The Outlander Series 7-Book Bundle (172 page)

“It’s the way ye talk to them before they’re born,” she said softly. “You’ll know?”

I placed my hands gently over my belly, one atop the other, remembering.

“Yes, I know.”

She pressed a thumb against the baby’s cheek, breaking the suction, and with a deft movement, shifted the small body to bring the full breast within reach.

“I’ve thought that perhaps that’s why women are so often sad, once the child’s born,” she said meditatively, as though thinking aloud. “Ye think of them while ye talk, and you have a knowledge of them as they are inside ye, the way you think they are. And then they’re born, and they’re different—not the way ye thought of them inside, at all. And ye love them, o’ course, and get to know them the way they are … but still, there’s the thought of the child ye once talked to in your heart, and that child is gone. So I think it’s the grievin’ for the child unborn that ye feel, even as ye hold the born one in your arms.” She dipped her head and kissed her daughter’s downy skull.

“Yes,” I said. “Before … it’s all possibility. It might be a son, or a daughter. A plain child, a bonny one. And then it’s born, and all the things it might have been are gone, because now it
is
.”

She rocked gently back and forth, and the small clutching hand that seized the folds of green silk over her breast began to loose its grip.

“And a daughter is born, and the son that she might have been is dead,” she said quietly. “And the bonny lad at your breast has killed the wee lassie ye thought ye carried. And ye weep for what you didn’t know, that’s gone for good, until you know the child you have, and then at last it’s as though they could never have been other than they are, and ye feel naught but joy in them. But ’til then, ye weep easy.”

“And men …” I said, thinking of Jamie, whispering secrets to the unhearing ears of the child.

“Aye. They hold their bairns, and they feel all the things that might be, and the things that will never be. But it isna so easy for a man to weep for the things he doesna ken.”

P
ART
S
IX

The Flames of Rebellion

36

PRESTONPANS

Scotland, September 1745

Four days’ march found us on the crest of a hill near Calder. A sizable moor stretched out at the foot of the hill, but we set up camp within the shelter of the trees above. There were two small streams cutting through the moss-covered rock of the hillside, and the crisp weather of early fall made it seem much more like picnicking than a march to war.

But it was the seventeenth of September, and if my sketchy knowledge of Jacobite history was correct, war it would be, in a matter of days.

“Tell it to me again, Sassenach,” Jamie had said, for the dozenth time, as we made our way along the winding trails and dirt roads. I rode Donas, while Jamie walked alongside, but now slid down to walk beside him, to make conversation easier. While Donas and I had reached an understanding of sorts, he was the kind of horse that demanded your full concentration to ride; he was all too fond of scraping an unwary rider off by walking under low branches, for example.

“I told you before, I don’t know that much,” I said. “There was very little written about it in the history books, and I didn’t pay a great deal of attention at the time. All I can tell you is that the battle was fought—er,
will
be fought—near the town of Preston, and so it’s called the Battle of Prestonpans, though the Scots called—call—it the Battle of Gladsmuir, because of an old prophecy that the returning king will be victorious at Gladsmuir. Heaven knows where the real Gladsmuir is, if there is one.”

“Aye. And?”

I furrowed my brow, trying to recall every last scrap of information. I could conjure a mental picture of the small, tattered brown copy of
A Child’s History of England
, read by the flickering light of a kerosene lantern in a mud hut somewhere in Persia. Mentally flicking the pages, I could just recall the two-page section that was all the author had seen fit to devote to the second Jacobite Rising, known to historians as “the ’45.” And within that two-page section, the single paragraph dealing with the battle we were about to fight.

“The Scots win,” I said helpfully.

“Well, that’s the important point,” he agreed, a bit sarcastically, “but it would be a bit of help to know a little more.”

“If you wanted prophecy, you should have gotten a seer,” I snapped, then relented. “I’m sorry. It’s only that I don’t
know
much, and it’s very frustrating.”

“Aye, it is.” He reached down and took my hand, squeezing it as he smiled at me. “Dinna fash yourself, Sassenach. Ye canna say more than ye know, but tell me it all, just once more.”

“All right.” I squeezed back, and we walked on, hand in hand. “It was a remarkable victory,” I began, reading from my mental page, “because the Jacobites were so greatly outnumbered. They surprised General Cope’s army at dawn—they charged out of the rising sun, I remember that—and it was a rout. There were hundreds of casualties on the English side, and only a few from the Jacobite side—thirty men, that was it. Only thirty men killed.”

Jamie glanced behind us, at the straggling tail of the Lallybroch men, strung out as they walked along the road, chatting and singing in small groups. Thirty men was what we had brought from Lallybroch. It didn’t seem that small a number, looking at them. But I had seen the battlefields of Alsace-Lorraine, and the acres of meadowland converted to muddy boneyards by the burial of the thousands slain.

“Taken all in all,” I said, feeling faintly apologetic, “I’m afraid it was really rather … unimportant, historically speaking.”

Jamie blew out his breath through pursed lips, and looked down at me rather bleakly.

“Unimportant. Aye, well.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Not your fault, Sassenach.”

But I couldn’t help feeling that it was, somehow.

The men sat around the fire after their supper, lazily enjoying the feeling of full stomachs, exchanging stories and scratching. The scratching was endemic; close quarters and lack of hygiene made body lice so common as to excite no remark when one man detached a representative specimen from a fold of his plaid and tossed it into the fire. The louse flamed for an instant, one among the sparks of the fire, and then was gone.

The young man they called Kincaid—his name was Alexander, but there were so many Alexanders that most of them ended up being called by nicknames or middle names—seemed particularly afflicted with the scourge this evening. He dug viciously under one arm, into his curly brown hair, then—with a quick glance to see whether I was looking in his direction—at his crotch.

“Got ’em bad, have ye, lad?” Ross the smith observed sympathetically.

“Aye,” he answered, “the wee buggers are eatin’ me alive.”

“Bloody hell to get out of your cock hairs,” Wallace Fraser observed, scratching himself in sympathy. “Gives me the yeuk to watch ye, laddie.”

“D’ye ken the best way to rid yourself o’ the wee beasties?” Sorley McClure asked helpfully, and at Kincaid’s negative shake of the head, leaned forward and carefully pulled a flaming stick from the fire.

“Lift your kilt a moment, laddie, and I’ll smoke ’em out for ye,” he offered, to catcalls and jeers of laughter from the men.

“Bloody farmer,” Murtagh grumbled. “And what would ye know about it?”

“You know a better way?” Wallace raised thick brows skeptically, wrinkling the tanned skin of his balding forehead.

“O’ course.” He drew his dirk with a flourish. “The laddie’s a soldier now; let him do it like a soldier does.”

Kincaid’s open face was guileless and eager. “How’s that?”

“Weel, verra simple. Ye take your dirk, lift your plaidie, and shave off half the hairs on your crutch.” He raised the dirk warningly. “Only half, mind.”

“Half? Aye, well …” Kincaid looked doubtful, but was paying close attention. I could see the grins of anticipation broadening on the faces of the men around the fire, but no one was laughing yet.

“Then …” Murtagh gestured at Sorley and his stick. “
Then
, laddie, ye set the other half on fire, and when the beasties rush out, ye spear them wi’ your dirk.”

Kincaid blushed hotly enough to be seen even by firelight as the circle of men erupted in hoots and roars. There was a good deal of rude shoving as a couple of the men pretended to try the fire cure on each other, brandishing flaming billets of wood. Just as it seemed that the horseplay was getting out of hand, and likely to lead to blows in earnest, Jamie returned from hobbling the animals. He stepped into the circle, and tossed a stone bottle from under one arm to Kincaid. Another went to Murtagh, and the shoving died down.

“Ye’re fools, the lot o’ ye,” he declared. “The second best way to rid yourself of lice is to pour whisky on them and get them drunk. When they’ve fallen down snoring, then ye stand up and they’ll drop straight off.”

“Second best, eh?” said Ross. “And what’s the best way, sir, and I might ask?”

Jamie smiled indulgently round the circle, like a parent amused by the antics of his children.

“Why, let your wife pick them off ye, one by one.” He cocked an elbow and bowed to me, one eyebrow raised. “If you’d oblige me, my lady?”

While put forward as a joke, individual removal was in fact the only effective method of ridding oneself of lice. I fine-combed my own hair—all of it—morning and evening, washed it with yarrow whenever we paused near water deep enough to bathe in, and had so far avoided any serious infestations. Aware that I would remain louseless only so long as Jamie did, I administered the same treatment to him, whenever I could get him to sit still long enough.

“Baboons do this all the time,” I remarked, delicately disentangling a foxtail from his thick red mane. “But I believe they eat the fruits of their labors.”

“Dinna let me prevent ye, Sassenach, and ye feel so inclined,” he responded. He hunched his shoulders slightly in pleasure as the comb slid through the thick, glossy strands. The firelight filled my hands with a cascade of sparks and golden streaks of fire. “Mm. Ye wouldna think it felt so nice to have someone comb your hair for ye.”

“Wait ’til I get to the rest of it,” I said, tweaking him familiarly and making him giggle. “Tempted though I am to try Murtagh’s suggestion instead.”

“Touch my cock hairs wi’ a torch, and you’ll get the same treatment,” he threatened. “What was it Louise de La Tour says bald lassies are?”

“Erotic.” I leaned forward and nipped the upper flange of one ear between my teeth.

“Mmmphm.”

“Well, tastes differ,” I said. “
Chacun à son gout
, and all that.”

“A bloody French sentiment, and I ever heard one.”

“Isn’t it, though?”

A loud, rolling growl interrupted my labors. I laid down the comb and peered ostentatiously into the tree-filled shadows.

“Either,” I said, “there are bears in this wood, or … why haven’t you eaten?”

“I was busy wi’ the beasts,” he answered. “One of the ponies has a cracked hoof and I had to bind it with a poultice. Not that I’ve so much appetite, what wi’ all this talk of eating lice.”

“What sort of poultice do you use on a horse’s hoof?” I asked, ignoring this remark.

“Different things; fresh dung will do in a pinch. I used chewed vetch leaves mixed wi’ honey this time.”

The saddlebags had been dumped by our private fire, near the edge of the small clearing where the men had erected my tent. While I would have been willing to sleep under the stars, as they did, I admitted to a certain thankfulness for the small privacy afforded me by the sheet of canvas. And, as Murtagh had pointed out with his customary bluntness, when I thanked him for his assistance in erecting the shelter, the arrangement was not solely for
my
benefit.

“And if he takes his ease between your thighs of a night, there’s none will grudge it to him,” the little clansman had said, with a jerk of the head toward Jamie, deep in conversation with several of the other men. “But there’s nay need to make the lads think ower-much o’ things they canna have, now is there?”

“Quite,” I said, with an edge to my voice. “Very thoughtful of you.”

One of his rare smiles curled the corner of the thin-lipped mouth.

“Och, quite,” he said.

A quick rummage through the saddlebags turned up a heel of cheese and several apples. I gave these to Jamie, who examined them dubiously.

“No bread?” he asked.

“There may be some in the other bag. Eat those first, though; they’re good for you.” He shared the Highlanders’ innate suspicion of fresh fruit and vegetables, though his great appetite made him willing to eat almost anything in extremity.

“Mm,” he said, taking a bite of one apple. “If ye say so, Sassenach.”

“I do say so. Look.” I pulled my lips back, baring my teeth. “How many women of my age do you know who still have all their teeth?”

A grin bared his own excellent teeth.

“Well, I’ll admit you’re verra well preserved, Sassenach, for such an auld crone.”

“Well nourished, is what I am,” I retorted. “Half the people on your estate are suffering from mild scurvy, and from what I’ve seen on the road, it’s even worse elsewhere. It’s vitamin C that prevents scurvy, and apples are full of it.”

He took the apple away from his mouth and frowned at it suspiciously.

“They are?”

“Yes, they are,” I said firmly. “So are most other kinds of plants—oranges and lemons are best, but of course you can’t get those here—but onions, cabbage, apples … eat something like that every day, and you won’t get scurvy. Even green herbs and meadow grass have vitamin C.”

“Mmphm. And that’s why deer dinna lose their teeth as they get old?”

“I daresay.”

He turned the apple to and fro, examining it critically, then shrugged.

“Aye, well,” he said, and took another bite.

I had just turned to fetch the bread when a faint crackling sound drew my attention. I caught sight from the corner of my eye of shadowy movement in the darkness and the firelight flashed from something near Jamie’s head. I whirled toward him, shouting, just in time to see him topple backward off the log and disappear into the void of the night.

There was no moon, and the only clue to what was happening was a tremendous scuffling sound in the dry alder leaves, and the noise of men locked in effortful but silent conflict, with grunts, gasps, and the occasional muffled curse. There was a short, sharp cry, and then complete quiet. It lasted, I suppose, only a few seconds, though it seemed to go on forever.

I was still standing by the fire, frozen in my original position, when Jamie reemerged from the Stygian dark of the forest, a captive before him, one arm twisted behind its back. Loosing his grip, he whirled the dark figure around and gave it an abrupt shove that sent it crashing backward into a tree. The man hit the trunk hard, loosing a shower of leaves and acorns, and slid slowly down to lie dazed in the leaf-meal.

Attracted by the noise, Murtagh, Ross, and a couple of the other Fraser men materialized by the fire. Hauling the intruder to his feet, they pulled him roughly into the circle of firelight. Murtagh grabbed the captive by the hair and jerked his head backward, bringing his face into view.

It was a small, fine-boned face, with big, long-lashed eyes that blinked dazedly at the crowding faces.

“But he’s only a boy!” I exclaimed. “He can’t be more than fifteen!”

“Sixteen!” said the boy. He shook his head, senses returning. “Not that that makes any difference,” he added haughtily, in an English accent. Hampshire, I thought. He was a long way from home.

“It doesn’t,” Jamie grimly agreed. “Sixteen or sixty, he’s just made a verra creditable attempt at cutting my throat.” I noticed then the reddened handkerchief pressed against the side of his neck.

“I shan’t tell you anything,” the boy said. His eyes were dark pools in the pale face, though the firelight shone on the gleam of fair hair. He was clutching one arm tightly in front of him; I thought perhaps it was injured. The boy was clearly making a major effort to stand upright among the men, lips compressed against any wayward expression of fear or pain.

“Some things you don’t need to tell me,” said Jamie, looking the lad over carefully. “One, you’re an Englishman, so likely you’ve come with troops nearby. And two, you’re alone.”