PART SIX
The Search
34
DOUGAL’S STORY
Whatever the disadvantages of civilization, I reflected grimly, the benefits were undeniable. Take telephones, for example. For that matter, take newspapers, which were popular in such metropolitan centers as Edinburgh or even Perth, but completely unknown in the wilderness of the Scottish Highlands.
With no such methods of mass communication, news spread from one person to the next at the speed of a man’s stride. People generally found out what they needed to know, but with a delay of several weeks. Consequently, faced with the problem of finding exactly where Jamie was, there was little to rely on except the possibility of someone encountering him and sending word back to Lallybroch. That was a process that might take weeks. And the winter would set in shortly, making travel to Beauly impossible. I sat feeding sticks to the fire, pondering the possibilities.
Which way would Jamie have gone from the point of his escape? Not back to Lallybroch, to be sure, and almost certainly not north, into the MacKenzie lands. South to the border lands, where he might meet again with Hugh Munro or some of his earlier rough companions? No, most likely northeast, toward Beauly. But if I could figure that out, so could the men of the Watch.
Murtagh returned from his gathering, dumping an armload of sticks on the ground. He sat down crosslegged on a fold of his plaid, wrapping the rest around himself to keep out the chill. He cast an eye toward the sky, where the moon glowed behind racing clouds.
“It wilna snow just yet,” he said, frowning. “Another week, maybe two. We might reach Beauly before then.” Well, nice to have confirmation of my deductions, I supposed.
“You think he’ll be there?”
The little clansman shrugged, hunching his plaid higher around his shoulders.
“No tellin’. The travel will no be as easy for him, lyin’ hid during the day, and staying off the roads. And he hasna got a horse.” He scratched his stubbled chin thoughtfully. “We canna find him; we’d best let him find us.”
“How? Send up flares?” I suggested sarcastically. One thing about Murtagh; no matter what incongruous thing I said, he could be counted on to behave as though I hadn’t spoken.
“I’ve brought your wee packet of medicines,” he said, nodding toward the saddlebags on the ground. “And you’ve enough of a reputation near Lallybroch; you’ll be known as a healer through most of the countryside near.” He nodded to himself. “Aye, that’ll do well enough.” And without further explanations, he lay down, rolled up in his plaid and went calmly to sleep, ignoring the wind in the trees, the light patter of rain, and me.
I found out soon enough what he meant. Traveling openly—and slowly—along the main roads, we stopped at every croft and village and hamlet we came to. There he would make a quick survey of the local populace, round up anyone suffering from illness or injury, and bring them to me for treatment. Physicians being few and far between in these parts, there was always someone ailing to attend to.
While I was occupied with my tonics and salves, he would chat idly with the friends and relatives of the afflicted, taking care to describe the path of our journey toward Beauly. If by chance there were no patients to be seen in a place, we would pause nonetheless for the night, seeking shelter at a cottage or tavern. In these places, Murtagh would sing to entertain our hosts and earn our supper, stubbornly insisting that I preserve all the money I had with me, in case it should be needed when we found Jamie.
Not naturally inclined toward conversation, he taught me some of his songs, to pass the time as we plodded on from place to place.
“Ye’ve a decent voice,” he observed, one day, after a moderately successful attempt at “The Dowie Dens of Yarrow.” “Not well-trained, but strong and true enough. Try it once more and ye’ll sing it wi’ me tonight. There’s a wee tavern at Limraigh.”
“Do you really think this will work?” I asked. “What we’re doing, I mean?”
He shifted about in the saddle before answering. No natural horseman, he always looked like a monkey trained to ride a horse, but still managed to dismount fresh as a daisy at day’s end, while I could barely manage to hobble my horse before staggering off to collapse.
“Oh, aye,” he said, at last. “Sooner or later. You’re seein’ more sick folk these days, no?”
This was true, and I admitted as much.
“Well, then,” he said, proving his point, “that means word o’ your skill is spreading. And that’s what we want. But we could maybe do better. That’s why you’ll sing tonight. And perhaps…” He hesitated, as though reluctant to suggest something.
“Perhaps what?”
“Know anything about fortune-telling, do ye?” he asked warily. I understood the reason for his hesitancy; he had seen the frenzy of the witch-hunt at Cranesmuir.
I smiled. “A bit. You want me to try it?”
“Aye. The more we can offer, the more folk will come to see us—and go back to tell others. And word will spread about us, ‘til the lad hears of us. And that’s when we’ll find him. Game to try, are ye?”
I shrugged. “If it will help, why not?”
I made my debut as singer and fortune-teller that night at Limraigh, with considerable success. I found that Mrs. Graham had been right in what she had told me—it was the faces, not the hands, that gave you the necessary clues.
Our fame spread, little by little, until by the next week, people were running out of their cottages to greet us as we rode into a village, and showering us with pennies and small gifts as we rode away.
“You know, we could really make something of this,” I remarked one evening, stowing the night’s takings away. “Too bad there’s no theater anywhere near—we could do a proper music-hall turn: Magical Murtagh and His Glamorous Assistant, Gladys.”
Murtagh treated this remark with his usual taciturn indifference, but it was true; we really did quite well together. Perhaps it was because we were united in our quest, despite our very basic personality differences.
The weather grew increasingly bad, and our pace even slower, but there was as yet no word from Jamie. Outside Belladrum one night, in a driving rain, we met with a band of real Gypsies.
I blinked disbelievingly at the tiny cluster of painted caravans in the clearing near the road. It looked exactly like a camp of the Gypsy bands that came to Hampstead Down every year.
The people looked the same, too; swarthy, cheerful, loud, and welcoming. Hearing the jingle of our harness, a woman’s head poked out of the window of one caravan. She looked us over for a moment, then gave a shout, and the ground under the trees was suddenly alive with grinning brown faces.
“Gie me your purse for safekeeping,” said Murtagh, unsmiling, watching the young man swaggering toward us with a gay disregard of the rain soaking his colorful shirt. “And dinna turn your back on anyone.”
I was cautious, but we were welcomed with expansive motions, and invited to share the Gypsies’ dinner. It smelt delicious—some sort of stew—and I eagerly accepted the invitation, ignoring Murtagh’s dour speculations as to the basic nature of the beast that had provided the stewmeat.
They spoke little English, and less Gaelic; we conversed largely in gestures, and a sort of bastard tongue that owed its parentage largely to French. It was warm and companionable in the caravan where we ate; men and women and children all ate casually from bowls, sitting wherever they could find space, dipping the succulent stew up with chunks of bread. It was the best food I had had in weeks, and I ate until my sides creaked. I could barely muster breath to sing, but did my best, humming along in the difficult spots, and leaving Murtagh to carry the tunes.
Our performance was greeted with rapturous applause, and the Gypsies reciprocated, a young man singing some sort of wailing lament to the accompaniment of an ancient fiddle. His performance was punctuated by the crashing of a tambourine, wielded with some gravity by a little girl of about eight.
While Murtagh had been circumspect in his inquiries in the villages and crofts we visited, with the Gypsies he was entirely open. To my surprise, he told them bluntly who we sought; a big man, with hair like fire, and eyes like the summer skies. The Gypsies exchanged glances up and down the aisle of the caravan, but there was a unanimous shaking of regretful heads. No, they had not seen him. But…and here the leader, the purple-shirted young man who had welcomed us, pantomimed the sending of a messenger, should they happen across the man we sought.
I bowed, smiling, and Murtagh in turn pantomimed the handing across of money for information received. This bit of business was greeted with smiles, but also with gazes of speculation. I was glad when Murtagh declared that we could not stay the night, but must be on our way, thank ye just the same. He shook out a few coins from his sporran, taking care to exhibit the fact that it held only a small handful of coppers. Distributing these by way of thanks for the supper, we made our exit, followed by voluble protestations of farewell, gratitude, and good wishes—at least that’s what I assumed they were.
They might actually have been promising to follow us and cut our throats, and Murtagh behaved rather as though this had been the case, leading the horses at a gallop to the crossroads two miles distant, then ducking aside into the vegetation for a substantial detour before reemerging onto the road again.
Murtagh glanced up and down the road, empty in the fading, rain-soaked dusk.
“Do you really think they followed us?” I asked curiously.
“I dinna ken, but since there’s twelve o’ them, and no but the twa o’ us, I thought we’d best act as though they did.” This seemed sound reasoning, and I followed him without question through several more evasive maneuvers, arriving at last in Rossmoor, where we found shelter in a barn.
Snow fell the next day. Only a light fall, enough to dust the ground with a white like the flour on the millhouse floor, but it worried me. I didn’t like to think of Jamie, alone and unsheltered in the heather, braving winter’s storms in nothing but the shirt and plaid he had been wearing at his capture by the Watch.
Two days later, the messenger came.
The sun was still above the horizon, but it was evening already in the rockwalled glens. The shadows lay so deep under the leafless trees that the path—what there was of one—was nearly invisible. Fearful of losing the messenger in the gathering dark, I walked so closely behind him that once or twice I actually trod on the trailing hem of his cloak. At last, with an impatient grunt, he turned and thrust me ahead of him, steering me through the dusk with a heavy hand on my shoulder.
It felt as though we had been walking for a long time. I had long since lost track of our turnings amid the towering boulders and thick dead undergrowth. I could only hope that Murtagh was somewhere behind, keeping within earshot if not within sight. The man who had come to the tavern to fetch me, a middle-aged Gypsy with no English, had flatly refused to have anyone but me accompany him, pointing emphatically first at Murtagh and then the ground, to indicate that he must stay put.
The night chill came on fast at this time of year, and my heavy cloak was barely enough protection against the sudden gusts of icy wind that met us in the open spaces of the clearings. I was torn between dismay at the thought of Jamie lying through the cold, wet nights of autumn without shelter, and excitement at the thought of seeing him again. A shiver ran up my spine that had nothing to do with the cold.
At last my guide pulled me to a halt, and with a precautionary squeeze of my shoulder, stepped off the path and disappeared. I stood, as patiently as could be managed, hands folded under my arms for warmth. I was sure my guide—or someone—would return; I hadn’t paid him, for one thing. Still, the wind rattled through the dead brambles like the passing of a deer’s ghost, still in panic-stricken flight from the hunter. And the damp was seeping through the seams of my boots; the otter-fat waterproofing had worn away, and I’d had no chance to reapply it.
My guide reappeared as suddenly as he had left, making me bite my tongue as I stifled a squeak of surprise. With a jerk of his head, he bade me follow him, and pressed aside a screen of dead alders for me to pass.
The cave entrance was narrow. There was a lantern burning on a ledge, silhouetting the tall figure that turned toward the entrance to meet me.
I flung myself forward, realizing even before I touched him that it was not Jamie. Disappointment struck me like a blow in the stomach, and I had to step back and swallow several times to choke back the heavy bile that rose in my throat.
I clenched my hands at my sides, digging my fists into my thighs until I felt calm enough to speak.
“Rather out of your territory, aren’t you?” I said, in a voice that surprised me by its coolness.
Dougal MacKenzie had watched my struggle for control, not without some sympathy on his dark face. Now he took my elbow and led me farther into the cave. There were a number of bundles piled against the far side, many more than a single horse could carry. He wasn’t alone, then. And whatever he and his men carried, it was something he preferred not to expose to the curious gaze of innkeepers and hostlers.
“Smuggling, I suppose?” I said, with a nod toward the bundle. Then I thought better and answered my own question. “No, not exactly smuggling—goods for Prince Charles, hm?”
He didn’t bother to answer me, but sat down on a boulder opposite me, hands on his knees.
“I’ve news,” he said abruptly.
I took a deep breath, bracing myself. News, and not good news, from the expression on his face. I took another breath, swallowed hard, and nodded.
“Tell me.”
“He’s alive,” he said, and the largest of the ice lumps in my stomach dissolved. Dougal cocked his head to one side, watching intently. To see whether I were going to faint? I wondered dimly. It didn’t matter; I wasn’t.
“He was taken near Kiltorlity, two weeks ago,” Dougal said, still watching me. “Not his fault; poor luck. He met six dragoons face-to-face round a turn in the path, and one recognized him.”
“Was he hurt?” My voice was still calm, but my hands were beginning to shake. I pressed them flat against my legs to still them.
Dougal shook his head. “Not as I heard.” He paused a moment. “He’s in Wentworth Prison,” he said reluctantly.
“Wentworth,” I repeated mechanically. Wentworth Prison. Originally one of the mighty Border fortresses, it had been built sometime in the late sixteenth century, and added to at intervals over the next hundred and fifty years. The sprawling pile of rock now covered nearly two acres of ground, sealed behind three-foot walls of weathered granite. But even granite walls have gates, I thought. I looked up to ask a question, and saw the reluctance still stamped on Dougal’s features.
“What else?” I demanded. The hazel eyes met mine, unflinching.
“He stood his trial three days ago,” Dougal said. “And was condemned to hang.”
The ice lump was back, with company. I closed my eyes.
“How long?” I asked. My voice seemed rather far-off to my own ears and I opened my eyes again, blinking to refocus them in the flickering lantern light. Dougal was shaking his head.
“I dinna ken. Not long, though.”
My breath was coming a little easier now, and I was able to unclench my fists.
“We’d better hurry, then,” I said, still calmly. “How many men are with you?”
Instead of answering, Dougal rose and came over to me. Reaching down, he took my hands and pulled me to my feet. The look of sympathy was back, and a deep grief lurking in his eyes frightened me more than anything he’d said so far. He shook his head slowly.
“Nay, lass,” he said gently. “There’s nothing we can do.”
Panicked, I tore my hands away from him.
“There is!” I said. “There must be! You said he was still alive!”
“And I said ‘Not long’!” he retorted sharply. “The lad’s in Wentworth Prison, not the thieves’ hole at Cranesmuir! They may hang him today, or tomorrow, or not ‘til next week, for all I know o’ the matter, but there is no way on earth that ten men can force a way into Wentworth Prison!”
“Oh, no?” I was trembling again, but with rage this time. “You don’t know that—you don’t know what might be done! You’re just not willing to risk your skin, or your miserable…profit!” I flung an arm accusingly at the piled bundles.
Dougal grappled with me, seizing my flailing arms. I hammered his chest in a frenzy of grief and rage. He ignored the blows and put his arms around me, pulling me tight against him and holding me until I ceased struggling.
“Claire.” It was the first time he had ever used my first name, and it frightened me still further.
“Claire,” he said again, loosening his grip so that I could look up at him, “do ye not think I’d do all I could to free the lad, did I think there was the slightest chance? Damn it, he’s my own foster-son! But there is no chance—none!” He shook me slightly, to emphasize his words.
“Jamie wouldna have me throw away good men’s lives in a vain venture. Ye know that as well as I do.”
I could keep back the tears no longer. They burned down my icy cheeks as I pushed against him, seeking to free myself. He held me tighter, though, trying to force my head against his shoulder.
“Claire, my dear,” he said, voice gentler. “My heart’s sore for the lad—and for you. D’ye come away wi’ me. I’ll take ye safe. To my own house,” he added hastily, feeling me stiffen. “Not to Leoch.”
“To your house?” I said slowly. A horrible suspicion was beginning to form in my mind.
“Aye,” he said. “Ye dinna think I’d take ye back to Cranesmuir, surely?” He smiled briefly before the stern features relaxed back into seriousness. “Nay. I’ll take ye to Beannachd. You’ll be safe there.”
“Safe?” I said, “or helpless?” His arms dropped away at the tone of my voice.
“What d’ye mean?” The pleasant voice was suddenly cold.
I felt rather cold myself, and pulled my cloak together as I moved away from him.
“You kept Jamie away from his home by telling him his sister had borne a child to Randall,” I said, “so that you and that precious brother of yours would have a chance to lure him into your camp. But now the English have him, you’ve lost any chance of controlling the property through Jamie.” I backed up another step, swallowing.
“You were party to your sister’s marriage contract. It was by your insistence—yours and Colum’s—that Broch Tuarach might be held by a woman. You think that if Jamie dies, Broch Tuarach will belong to me—or to you, if you can seduce or force me into marrying you.”
“What?!” His voice was incredulous. “Ye think…ye think this is all some plot? Saint Agnes! Do ye think I’m lying to ye?”
I shook my head, keeping my distance. I didn’t trust him an inch.
“No, I believe you. If Jamie weren’t in prison, you’d never dare to tell me he was. It’s too easy to check that. Nor do I think you betrayed him to the English—not even you could do something like that to your own blood. Besides, if you had, and word of it ever reached your men, they’d turn on you in a second. They’d tolerate a lot in you, but not treachery against your own kinsman.” As I spoke I was reminded of something.
“Was it you who attacked Jamie near the Border last year?”
The heavy brows rose with surprise.
“Me? No! I found the lad near death, and saved him! Does that sound as though I meant him harm?”
Under cover of my cloak, I ran my hand down my thigh, feeling for the comforting bulk of my dagger.
“If it wasn’t you, who was it?”
“I dinna ken.” The handsome face was wary, but not hiding anything. ” ‘Twas one of three men—broken men, outlaws—that hunted wi’ Jamie then. All of them accused each other, and there was no way of findin’ out the truth o’ the matter, not then.” He shrugged, the traveling cloak falling back from one broad shoulder.
“It doesna matter much now; twa of the men are dead, and the third in prison. Over another matter, but it makes little difference, do ye think?”
“No, I don’t suppose so.” It was in a way a relief to find that he wasn’t a murderer, whatever else he might be. He had no reason to lie to me now; so far as he knew, I was completely helpless. Alone, he could compel me to do whatever he wished. Or at least he likely thought so. I took a grip on the handle of my dirk.
The light was poor in the cave, but I was watching carefully, and I could see indecision flicker momentarily across his face as he chose his next move. He stepped toward me, hand out, but stopped when he saw me flinch away.
“Claire. My sweet Claire.” The voice was soft now, and he ran an insinuating hand lightly down my arm. So he had decided to try seduction rather than compulsion.
“I know why ye talk so cold to me, and why ye think ill of me. You know that I burn for ye, Claire. And it’s true—I’ve wanted ye since the night of the Gathering, when I kissed your sweet lips.” He had two fingers resting lightly on my shoulder, inching toward my neck. “If I’d been a free man when Randall threatened ye, I’d ha’ wed ye myself on the spot, and sent the man to the devil for ye.” He was moving his body gradually closer, crowding me against the stone wall of the cavern. His fingertips moved to my throat, tracing the line of my cloak-fastening.
He must have seen my face then, for he stopped his advance, though he left his hand where it was, resting lightly above the rapid pulse that beat in my throat.
“Even so,” he said, “even feeling as I do—for I’ll hide it from ye no longer—even so, ye couldna imagine I’d abandon Jamie if there were any hope of saving him? Jamie Fraser is the closest thing I’ve got to a son!”
“Not quite,” I said. “There’s your real son. Or perhaps two, by now?” The fingers on my throat increased their pressure, just for a second, then dropped away.
“What d’ye mean?” And this time all pretense, all games, were dispensed with. The hazel eyes were intent and the full lips a grim line in the russet beard. He was very large, and very close to me. But I had gone too far already for caution.
“It means I know who Hamish’s father really is,” I said. He had been half-expecting it, and had his face well under control, but the last month spent telling fortunes had not been in vain. I saw the tiny flicker of shock that widened his eyes and the sudden panic, swiftly quelled, that tightened the corners of his mouth.
Bull’s-eye. In spite of the danger, I knew a moment’s fierce exultation. I had been right, then, and the knowledge might just possibly be the weapon I needed.
“Do ye, then?” he said softly.
“Yes,” I said, “and I imagine Colum knows as well.”
That stopped him for a moment. The hazel eyes narrowed, and I wondered for an instant whether he was armed.
“He thought it was Jamie for a time, I think,” I said, staring directly into his eyes. “Because of the rumors. You must have started those, feeding them to Geillis Duncan. Why? Because Colum got suspicious of Jamie and started to question Letitia? She couldn’t hold out for long against him. Or was it that Geilie thought you were Letitia’s lover, and you told her it was Jamie to quiet her suspicions? She’s a jealous woman, but she can’t have any reason to protect you now.”
Dougal smiled cruelly. The ice never left his eyes.
“No, she can’t,” he agreed, still speaking softly. “The witch is dead.”
“Dead!” The shock must have shown as plainly on my face as in my voice. His smile broadened.
“Oh, aye,” he said. “Burnt. Stuck feet first in a barrel of pitch and heaped about with dry peats. Bound to a stake and lit like a torch. Sent to the devil in a pillar of flame, under the branches of a rowan tree.”
I thought at first this merciless recitation of detail was meant to impress me, but I was wrong. I shifted to one side, and as the light shone fresh on his face, I could see the lines of grief etched around his eyes. It wasn’t a catalog of horror, then, but a lashing of himself. I felt no pity for him, under the circumstances.
“So you were fond of her,” I said coldly. “Much good it did her. Or the child. What did you do with that?”
He shrugged. “Saw it placed in a good home. A son, and a healthy babe, for all its mother was a witch and an adulteress.”
“And its father an adulterer and a betrayer,” I snapped. “Your wife, your mistress, your nephew, your brother—is there anyone you haven’t betrayed and deceived? You…you…” I choked on the words, quite sick with loathing. “I don’t know why I’m surprised,” I said, trying to speak calmly. “If you’ve no loyalty to your king, I suppose there’s no reason to think you’d feel it for your nephew or your brother, either.”
His head snapped round and he glared at me. He raised his thick dark brows, the same shape as Colum’s, as Jamie’s, as Hamish’s. The deepset eyes, the broad cheekbones, the beautifully shaped skull. Old Jacob MacKenzie’s legacy was a strong one.
A big hand clamped hard on my shoulder.
“My brother? You think I’d betray my brother?” For some reason, that had stung him; his face was dark with anger.
“You’ve just admitted that you did!” And then I realized.
“The both of you,” I said slowly. “You did it together, you and Colum. Together, as you’ve always done things.” I pulled his hand off my shoulder and flung it back at him.
“Colum couldn’t be chieftain, unless you would go to war for him. He couldn’t hold the clan together, without you to travel for him, to collect the rents and settle the claims. He couldn’t ride, he couldn’t travel. And he couldn’t father a son, to pass the chieftainship on to. And you had no son by Maura. You swore to be his arms and legs”—I was beginning to feel a little hysterical by this time—”why shouldn’t you be his cock, as well?”
Dougal had lost his anger; he stood watching me speculatively for a moment. Deciding that I was going nowhere, he sat down on one of the bales of goods and waited for me to finish.
“So you did it with Colum’s knowledge. Was Letitia willing?” Knowing by now just what sort of ruthlessness they possessed, I wouldn’t put it past the brothers MacKenzie to have forced her.
Dougal nodded. His anger had evaporated.
“Oh, aye, willing enough. She didna fancy me particularly, but she wanted a child—enough to take me to her bed for the three months it took to start Hamish. A boring damn job it was too,” Dougal added reflectively, scraping a bit of mud from his boot heel. “I’d as soon swive a warm bowl of milk pudding.”
“And did you tell Colum that?” I asked. Hearing the edge in my voice, he looked up. He regarded me levelly for a moment, then a faint smile lightened his face.
“No,” he said quietly. “No, I didna tell him that.” He looked down at his hands, turning them over as though looking for some secret hidden in the lines of his palms.
“I told him,” he said softly, not looking at me, “that she was tender and sweet as a ripe peach, and all that a man could want in a woman.”
He closed his hands abruptly and looked up at me, that momentary glimpse of Colum’s brother submerged once more in the sardonic eyes of Dougal MacKenzie.
“Tender and sweet is not precisely what I’d say of you,” he observed. “But all that a man could want…” The deepset hazel eyes traveled slowly downward over my body, lingering on the roundness of breast and hip that showed through my open cloak. One hand moved unconsciously back and forth, stroking lightly across the muscles of his thigh as he watched me.
“Who knows?” he said, as though to himself. “I might have yet another son—legitimate, this time. True”—he tilted his head appraisingly, looking at my midsection—”it hasna happened yet wi’ Jamie. You may be barren. But I’ll take the chance. The property is worth it, at any rate.”
He stood suddenly and took a step toward me.
“Who knows?” he said again, very softly. “If I were to plow that pretty brown-haired furrow and seed it deep each day…” The shadows on the cavern wall shifted suddenly as he took another step toward me.
“Well, you took your bloody time about it,” I said crossly.
A look of incredulous shock spread across his features before he realized that I was looking beyond him, toward the cave mouth.
“It didna seem mannerly to interrupt,” said Murtagh, advancing into the cave behind a loaded pair of flintlock pistols. He held one trained on Dougal, using the other to gesture with.
“Unless ye mean to accept that last proposal here and now, I’d suggest ye leave. And if ye do mean to accept it, then I’ll leave.”
“Nobody’s leaving yet,” I said shortly. “Sit down,” I said to Dougal. He was still standing, staring at Murtagh as though at an apparition.
“Where’s Rupert?” he demanded, finding his voice.
“Oh, Rupert.” Murtagh scratched his chin thoughtfully with the muzzle of one pistol. “He’s likely made it to Belladrum by now. Should be back before dawn,” he added helpfully, “wi’ the keg of rum he thinks ye sent him to fetch. The rest o’ your men are still asleep in Quinbrough.”
Dougal had the grace to laugh, if a little grudgingly. He sat down again, hands on his knees, and glanced from me to Murtagh and back again. There was a momentary silence.
“Well?” Dougal inquired. “Now what?”
That, I realized, was rather a good question. Surprised at finding Dougal instead of Jamie, shocked by his revelations, and infuriated at his consequent proposals, I had had no time to think of what ought to be done. Luckily, Murtagh was better prepared. Well, after all, he hadn’t been occupied in fighting off lecherous advances.
“We’ll need money,” he said promptly. “And men.” He cast an eye appraisingly over the bundles stacked against the wall. “Nay,” he said thoughtfully. “That’ll be for King James. But we’ll take what ye’ve got on your person.” The small black eyes swiveled back to Dougal and the muzzle of one pistol gestured gently in the vicinity of his sporran.
One thing to be said for life in the Highlands was that it apparently gave one a certain fatalistic attitude. With a sigh, Dougal reached into the sporran and tossed a small purse at my feet.
“Twenty gold pieces and thirty-odd shillings,” he said, lifting one brow in my direction. “Take it and welcome.”
Seeing my look of skepticism, he shook his head.
“Nay, I mean it. Think what ye like of me. Jamie’s my sister’s son, and if ye can free him, then God be wi’ ye. But ye can’t.” His tone was final.
He looked at Murtagh, still holding his pistols steady.
“As to the men, no. If you and the lass mean to commit suicide, I canna stop ye. I’ll even offer to bury ye, one on either side of Jamie. But you’ll not take my men to hell with ye, pistols or no.” He crossed his arms and leaned back against the cavern wall, calmly watching us.
Murtagh’s hands didn’t waver from his aim. His eyes flickered toward me, though. Did I wish him to shoot?
“I’ll make you a bargain,” I said.
Dougal raised one brow.
“You’re in a bit better position to bargain than I am at present,” he said. “What’s your offer?”
“Let me talk to your men,” I said. “And if they’ll come with me of their own accord, then let them. If not, we’ll go as we came—and we’ll hand back your purse, as well.”
One side of his mouth came up in a lopsided smile. He looked me over carefully, as though assessing my persuasiveness and my skills as an orator. Then he sat back, hands on his knees. He nodded once.
“Done,” he said.
In the event, we left the glen of the cave with Dougal’s purse and five men, in addition to Murtagh and myself: Rupert, John Whitlow, Willie MacMurtry, and the twin brothers, Rufus and Geordie Coulter. It was Rupert’s decision that swayed the others; I could still see—with a feeling of grim satisfaction—the look on Dougal’s face when his squat, black-bearded lieutenant eyed me speculatively, then patted the dags at his belt and said, “Aye, lass, why not?”
Wentworth Prison was thirty-five miles away. A half-hour’s ride in a fast car over good roads. Two days’ hard slog over half-frozen mud by horseback. Not long. Dougal’s words echoed in my ears, and kept me in my saddle long past the point where I might have dropped from fatigue.
My body was pushed to its limits to keep to the saddle through the long weary miles, but my mind was free to worry. To keep it from thoughts of Jamie, I spent the time remembering my interview in the cave with Dougal.
And the last thing he had said to me. Standing outside the small cave, waiting as Rupert and his companions brought their horses down from a hiding place higher up the glen, Dougal had turned to me abruptly.
“I’ve a message for ye,” he had said. “From the witch.”
“From Geilie?” To say I was startled was the least of it.
I couldn’t make out his face in the dark, but I saw his head tilt in affirmation.
“I saw her the once,” he said softly, “when I came to take the child.” Under other circumstances, I might have felt some sympathy for him, parting for the last time from his mistress, who was condemned to the stake, holding the child they had made together, a son whom he could never acknowledge. As it was, my voice was icy.
“What did she say?”
He paused; I wasn’t sure if it was merely the disinclination to reveal information, or if he was trying to make sure of his words. Apparently it was the latter, for he spoke carefully.
“She said if ever I saw you again, I was to tell you two things, just as she told them to me. The first was, “I think it is possible, but I do not know.” And the second—the second was just numbers. She made me say them over, to be sure I had them right, for I was to tell them to you in a certain order. The numbers were one, nine, six, and seven.” The tall figure turned toward me in the dark, inquiring.
“Mean anything to ye?”
“No,” I said, and turned away to my horse. But it did, of course, mean something to me.
“I think it is possible.” There was only one thing she could mean by that. She thought, though she did not know, that it was possible to go back, through the circle of stone, to my proper place. Clearly she hadn’t tried it herself, but had chosen—to her cost—to stay. Likely she had had her own reasons. Dougal, perhaps?
As for the numbers, I thought I knew what those meant, too. She had told them to him separately, for the sake of a secrecy which must have gone bone-deep in her by that time, but they were all part of one number, really. One, nine, six, seven. Nineteen-sixty-seven. The year of her disappearance into the past.
I felt a small thrill of curiosity, and deep regret. What a pity that I had not seen the vaccination mark on her arm until it was too late! And yet, had I seen it sooner, would I have gone back to the circle of stone, perhaps with her help, and left Jamie?
Jamie. The thought of him was a leaden weight in my mind, a pendulum swinging slowly at the end of a rope. Not long. The road stretched endless and dreary before us, sometimes petering out altogether into frozen marshes or open sheets of water that had once been meadows and moors. In a freezing drizzle that would soon turn to snow, we reached our goal near evening of the second day.
The building loomed up black against the overcast sky. Built in the shape of a gigantic cube, four hundred feet on a side, with a tower on each corner, it could house three hundred prisoners, plus the forty soldiers of the garrison and their commander, the civilian governor and his staff, and the four dozen cooks, orderlies, grooms, and other menials necessary for the running of the establishment. Wentworth Prison.
I looked up at the menacing walls of greenish Argyll granite, two feet thick at the base. Tiny windows pierced the walls here and there. A few were beginning to wink with light. Others, serving what I assumed were the prisoners’ cells, stayed dark. I swallowed. Seeing the massive edifice, with its impenetrable walls, its monumental gate, and its redcoated guards, I began to have doubts.
“What if”—my mouth was dry and I had to stop and lick my lips—”what if we can’t do it?”
Murtagh’s expression was the same as always: grim-mouthed and dour, narrow chin receding into the grimy neck of his shirt. It didn’t alter as he turned to me.
“Then Dougal will bury us wi’ him, one on either side,” he answered. “Come on, there’s work to be done.”