had spread; those who had been asleep amid the filth on the floor began to sit up, roused by the rippling murmur of astonishment. Some were manacled to the walls; the chains grated and clanked in the half-light as they moved. I grabbed one of the standing men, a brown-bearded clansman in ragged yellow-and-green tartan. The bones of his arm under my hand were frighteningly near the skin; the English wasted little extra food on their prisoners.

  “James Fraser! A big, redheaded man! Is he in this cell? Where is he?”

  He was already moving toward the door with the others who were not chained, but paused a moment to glance down at me. The prisoners by now had seized the idea, and were pouring through the open door in a shuffling flood, peering and murmuring to each other.

  “Who? Fraser? Och, they took him awa’ this mornin’.” The man shrugged, and pushed at my hands, trying to shake me off.

  “I took hold of his belt with a grip that halted him in his tracks. “Where did they take him? Who took him?”

  “I dinna ken where; was yon Captain Randall took ’im – a pinch-faced snark, he is.” With an impatient wrench, he freed himself and headed for the door with a step born of long-nourished purpose.

  Randall. I stood stunned for a moment, jostled by the escaping men, deaf to the shouts of the chained. Finally I shook myself from my stupor and tried to think. Geordie had watched the castle since dawn. No one had left in the morning save a small kitchen party going to fetch supplies. So they were still here, somewhere.

  Randall was a captain; likely no one ranked higher in a prison garrison, save Sir Fletcher himself. Presumably Randall could thus command the castle’s resources so as to provide him with some suitable spot in which to torture a prisoner at his leisure.

  And torture it surely was. Even if it was meant to end in hanging, the man I had seen at Fort William was a cat by nature. He could no more resist the chance to play with this particular mouse than he could alter
his height or the color of his eyes.

  I took a deep breath, resolutely shoving aside thoughts of what might have happened since morning, and charged out the door myself, colliding full force with an English Redcoat rushing in. The man reeled backward, staggering with tiny running steps to keep his balance. Thrown off balance myself, I crashed heavily into the doorjamb, numbing my left side and banging my head. I clutched the doorpost for support, the ringing in my ears chiming with the echoes of Rupert’s voice: Ye have a moment of surprise, lass. Use it!

  It was open to question, I thought dizzily, who was more surprised. I groped madly for the pocket that held my dagger, cursing my stupidity for not having entered the cell with it already drawn.

  The English soldier, balance recovered, was staring at me with his mouth agape, but I could feel my precious moment of surprise already slipping away. Abandoning the elusive pocket, I stooped and drew the dagger from my stocking in a move that continued upward with all the force I could muster. The knifepoint took the advancing soldier just under the chin as he reached for his belt. His hands rose halfway to his throat, then, with a look of surprise, he staggered back against the wall, and slid down it in slow motion, as the life drained away from him. Like me, he had come to investigate without bothering to draw his weapon first, and that small oversight had just cost him his life. The grace of God had saved me from this mistake; I could afford no more. Feeling very cold, I stepped over the twitching body, careful not to look.

  I dashed back the way I had come, as far as the turning by the stairs. There was a spot here by the wall where I would be sheltered from view from both directions. I leaned against the wall and indulged myself in a moment of trembling nausea.