The Outlander Series 7-Book Bundle (188 page)

“I said that I had procured rooms for Alex near the Castle, so that I might look in on him myself, as my funds did not stretch far enough to allow of employing a proper servant for him.”

But the occupation of Edinburgh had of course made such attendance difficult, and Alex Randall had been left more or less to his own devices for the past month, aside from the intermittent offices of a woman who came in to clean now and then. In ill health to start with, his condition had been worsened by cold weather, poor diet, and squalid conditions until, seriously alarmed, Jack Randall had been moved to seek my help. And to offer for that help, the betrayal of his King.

“Why would you come to me?” I asked at last, turning from the plaque.

He looked faintly surprised.

“Because of who you are.” His lips curved in a slight, self-mocking smile. If one seeks to sell one’s soul, is it not proper to go to the powers of darkness?”

“You really think that I’m a power of darkness, do you?” Plainly he did; he was more than capable of mockery, but there had been none in his original proposal.

“Aside from the stories about you in Paris, you told me so yourself,” he pointed out. “When I let you go from Wentworth.” He turned in the dark, shifting himself on the stone ledge.

“That was a serious mistake,” he said softly. “You should never have left that place alive, dangerous creature. And yet I had no choice; your life was the price he set. And I would have paid still higher stakes than that, for what he gave me.”

I made a slight hissing noise, which I muffled at once, but too late to stop him hearing me. He half-sat on the ledge, one hip resting on the stone, one leg stretched down to balance him. The moon broke through the scudding clouds outside, backlighting him through the broken window. In the dimness, head half-turned and the lines of cruelty around his mouth erased by darkness, I could mistake him again, as I had once before, for a man I had loved. For Frank.

Yet I had betrayed that man; because of my choice, that man would never be.
For the sins of the fathers shall be visited on the children … and thou shalt destroy him, root and branch, so that his name shall no more be known among the tribes of Israel
.

“Did he tell you?” the light, pleasant voice asked from the shadows. “Did he ever tell you all the things that passed between us, him and me, in that small room at Wentworth?” Through my shock and rage, I noticed that he obeyed Jamie’s injunction; not once did he use his name. “He.” “Him.” Never “Jamie.” That was mine.

My teeth were clenched tight, but I forced the words through them.

“He told me. Everything.”

He made a small sound, half a sigh.

“Whether the idea pleases you or not, my dear, we are linked, you and I. I cannot say it pleases me, but I admit the truth of it. You know, as I do, the touch of his skin—so warm, is he not? Almost as though he burned from within. You know the smell of his sweat and the roughness of the hairs on his thighs. You know the sound that he makes at the last, when he has lost himself. So do I.”

“Be quiet,” I said.
“Be still!”
He ignored me, leaning back, speaking thoughtfully, as though to himself. I recognized, with a fresh burst of rage, the impulse that led him to this—not the intention, as I had thought, to upset me, but an overwhelming urge to talk of a beloved; to rehearse aloud and live again vanished details. For after all, to whom might he speak of Jamie in this way, but to me?

“I am leaving!” I said loudly, and whirled on my heel.

“Will you leave?” said the calm voice behind me. “I can deliver General Hawley into your hands. Or you can let him take the Scottish army. Your choice, Madam.”

I had the strong urge to reply that General Hawley wasn’t worth it. But I thought of the Scottish chieftains now quartered in Holyroodhouse—Kilmarnock and Balmerino and Lochiel, only a few feet away on the other side of the abbey wall. Of Jamie himself. Of the thousands of clansmen they led. Was the chance of victory worth the sacrifice of my feelings? And was this the turning point, again a place of choice? If I didn’t listen, if I didn’t accept the bargain Randall proposed, what then?

I turned, slowly. “Talk, then,” I said. “If you must.” He seemed unmoved by my anger, and unworried by the possibility that I would refuse him. The voice in the dark church was even, controlled as a lecturer’s.

“I wonder, you know,” he said. “Whether you have had from him as much as I?” He tilted his head to one side, sharp features coming into focus as he moved out of the shadow. The fugitive light caught him momentarily from the side, lighting the pale hazel of his eyes and making them shine, like those of a beast glimpsed hiding in the bushes.

The note of triumph in his voice was faint, but unmistakable.

“I,” he said softly, “I have had him as you could never have him. You are a woman; you cannot understand, even witch as you are. I have held the soul of his manhood, have taken from him what he has taken from me. I know him, as he now knows me. We are bound, he and I, by blood.”

I give ye my Body, that we Two may be One …

“You choose a very odd way of seeking my help,” I said, my voice shaking. My hands were clenched in the folds of my skirt, the fabric cold and bunched between my fingers.

“Do I? I think it best you understand, Madam. I do not beseech your pity, do not call upon your power as a man might seek mercy from a woman, depending upon what people call womanly sympathy. For that cause, you might come to my brother on his own account.” A lock of dark hair fell loose across his forehead; he brushed it back with one hand.

“I prefer that it be a straight bargain made between us, Madam; of service rendered and price paid—for realize, Madam, that my feelings toward you are much as yours toward me must be.”

That was a shock; while I struggled to find an answer, he went on.

“We are linked, you and I, through the body of one man—through
him
. I would have no such link formed through the body of my brother; I seek your help to heal his body, but I take no risk that his soul shall fall prey to you. Tell me, then; is the price I offer acceptable to you?”

I turned away from him and walked down the center of the echoing nave. I was shaking so hard that my steps felt uncertain, and the shock of the hard stone beneath my soles jolted me. The tracery of the great window over the disused altar stood black against the white of racing clouds, and dim shafts of moonlight lit my path.

At the end of the nave, as far as I could get from him, I stopped and pressed my hands against the wall for support. It was too dark even to see the letters of the marble tablet under my hands, but I could feel the cool, sharp lines of the carving. The curve of a small skull, resting on crossed thigh bones, a pious version of the jolly Roger. I let my head fall forward, forehead to forehead with the invisible skull, smooth as bone against my skin.

I waited, eyes closed, for my gorge to subside, and the heated pulse that throbbed in my temples to cool.

It makes no difference, I told myself. No matter what he is. No matter what he says.

We are linked, you and I, through the body of one man
 … Yes, but not through Jamie.
Not through him!
I insisted, to him, to myself. Yes, you took him, you bastard! But I took him back, I freed him from you.
You have no part of him!
But the sweat that trickled down my ribs and the sound of my own sobbing breath belied my conviction.

Was this the price I must pay for the loss of Frank? A thousand lives that might be saved, perhaps, in compensation for that one loss?

The dark mass of the altar loomed to my right, and I wished with all my heart that there might be some presence there, whatever its nature; something to turn to for an answer. But there was no one here in Holyrood; no one but me. The spirits of the dead kept their own counsel, silent in the stones of wall and floor.

I tried to put Jack Randall out of my mind. If it weren’t him, if it were any other man who asked, would I go? There was Alex Randall to be considered, all other things aside. “For that cause, you might come to my brother on his own account,” the Captain had said. And of course I would. Whatever I might offer him in the way of healing, could I withhold it because of the man who asked it?

It was a long time before I straightened, pushing myself wearily erect, my hands damp and slick on the curve of the skull. I felt drained and weak, my neck aching and my head heavy, as though the sickness in the city had laid its hand on me after all.

He was still there, patient in the cold dark.

“Yes,” I said abruptly, as soon as I came within speaking distance. “All right. I’ll come tomorrow, in the forenoon. Where?”

“Ladywalk Wynd,” he said. “You know it?”

“Yes.” Edinburgh was a small city—no more than the single High Street, with the tiny, ill-lit wynds and closes opening off it. Ladywalk Wynd was one of the poorer ones.

“I will meet you there,” he said. “I shall have the information for you.” He slid to his feet and took a step forward, then stood, waiting for me to move. I saw that he didn’t want to pass close by me, in order to reach the door.

“Afraid of me, are you?” I said, with a humorless laugh. “Think I’ll turn you into a toadstool?”

“No,” he said, surveying me calmly. “I do not fear you, Madam. You cannot have it both ways, you know. You sought to terrify me at Wentworth, by giving me the day of my death. But having told me that, you cannot now threaten me, for if I shall die in April of next year, you cannot harm me now, can you?”

Had I had a knife with me, I might have shown him otherwise, in a soul-satisfying moment of impulse. But the doom of prophecy lay on me, and the weight of a thousand Scottish lives. He was safe from me.

“I keep my distance, Madam,” he said, “merely because I would prefer to take no chance of touching you.”

I laughed once more, this time genuinely.

“And that, Captain,” I said, “is an impulse with which I am entirely in sympathy.” I turned and left the church, leaving him to follow as he would.

I had no need to ask or to wonder whether he would keep his word. He had freed me once from Wentworth, because he had given his word to do so. His word, once given, was his bond. Jack Randall was a gentleman.

What did you feel, when I gave my body to Jack Randall?
Jamie had asked me.

Rage
, I had said.
Sickness. Horror
.

I leaned against the door of the sitting room, feeling them all again. The fire had died out and the room was cold. The smell of camphorated goose grease tingled in my nostrils. It was quiet, save for the heavy rasp of breathing from the bed, and the faint sound of the wind, passing by the six-foot walls.

I knelt at the hearth and began to rebuild the fire. It had gone out completely, and I pushed back the half-burnt log and brushed the ashes away before breaking the kindling into a small heap in the center of the hearthstone. We had wood fires in Holyrood, not peat. Unfortunate, I thought; a peat fire wouldn’t have gone out so easily.

My hands shook a little, and I dropped the flint box twice before I succeeded in striking a spark. The cold, I said to myself. It was very cold in here.

Did he tell you all the things that passed between us?
said Jack Randall’s mocking voice.

“All I need to know,” I muttered to myself, touching a paper spill to the tiny flame and carrying it from point to point, setting the tinder aglow in half a dozen spots. One at a time, I added small sticks, poking each one into the flame and holding it there until the fire caught. When the pile of kindling was burning merrily, I reached back and caught the end of the big log, lifting it carefully into the heart of the fire. It was pinewood; green, but with a little sap, bubbling from a split in the wood in a tiny golden bead.

Crystallized and frozen with age, it would make a drop of amber, hard and permanent as gemstone. Now, it glowed for a moment with the sudden heat, popped and exploded in a tiny shower of sparks, gone in an instant.

“All I need to know,” I whispered. Fergus’s pallet was empty; waking and finding himself cold, he had crawled off in search of a warm haven.

He was curled up in Jamie’s bed, the dark head and the red one resting side by side on the pillow, mouths slightly open as they snored peacefully together. I couldn’t help smiling at the sight, but I didn’t mean to sleep on the floor myself.

“Out you go,” I murmured to Fergus, manhandling him to the edge of the bed, and rolling him into my arms. He was light-boned and thin for a ten-year-old, but still awfully heavy. I got him to his pallet without difficulty and plunked him in, still unconscious, then came back to Jamie’s bed.

I undressed slowly, standing by the bed, looking down at him. He had turned onto his side and curled himself up against the cold. His lashes lay long and curving against his cheek; they were a deep auburn, nearly black at the tips, but a pale blond near the roots. It gave him an oddly innocent air, despite the long, straight nose and the firm lines of mouth and chin.

Clad in my chemise, I slid into bed behind him, snuggling against the wide, warm back in its woolen nightshirt. He stirred a little, coughing, and I put a hand on the curve of his hip to soothe him. He shifted, curling further and thrusting himself back against me with a small exhalation of awareness. I put my arm around his waist, my hand brushing the soft mass of his testicles. I could rouse him, I knew, sleepy as he was; it took very little to bring him standing, no more than a few firm strokes of my fingers.

I didn’t want to disturb his rest, though, and contented myself with gently patting his belly. He reached back a large hand and clumsily patted my thigh in return.

“I love you,” he muttered, half-awake.

“I know,” I said, and fell asleep at once, holding him.

39

FAMILY TIES

It was not quite a slum, but the next thing to it. I stepped gingerly aside to avoid a substantial puddle of filth, left by the emptying of chamber pots from the windows overhead, awaiting removal by the next hard rain.

Randall caught my elbow to save my slipping on the slimy cobblestones. I stiffened at the touch, and he withdrew his hand at once.

He saw my glance at the crumbling doorpost, and said defensively, “I couldn’t afford to move him to better quarters. It isn’t so bad inside.”

It wasn’t—quite. Some effort had been made at furnishing the room comfortably, at least. There was a large bowl and ewer, a sturdy table with a loaf, a cheese, and a bottle of wine upon it, and the bed was equipped with a feather mattress, and several thick quilts.

The man who lay on the mattress had thrown off the quilts, overheated by the effort of coughing, I assumed. He was quite red in the face, and the force of his coughing shook the bed frame, sturdy as it was.

I crossed to the window and threw it up, disregarding Randall’s exclamation of protest. Cold air swept into the stifling room, and the stench of unwashed flesh, unclean linen, and overflowing chamber pot lightened a bit.

The coughing gradually eased, and Alexander Randall’s flushed countenance faded to a pasty white. His lips were slightly blue, and his chest labored as he fought to recover his breath.

I glanced around the room, but didn’t see anything suitable to my purpose. I opened my medical kit and drew out a stiff sheet of parchment. It was a trifle frayed at the edges, but would still serve. I sat down on the edge of the bed, smiling as reassuringly at Alexander as I could manage.

“It was … kind of you … to come,” he said, struggling not to cough between words.

“You’ll be better in a moment,” I said. “Don’t talk, and don’t fight the cough. I’ll need to hear it.”

His shirt was unfastened already; I spread it apart to expose a shockingly sunken chest. It was nearly fleshless; the ribs were clearly visible from abdomen to clavicle. He had always been thin, but the last year’s illness had left him emaciated.

I rolled the parchment into a tube and placed one end against his chest, my ear against the other. It was a crude stethoscope, but amazingly effective.

I listened at various spots, instructing him to breathe deeply. I didn’t need to tell him to cough, poor boy.

“Roll onto your stomach for a moment.” I pulled up the shirt and listened, then tapped gently on his back, testing the resonance over both lungs. The bare flesh was clammy with sweat under my fingers.

“All right. Onto your back again. Just lie still, now, and relax. This won’t hurt at all.” I kept up the soothing talk as I checked the whites of his eyes, the swollen lymph glands in his neck, the coated tongue and inflamed tonsils.

“You’ve a touch of catarrh,” I said, patting his shoulder. “I’ll brew you something that will ease the cough. Meanwhile …” I pointed a toe distastefully at the lidded china receptacle under the bed, and glanced at the man who stood waiting by the door, back braced and rigid as though on parade.

“Get rid of that,” I ordered. Randall glared at me, but came forward and stooped to obey.

“Not out the window!” I said sharply, as he made a move toward it. “Take it downstairs.” He about-faced and left without looking at me.

Alexander drew a shallow breath as the door closed behind his brother. He smiled up at me, hazel eyes glowing in his pale face. The skin was nearly transparent, stretched tight over the bones of his face.

“You’d better hurry, before Johnny comes back. What is it?”

His dark hair was disordered by the coughing; trying to restrain the feelings it roused in me, I smoothed it for him. I didn’t want to tell him, but he clearly knew already.

“You have got catarrh. You also have tuberculosis—consumption.”

“And?”

“And congestive heart failure,” I said, meeting his eyes straight on.

“Ah. I thought … something of the kind. It flutters in my chest sometimes … like a very small bird.” He laid a hand lightly over his heart.

I couldn’t bear the look of his chest, heaving under its impossible burden, and I gently closed his shirt and fastened the tie at the neck. One long, white hand grasped mine.

“How long?” he said. His tone was light, almost unconcerned, displaying no more than a mild curiosity.

“I don’t know,” I said. “That’s the truth. I don’t know.”

“But not long,” he said, with certainty.

“No. Not long. Months perhaps, but almost surely less than a year.”

“Can you … stop the coughing?”

I reached for my kit. “Yes. I can help it, at least. And the heart palpitations; I can make you a digitalin extract that will help.” I found the small packet of dried foxglove leaves; it would take a little time to brew them.

“Your brother,” I said, not looking at him. “Do you want me—”

“No,” he said, definitely. One corner of his mouth curved up, and he looked so like Frank that I wanted momentarily to weep for him.

“No,” he said. “He’ll know already, I think. We’ve always … known things about each other.”

“Have you, then?” I asked, looking directly at him. He didn’t turn away from my eyes, but smiled faintly.

“Yes,” he said softly. “I know about him. It doesn’t matter.”

Oh, doesn’t it? I thought. Not to you, perhaps. Not trusting either my face or my voice, I turned away and busied myself in lighting the small alcohol lamp I carried.

“He
is
my brother,” the soft voice said behind me. I took a deep breath and steadied my hands to measure out the leaves.

“Yes,” I said, “at least he’s that.”

Since news had spread of Cope’s amazing defeat at Prestonpans, offers of support, of men and money, poured in from the north. In some cases, these offers even materialized: Lord Ogilvy, the eldest son of the Earl of Airlie, brought six hundred of his father’s tenants, while Stewart of Appin appeared at the head of four hundred men from the shires of Aberdeen and Banff. Lord Pitsligo was single-handedly responsible for most of the Highland cavalry, bringing in a large number of gentlemen and their servants from the northeastern counties, all well mounted and well armed—at least by comparison with some of the miscellaneous clansmen, who came armed with claymores saved by their grandsires from the Rising of the ’15, rusty axes, and pitchforks lately removed from the more homely tasks of cleaning cow-byres.

They were a motley crew, but none the less dangerous for that, I reflected, making my way through a knot of men gathered round an itinerant knifegrinder, who was sharpening dirks, razors, and scythes with perfect indifference. An English soldier facing them might be risking tetanus rather than instant death, but the results were likely to be the same.

While Lord Lewis Gordon, the Duke of Gordon’s younger brother, had come to do homage to Charles in Holyrood, holding out the glittering prospect of raising the whole of clan Gordon, it was a long way from hand-kissing to the actual provisioning of men.

And the Scottish Lowlands, while perfectly willing to cheer loudly at news of Charles’s victory, were singularly unwilling to send men to support him; nearly the whole of the Stuart army was composed of Highlanders, and likely to remain so. The Lowlands hadn’t been a total washout, though; Lord George Murray had told me that levies of food, goods, and money on the southern burghs had resulted in a very useful sum being contributed to the army’s treasury, which might tide them over for a time.

“We’ve gotten fifty-five hundred pounds from Glasgow, alone. Though it’s but a pittance, compared to the promised moneys from France and Spain,” His Lordship had confided to Jamie. “But I’m not inclined to turn up my nose at it, particularly as His Highness has had nothing from France but soothing words, and no gold.”

Jamie, who knew just how unlikely the French gold was to materialize, had merely nodded.

“Have ye found out anything more today,
mo duinne?
” he asked me as I came in. He had a half-written dispatch in front of him, and stuck his quill into the inkpot to wet it again. I pulled the damp hood off my hair with a crackle of static electricity, nodding.

“There’s a rumor that General Hawley is forming cavalry units in the south. He has orders for the formation of eight regiments.”

Jamie grunted. Given the Highlanders’ aversion to cavalry, this wasn’t good news. Absentmindedly, he rubbed his back, where the hoofprint-shaped bruise from Prestonpans had all but faded.

“I’ll put it down for Colonel Cameron, then,” he said. “How good a rumor do ye think it is, Sassenach?” Almost automatically, he glanced over his shoulder, to be sure we were alone. He called me “Sassenach” now only in privacy, using the formality of “Claire” in public.

“You can take it to the bank,” I said. “I mean, it’s good.”

It wasn’t a rumor at all; it was the latest bit of intelligence from Jack Randall, the latest installment payment on the debt he insisted on assuming for my care of his brother.

Jamie knew, of course, that I visited Alex Randall, as well as the sick of the Jacobite army. What he didn’t know, and what I could never tell him, was that once a week—sometimes more often—I would meet Jack Randall, to hear what news seeped into Edinburgh Castle from the South.

Sometimes he came to Alex’s room when I was there; other times, I would be coming home in the winter twilight, watching my footing on the slippery cobbles of the Royal Mile, when suddenly a stick-straight form in brown homespun would beckon from the mouth of a close, or a quiet voice come out of the mist behind my shoulder. It was unnerving; like being haunted by Frank’s ghost.

It would have been simpler in many ways for him to leave a letter for me at Alex’s lodging, but he would have nothing put in writing, and I could see his point. If such a letter was ever found, even unsigned, it could implicate not only him but Alex as well. As it was, Edinburgh teemed with strangers; volunteers to King James’s standard, curious visitors from south and north, foreign envoys from France and Spain, spies and informers in plenty. The only people not abroad on the streets were the officers and men of the English garrison, who remained mewed up in the Castle. So long as no one heard him speak to me, no one would recognize him for what he was, nor think anything odd of our encounters, even were we seen—and we seldom were, such were his precautions.

For my part, I was just as pleased; I would have had to destroy anything put in writing. While I doubted that Jamie would recognize Randall’s hand, I couldn’t explain a regular source of information without outright lying. Far better to make it appear that the information he gave me was merely part of the gleanings of my daily rounds.

The drawback, of course, was that by treating Randall’s contributions in the same light as the other rumors I collected, they might be discounted or ignored. Still, while I believed that Jack Randall was supplying information in good faith—assuming one could entertain such a concept in conjunction with the man—it didn’t necessarily follow that it was always correct. As well to have it regarded skeptically.

I relayed the news of Hawley’s new regiments with the usual faint twinge of guilt at my quasi deception. However, I had concluded that while honesty between husband and wife was essential, there was such a thing as carrying it too bloody far. And I saw no reason why the supplying of useful information to the Jacobites should cause Jamie further pain.

“The Duke of Cumberland is still waiting for his troops to return from Flanders,” I added. “And the siege of Stirling Castle is getting nowhere.”

Jamie grunted, scribbling busily. “That much I knew; Lord George had a dispatch from Francis Townsend two days ago; he holds the town, but the ditches His Highness insisted on are wasting men and time. There’s no need for them; they’d do better just to batter the Castle from a distance with cannon fire, and then storm it.”

“So why are they digging ditches?”

Jamie waved a hand distractedly, still concentrating on his writing. His ears were pink with frustration.

“Because the Italian army dug ditches when they took Verano Castle, which is the only siege His Highness has seen, so plainly that’s how it must be done, aye?”

“Och, aye,” I said.

It worked; he looked up at me and laughed, his eyes slanting half-shut with it.

“That’s a verra fair try, Sassenach,” he said. “What else can ye say?”

“Settle for the Lord’s Prayer in Gaelic, would you?” I asked.

“No,” he said, scattering sand across his dispatch. He got up, kissed me briefly, and reached for his coat. “But I’ll settle for some supper. Come along, Sassenach. We’ll find a nice, cozy tavern and I’ll teach you a lot of things ye mustn’t say in public. They’re all fresh in my mind.”

Stirling Castle fell at last. The cost had been high, the likelihood of holding it low, and the benefit in keeping it dubious. Still, the effect on Charles was euphoric—and disastrous.

“I have succeeded at last in convincing Murray—such a stubborn fool as he is!” Charles interjected, frowning. Then he remembered his victory, and beamed around the room once more. “I have prevailed, I say, though. We march into England on this day a week, to reclaim
all
of my Father’s lands!”

The Scottish chieftains gathered in the morning drawing room glanced at each other, and there was considerable coughing and shifting of weight. The overall mood didn’t seem to be one of wild enthusiasm at the news.

“Er, Your Highness,” Lord Kilmarnock began, carefully. “Would it not be wiser to consider …?”

They tried. They all tried. Scotland, they pointed out, already belonged to Charles, lock, stock, and barrel. Men were still pouring in from the north, while from the south there seemed little promise of support. And the Scottish lords were all too aware that the Highlanders, while fierce fighters and loyal followers, were also farmers. Fields needed to be tilled for the spring planting; cattle needed to be provisioned for overwintering. Many of the men would resist going deeply into the South in the winter months.

“And these men—they are not my subjects? They go not where I command them? Nonsense,” Charles said firmly. And that was that. Almost.