Текст книги "Lord John and the Brotherhood of the Blade"

Автор книги: Diana Gabaldon

Соавторы: Diana Gabaldon,Diana Gabaldon
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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

“I’m that sorry, me lord,” Tom said at last, so softly that Grey had the option of pretending not to have heard him. He thrust a hand into the saddlebag, feeling about at random, and closed his fist on something hard. It didn’t matter what. He closed his eyes and squeezed it as hard as he could, until the bones of his knuckles popped.

“Thank you,” he said, just as softly.

When he opened his eyes again, he was alone.

Chapter 7

Penance

He could not sleep. It had been late when he left Dunsany, the old gentleman having reached a state of near insensibility over a decanter of claret after supper. Grey had given Dunsany over to the care of the viscount’s own valet, who got the old man to his feet and led him gently off to bed, shuffling and murmuring. Grey then sought his own bed, with the feeling that this day had lasted several years and was long overdue to be expunged by sleep.

Sleep, however, perversely declined to come knit up the raveled sleeve of care. Instead, the bad fairy of insomnia chose to take up residence on the foot of his bed, cozily recalling everything from Tom’s gory description of Geneva’s death to her father’s drunken self-reproaches, in which he blamed himself repeatedly for everything from arranging the marriage to allowing Geneva too much freedom.

His room was the same they always gave him. The Blue Room, it was called, for the patterned silk paper on the walls, repeated scenes of Dutch life, Delft blue on a cream background. Masculine in aspect, its furnishings luxurious, its hearth generous, it was one of the most comfortable rooms in the house. And yet he felt chilled and restless, at odds with his surroundings.

He was tired to the point of exhaustion, but found himself unable to relax into the comforts of the feather bed, despite the wine and the lateness of the hour. Tom had left a jug of hot milk on the table, wrapped in a towel. He smiled a little at that, touched by Tom’s thoughtfulness—though he hadn’t drunk warm milk in twenty years and didn’t feel sufficiently desperate as to start now.

He lay down on the bed again, hoping that recumbency might lead to a gradual relaxation, but didn’t put out the candle. For some time, he watched the glow from the fire animate the scenes on the wallpaper, his hand flat on the empty space beside him. How many times had he seen those calm blue scenes? He had been a regular visitor at Helwater since the early days of his commission, when the Dunsanys’ son, Gordon, had invited him to stay. Gordon had been killed in the Jacobite Rising, and the Dunsanys, in their grief, had adopted Grey as a sort of foster son. Now they had lost a daughter, as well.

How old had Geneva been, the first time he had come? Four? Five?

“Do you see that one?” he whispered, as though to an invisible companion. “The one with the sailing boat? That’s my favorite. I can imagine sailing down the Dutch canals, seeing all the windmills turn.”

What’s a windmill, sir?The whispered words were only in his mind, but his arm bent, curling in memory around a little girl who’d crept into his room in the middle of the night, frightened by a nightmare.

“A great tall mill, something like the mill by the river. Grindstones, you know. But it has no wheel for the water to turn. Instead, there are large sails, four of them, like arms, on the top of the mill. The wind makes them go round, and thus the corn is ground. There’s one on the wall—do you see it?”

But he heard no answer; only the quiet pop and hiss of damp in the burning peat. His arm relaxed, and he smoothed the coverlet gently with his hand, as though it were a small girl’s disheveled, silky hair, to be tucked back within her nightcap.

He stayed thus for some time, thoughts drifting, staring at the flickering blue shapes on the wall. Became aware that he was still stroking the coverlet, slowly, but that the image in his mind was no longer that of a child’s hair. Soft, but coarser. Springy curls. Dark. And an imagined sense of warmth from the skin beneath.

“Jesus,” he said, and curled his hand into a fist. Rising, he crossed the room and jerked open the armoire. He groped, searching in the dimness for the pocket of his coat, felt no crackling of paper and gripped the cloth in sudden alarm, before catching sight of the letter, neatly set beside his hairbrushes on the shelf where Tom had placed it.

He took it up, heart beating faster, and tilted the paper. The lock of hair fell out into his hand. Dark, a single curl, tied with red thread.

I cannot stop thinking of you.

He unfolded the letter and read the line again, for the pleasure of seeing the words upon the page. Gazed at them for several moments, then carefully folded the paper again, and set it back in place.

In all truth, the words caused him as much disturbance as pleasure. He had not expected thoughts of Percy to follow him to Helwater, and was not sure of his feelings. He hoped, to be sure, that they might discover something between them. But what that something might be, or come to be, he had no notion. If it happened at all, though, he envisioned it happening in London. London was a separate world, almost as though he were a different person there.

He did, on the other hand, know very well what his feelings were for Jamie Fraser. And being at Helwater, no more than a hundred yards from Fraser’s physical presence, was sufficiently disturbing in itself. He had the irrational feeling that to take such pleasure in Percy’s note was in some way a betrayal—but of what, for God’s sake?

Moved by impulse, he drew back the heavy blue-velvet drapes at the window. It was a cloudy night, a thick rain still falling, but the sky held a faint sullen glow, the diffuse light of a hidden moon. He could see the dim outline of the stable roof through the streaks of rain on the windowpane.

“Hell,” he said softly, left the window abruptly, and wandered round the room, picking up objects at random and putting them down again. He tried to return to his earlier thoughts—or to abandon all thought, purging the mind for sleep—but his efforts were bootless. James Fraser remained stubbornly in the center of his mind’s eye. Grey had seen him once since his arrival—he had taken Grey’s horse to the stables—but had had no opportunity to speak to him.

For God’s sake, John, be careful.

His mother’s words rang abruptly in his ear, and he shook his head, as though to dislodge an annoying mosquito.

And what, for God’s sake, had his mother meant by that? Plainly, she meant Fraser; it was mention of the man and his Jacobite connexions that had frightened—yes, frightened—her. Why? What on earth did she think he might ask of Fraser? Or learn from him?

Something regarding his father’s death. Thosewords came cold, from the dark recesses of his own mind. He shoved them reflexively away. His father had been dead for nearly seventeen years. He thought now and then of his father, but never of his death. And didn’t mean to think of it now.

Such mortal thoughts, though, reminded him suddenly again of Geneva. Where was she tonight? Not in a spiritual sense—he trusted vaguely that she must be in heaven, though he had no concrete notion of the place—but in the physical?

The funeral would be tomorrow. Her body…He glanced uneasily at the black night outside his window, as though she might be floating there, pale face staring in at him, her chestnut hair pasted to her skull by the pouring rain.

He pulled the curtains firmly shut. She would be in her coffin, ready for the procession to the church in the morning. Was she somewhere in the house? Surely she did not lie in some hogg house or desolate shed on the grounds?

The chapel.Of course. The thought came to him at once. He had never been in the chapel at Helwater; it dated from a much earlier century, when the Viscounts of the Wastwater had been Catholic, and it had been disused for years. He knew where it was, though; Geneva herself had shown him, waving a careless hand toward the small stone chamber that clung barnaclelike to the west side of the house.

“That’s the old chapel,” she had said. “We have a ghost there, did you know?”

“Well, I should hope so,” he had replied, jesting. “All respectable families have at least one, do they not?”

She had looked at him queerly for a moment, but then laughed.

“Ours is a monk, a young man who kneels in prayer in the chapel at night. What kind of ghost has your family, then, Lord John?”

“Oh, we are not sufficiently respectable as to have an actual ghost of our own,” he assured her gravely. “Nothing but the odd skeleton in the closet.”

That had made her laugh immoderately—little did she know how true his remarks had been, he reflected, with a slight smile at the memory. The smile faded at the realization that he would not hear her laugh again.

He felt her absence suddenly and keenly. He had been so occupied with the grief of her family that he had felt her loss only as theirs, terrible, but experienced at a safe remove; now, in the deep solitude of the night, he understood it as his own. He stood for a moment, bereavement a sudden, small tear in his soul.

Unable to bear this for long, he reached with sudden decision for the armoire and found his cloak, threw it round his shoulders, pushed his feet into felt slippers, and went out into the corridor, easing the door softly to behind him. He would say farewell to her, at least, in private.

Discovering from within a room he had only seen from without was something of a challenge; Helwater, like most old houses, had been built in fits and starts as the finances and whimsy of successive viscounts allowed. Thus, it was a huge place—Lady Dunsany had told him that the entire east wing was closed in winter—and no passage went straightforwardly anywhere.

He had a good sense of direction, though, and knew that the chapel was at the northwest corner of the house. He worked his way through the twisting corridors as he would a maze, keeping a running count in his head of the turns, in order that he might find his way back again, and found that the exercise allowed him to keep his emotions at bay, if only for the moment.

The rain had kept up steadily all day, in that dismal winter downpour that darkens the spirit as it weights the land. The wind had come up now, and rain beat upon the shuttered windows in fitful bursts, marking his passage along the darkened corridors. He had brought a taper from his room, a faint glow to light his path. Something moved in the shadows and he stopped short.

Green eyes glowed for an instant and disappeared as the cat—it was only a cat—twined past his feet and vanished, silent as smoke. Was that Geneva’s cat? She had had a kitten once, he knew. Would she not have taken it to Ellesmere? Perhaps her mother had brought it back. Perhaps…perhaps he was trying to occupy his mind with pointless trifles in order to avoid thinking of Geneva dead, even as he made his way toward her bier.

Heart still beating like a drum, he wondered what he thought he was doing, but he had come thus far; to turn back now would seem an abandonment of her. He closed his eyes for an instant, reestablishing the map of the house he was building in his head, then opened them and set off again with purpose.

Several more turnings brought him abruptly to what seemed an outer wall of the house, its lichened blocks pierced by an arched lintel of honey-colored stone.

This was clearly the chapel’s entrance; the figures of saints and angels were carved into the arch. They had escaped the mutilations of Cromwell’s vandals in the last century—he made out the figure of what must be Michael the archangel in the center of the arch, flaming sword held aloft. Below him, Adam and Eve cowered behind crude fig leaves, Eve’s hands crossed modestly over her generous breasts. Not saints, after all. On the other side of the arch, a serpent hung in looping coils from the branches of an apple tree, looking smugly amused.

Blessed Michael defend us.The words came to him suddenly, though he was neither Catholic nor even religious. It was a common saying among the Scottish prisoners at Ardsmuir, though. He had heard it in the Gaelic, many times, and finally had asked Jamie Fraser for the English meaning, one night when they had dined together.

Plainly he had found the right place. A small oil lamp burned in the passage, throwing the archangel’s visage into stern relief, and the flicker of candlelight was visible through the crack between the wooden doors under the archway. Wondering anew just what he was doing here, he hesitated for a moment, then shrugged and murmured “Blessed Michael defend us.” He passed beneath the arch.

The chapel was tiny, and dark save the tall white candles that burned at head and foot of the closed coffin. It was draped in white silk, and glimmered like water.

He took a step toward it. Something large stirred in the darkness at his feet.

“Jesus!”

He dropped the taper, clapping a hand to his belt—where, alas, he had not placed his dagger.

A dark figure rose immense, very slowly, from the flags at his feet.

Every hair on his body stood erect and his heart thundered in his ears, as recognition tried vainly to overcome shock. The taper had gone out, and the man was visible only as a dark silhouette, haloed with the fire of the candles behind him.

He swallowed hard, trying to force his heart from his throat, and groped for words that were not altogether blasphemous.

“Bloody…Christ,” he managed, after several incoherent tries. “What in the name of God Himself are youdoing here?”

“Praying,” said a soft Scots voice, its softness no disguise for the shock in it—and an even more patent anger. “What are youdoing here?”

“Praying?” Grey echoed, disbelief in his voice. “Lying on the floor?”

He couldn’t see Fraser’s face, but heard the hiss of air through his teeth. They stood close enough to each other that he felt the cold emanating from Fraser’s body, as though the other had been carved from ice. Christ, how long had the man been pressed to the freezing flags? And why? His eyes adjusting, he saw that the Scot wore nothing but his shirt; his long body was a shadow, the candlelight glowing dim through threadbare fabric.

“It is a Catholic custom,” Fraser said, his voice as stiff as his posture. “Of respect.”

“Indeed.” The shock of the encounter was fading, and Grey found his voice come easier. “You will pardon me, Mr. Fraser, if I find that suggestion somewhat peculiar—as is your presence here.” He was growing angry now himself, feeling absurdly practiced upon—though logic told him that Fraser had risen as he did only because Grey would have stepped on him in another moment, and not with the intent of taking him at a disadvantage.

“It is immaterial to me, Major, what you find peculiar and what ye do not,” Fraser said, his voice still low. “If ye wish to suppose that I have chosen to sleep in a freezing chapel in company with a corpse, rather than in my own bed, you may think as ye like.” He made a motion as though to pass, obviously intending to leave the chapel—but the aisle was narrow, and Grey was not moving.

“Did you know the—the countess well?” Curiosity was overcoming shock and anger.

“The countess…oh.” Fraser glanced involuntarily over his shoulder at the coffin. Grey saw him draw breath, the mist of it briefly white. “I suppose she was. A countess. And, yes, I kent her well enough. I was her groom.”

There was something peculiar about thatremark, Grey noted with interest. There was a wealth of feeling in that statement, “I was her groom,” but damned if he could tell what sort of feeling it was.

He wondered for an instant whether Fraser had been in love with Geneva—and felt a surprising sear of jealousy at the thought. Knowing Fraser’s feeling for his dead wife, he would suppose…but why in God’s name would he come at night to pray by Geneva’s coffin, if not—but no. That “I was her groom” had been spoken with a tone of…hostility? Bitterness? It wasn’t the respectful statement of a loyal and grieving servant, he’d swear thaton a stack of Bibles.

Grey dismissed this confusion and took a breath of cold air and candle wax, imagining for an instant that he smelt the hint of corruption on the frigid air.

Fraser stood like a stone angel, no more than a foot from him; he could hear the Scot’s breathing, faintly hoarse, congested. My God, had he been weeping? He dismissed the thought; the weather was enough to give anyone the catarrh, let alone anyone mad enough to lie half naked on freezing stones.

“I was her friend,” Grey said quietly.

Fraser said nothing in reply, but continued to stand between Grey and the coffin. Grey saw him turn his head, the candle glow sparking red from brows and sprouting beard, limning the lines of his face in gold. The long throat moved once, swallowing. Then Fraser turned toward him, his face disappearing once more into shadow.

“Then I leave her in your hands ’til dawn.”

It was said so quietly that Grey was not sure he’d heard it. But something touched his hand, light as a cold wind passing, and Fraser moved past him and was gone, the muffled thud of the chapel door the only sound to mark his leaving.

Grey turned in disbelief to look, but there was nothing to be seen. The chapel was dark, and silent save for the sound of rain thrumming on the slates of the roof.

Had that remarkable encounter really happened? He thought for an instant that he might be dreaming—must have fallen asleep in his chair by the fire, lulled by the rain. But he put a hand on the end of the pew beside him and felt hard wood, cold under his fingers.

And the coffin stood before him, stark and white in the candlelight. The flames quivered, the air in the chapel disturbed, then settled, pure and steady. Keeping watch.

Not quite knowing what to do, he sat down in the front pew. He should pray, perhaps, but not yet.

What was it Fraser had said? I suppose she was. A countess.

So she had been—for the brief months of her marriage. And now there was nothing left of her or her husband, save that small, enigmatic morsel of flesh, the ninth Earl of Ellesmere.

I leave her in your hands ’til dawn.

Had Fraser himself meant to keep watch all night, prostrate before her coffin? Plainly he meant Grey to stay through the remaining hours of cold dark. Grey shifted uneasily on the hard wood, aware that he could not now bring himself to leave.

He shivered, then wrapped his cloak more tightly, resigned. The chill of the slate floor was seeping through his slippers; his feet had gone numb already. He thought of Fraser in his shirt, and shivered again at the thought of pressing his own bare flesh against the icy slates.

Respect, Fraser had said. It scarcely seemed respectful, such an extraordinary act. What, he wondered, would have happened, had he actually stepped on the man? He still held that overwhelming impression of Fraser’s presence, towering, cold as stone, and pushed aside a fleeting thought of what that frozen flesh might feel like, had he touched it. Restless, he stood and went forward, drawn like a moth to the glimmering white of the coffin.

More like something from the Middle Ages, he thought, and snorted, breath white in the dark air. Those Catholic buggers who walked barefoot through Paris or flagellated themselves to bloody shreds as an act of penance.

An act of penance.

He felt the words drop into place in his mind, like the tumblers of a lock. Recalled his sense of the Dunsanys, that some deep uneasiness tinged their grief.

“Oh, Geneva,” he said softly.

He saw again that vision of her at his window, pale-faced, wide-eyed, adrift in the night. So cold, and all alone. The outline of the stable behind her. From somewhere in the house, he thought he heard the creak of footsteps, and a far-off infant’s cry.

“Oh, my dear. What have you done?”

Chapter 8

Violent Hands

I am the Resurrection and the life, saith the Lord. He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die.

Well, he hoped so, to be sure. The words hadn’t yet been spoken, but repeated themselves in his mind, a comforting refrain. Though another bit from the Book of Common Prayer whispered a counterpoint in the background.

…not to be used for any that die unbaptized, or excommunicate, or have laid violent hands upon themselves.

He hadn’t gone to his father’s funeral—didn’t know if there had been one.

In spite of the weather, the church was full. The Dunsanys were liked by their tenants, friendly with most of the country gentry, and kind to their servants; everyone wished to comfort the family in its grief. Besides, it was the country, and entertainment was rare; no one would miss a good funeral, even if they were obliged to tramp through waist-deep snow to attend it.

Grey glanced over his shoulder, to see whether the tall figure of Jamie Fraser loomed among the crowd of grooms and chambermaids who stood at the back of the church, but there was no sign of the Scot. Fraser was, of course, forbidden to leave the boundaries of Helwater, but surely he would have been given leave to attend the funeral with the other servants—if he wished to.

Grey still felt the chill of his night watch in the chapel in his bones, but this deepened as he heard the rustle of anticipation at the door, and turned with everyone else to see the coffin of Ludovic, eighth Earl of Ellesmere, being brought in.

He made no attempt not to stare. Everyone was staring. The minister had come forth, and was waiting, stone-faced, at the altar, where Geneva’s coffin already stood. Grey himself had helped to carry that, dreadfully conscious of the silent weight within.

What was causing his bones to freeze within him now, though, was the sight of Jamie Fraser, tall and grim, serving as pallbearer with five other sturdy manservants.

Someone had given him coat and breeches of a cheap black worsted, very ill-fitting. He should have looked ridiculous, bony wrists protruding from the too-short sleeves, and every seam strained to bursting. As it was, he reminded Grey of a description he had read in Demonologie,a nasty little treatise discovered in the course of researches undertaken after his experience with the Hellfire Club.

The men set down the earl’s coffin and retreated to a bench set under the gallery. Grey was not surprised in the least to see Fraser sitting alone at one end, the other men bunched unconsciously together, as far away from him as they could get.

The vicar cleared his throat with an ominous rumble, the congregation rose, flustered and murmuring, and the service began. Grey heard not a word, his responses entirely mechanical.

Could he be right? He went back and forth on the matter, unsure. On the one hand, the thought that had come to him in the darkness of the chapel seemed incredible. A complete delusion, born of grief, fatigue, and shock. On the other…there was Lady Dunsany’s behavior. Grief-stricken, certainly, but grief covering a rocklike determination. Determination to put the past behind her and raise her grandchild? Or determination to perpetrate a daring deception in order to protect him?

And Lord Dunsany, the target of his own blame—and his wife’s. For arranging the marriage with Ellesmere, he’d said…but also for allowing Geneva too much freedom. What the devil had he said, mumbling in his cups? Something about her horse, spending hours roaming the countryside, alone on her horse. Not alone, surely. In the company of her groom,said a cynical voice in his mind.

And then there was said groom himself, and that remarkable encounter in the middle of the night. Even though Grey had not slept, it still seemed the product of a dream. He turned deliberately in his seat and looked at Fraser. Nothing whatever showed on the Scot’s face. He might have been looking back at Grey—or at something a thousand miles beyond him.

Isobel was seated next to Grey, her small, cold, black-gloved hand held in his for support. She was no longer weeping; he thought she had simply passed the point of being able to.

Not a one of the Dunsany family had so much as glanced at Fraser, though most of the congregation had gawked openly, and many were still darting looks at him where he sat on the bench, upright and menacing as a corpse candle.

Yes, there was evidence. But his knowledge of James Fraser was evidence, as well—and he found it inconceivable that Fraser could or would have seduced a young girl, no matter what the circumstances. Let alone the daughter of his employer.

His eyes settled on the pair of coffins at the front of the church, identical beneath their white shrouds. So tragic, so…solidly marital.

Yes, and you bloody knew Geneva, too,he thought.

The rain had turned to snow. It wouldn’t stick, sodden as the ground was, but the wind drove it against the windows, bursts of hard, dry pellets that struck the glass like bird shot.

Snowflake upon snowflake, silently accumulating into a drift of what seemed like certainty—but, he reminded himself, could as easily be pure illusion.

He was light-headed from lack of sleep, and the snow-darkened windows lent the church a mournful dimness. He’d sat through the predawn hours in the freezing chapel, watching the flicker of the candle flames, and thinking.

Was his refusal to believe it purely the product of his own pride, his own guilt? Not only his belief in Jamie Fraser’s honor, a refusal to believe he could be so mistaken in the man—but the knowledge that if it weretrue, he himself must bear a good part of the blame. He had introduced Fraser into the Dunsany household, his own honor surety for Fraser’s.

He hadn’t eaten this morning, too chilled and exhausted to think of food after his vigil in the chapel.

“Out of the deep have I called unto thee, O Lord. Lord, hear my voice.”

Fraser had closed his eyes, quite suddenly, as though unable to bear what he saw. What didhe see? Grey wondered. The Scot’s face remained blank as granite, but he saw the big hands curl slowly, gathering fabric and flesh together, fingers digging so hard into the muscle of his thigh that they must leave bruises.

Was it Geneva he mourned—or his dead wife? The trouble with funerals was that they reminded one of loss. He had not seen his father’s funeral, and yet had never sat through one without thought of his father, the wound of his loss healing, growing smaller through the years, but always reopened.

And if ever I saw a man bleeding internally…he thought, watching Fraser.

“Give courage and faith to those who are bereaved, that they may have strength to meet the days ahead in the comfort of a reasonable and holy hope, in the joyful expectation of eternal life with those they love.”

Well, that expectation would be a comfort, to be sure. He had no such expectation himself—only something too vague to be called hope—but he did have one certainty to anchor himself in this fog of grief and indecision. The certainty that he would get at least one answer from Jamie Fraser. Maybe two.

It was only four o’clock, but the winter sun had set, leaving a thin slice of pale light above the fells. The temperature had dropped and the snow had thickened; already the highest rocks showed a rime of white, and large, wet flakes struck Grey’s coat and stuck melting to his hair and lashes as he made his way to the stables.

He had seen the other two grooms helping to bring round horses and harness teams for those nearby funeral guests who were departing today, but there had been no sign of Fraser. Not surprising; Lord Dunsany preferred “MacKenzie” to remain out of sight when there was company. His size, his aspect, and, above all, his Highland speech tended to unnerve some people. Grey had heard some comments regarding the tall, red-haired servant who bore Ellesmere’s coffin, but most did not realize that he was Dunsany’s servant, rather than that of the Earl of Ellesmere—and few, so far as he knew, had realized that the man was Scottish, let alone a paroled Jacobite.

Sure enough, he discovered Fraser in the stable block, pitching feed for the stalled horses, and came up beside him.

“May I speak with you, Mr. Fraser?”

The Scot didn’t turn, but lifted one shoulder.

“I dinna see any way of preventing ye, Major,” he said. Despite the words, this did not sound unfriendly; only wary.

“I would ask you a question, sir.”

He was watching Fraser’s face closely, in the glow of the single lantern, and saw the wide mouth tighten a little. Fraser only nodded, though, and dug his fork into the waiting mound of hay.

“Regarding some gentlemen intimately connected with the Stuart cause,” Grey said, and received a sudden startled look—mingled with an undeniable impression of relief.

“The Stuart cause?” Fraser repeated, and turned his back on Grey, shoulders bunching as he dug the fork into a pile of hay. “To which…gentlemen…do ye refer, Major?”

Grey was conscious of his heart beating heavily in his chest, and took especial care that his voice might be under his control at this delicate juncture.

“I understand that you were an intimate friend to—” he nearly said, “to the Young Pretender,” but bit that off and said instead, “to Charles Stuart.”

“That—” Fraser began, but stopped as suddenly as he had begun. He deposited the forkload of hay neatly into one manger, and moved to pick up another. “I knew him,” he said, voice colorless.

“Quite. Am I to understand also that you knew the names of some important supporters of the Pretender in England?”

Fraser glanced at him, face inscrutable in the lantern light.

“Many of them,” he said quietly. He looked back to the fork in his hands, drove it down into the hay. “Does it matter now?”

Not to Fraser, surely. Nor to Hector, or the other dead of Culloden. But to the living…

“If any of them are still alive, I imagine it matters,” he said. “Those who did not declare themselves at the time would scarcely wish their connexions exposed, even now.”

Fraser made a noise of soft derision through his nose.

“Oh, aye. I shall denounce them, I suppose, and thus gain pardon from your king?”