Dragonfly In Amber

Scandale

22 THE ROYAL STUD

The coach bumped slowly over a particularly bad stretch of road, one left pitted and holed by the winter freeze and the beating of spring rains. It had been a wet year; even now, in early summer, there were moist, boggy patches under the lush growth of gooseberry bushes by the sides of the road.

Jamie sat beside me on the narrow, padded bench that formed one seat of the coach. Fergus sprawled in the corner of the other bench, asleep, and the motion of the coach made his head rock and sway like the head of a mechanical doll with a spring for its neck. The air in the coach was warm, and dust came through the windows in small golden spurts whenever we hit a patch of dry earth.

We had talked desultorily at first of the surrounding countryside, of the Royal stables at Argentan for which we were headed, of the small bits of gossip that composed the daily fare of conversation in Court and business circles. I might have slept, too, lulled by the coach’s rhythm and the warmth of the day, but the changing contours of my body made sitting in one position uncomfortable, and my back ached from the jolting. The baby was becoming increasingly active, too, and the small flutters of the first movements had developed into definite small pokes and proddings; pleasant in their own fashion, but distracting.

“Perhaps ye should have stayed at home, Sassenach,” Jamie said, frowning slightly as I twisted, adjusting my position yet again.

“I’m all right,” I said with a smile. “Just twitchy. And it would have been a shame to miss all this.” I waved at the coach window, where the broad sweep of fields shone green as emeralds between the windbreak rows of dark, straight poplars. Dusty or not, the fresh air of the countryside was rich and intoxicating after the close, fetid smells of the city and the medicinal stenches of L’Hôpital des Anges.

Louis had agreed, as a gesture of cautious amity toward the English diplomatic overtures, to allow the Duke of Sandringham to purchase four Percheron broodmares from the Royal stud at Argentan, with which to improve the bloodlines of the small herd of draft horses which His Grace maintained in England. His Grace was therefore visiting Argentan today, and had invited Jamie along to give advice on which mares should be chosen. The invitation was given at an evening party, and one thing leading to another, the visit had ended up as a full-scale picnic expedition, involving four coaches and several of the ladies and gentlemen of the Court.

“It’s a good sign, don’t you think?” I asked, with a cautious glance to be sure our companions were indeed fast asleep. “Louis giving the Duke permission to buy horses, I mean. If he’s making gestures toward the English, then he’s presumably not inclined to be sympathetic to James Stuart – at least not openly.”

Jamie shook his head. He declined absolutely to wear a wig, and the bold, clean shape of his polled head had occasioned no little excitement at Court. It had its advantages at the present moment; while a faint sheen of perspiration glowed on the bridge of his long, straight nose, he wasn’t nearly as wilted as I.

“No, I’m fairly sure now that Louis means to have nothing to do with the Stuarts – at least so far as any move toward restoration goes. Monsieur Duverney assures me that the Council is entirely opposed to any such thing; while Louis may eventually yield to the Pope’s urgings so far as to make Charles a small allowance, he isna disposed to bring the Stuarts into any kind of prominence in France, wi’ Geordie of England looking over his shoulder.” He wore his plaid today pinned with a brooch at the shoulder – a beautiful thing his sister had sent him from Scotland, made in the shape of two running stags, bodies bent so that they joined in a circle, heads and tails touching. He pulled up a fold of the plaid and wiped his face with it.

“I think I’ve spoken with every banker in Paris of any substance over the last months, and they’re united in basic disinterest.” He smiled wryly. “Money’s none so plentiful that anyone wants to back a dicey proposition like the Stuart restoration.”

“And that,” I said, stretching my back with a groan, “leaves Spain.”

Jamie nodded. “It does. And Dougal MacKenzie.” He looked smug, and I sat up, intrigued.

“Have you heard from him?” Despite an initial wariness, Dougal had accepted Jamie as a devoted fellow Jacobite, and the usual crop of coded letters had been augmented by a series of discreet communications sent by Dougal from Spain, meant to be read by Jamie and passed on to Charles Stuart.

“I have indeed.” I could tell from his expression that it was good news, and it was – though not for the Stuarts.

“Philip has declined to lend any assistance to the Stuarts,” Jamie said. “He’s had word from the papal office, ye ken; he’s to keep awa’ from the whole question of the Scottish throne.”

“Do we know why?” The latest interception from a papal messenger had contained several letters, but as these were all addressed to James or Charles Stuart, they might well contain no reference to His Holiness’s conversations with Spain.

“Dougal thinks he knows.” Jamie laughed. “He’s fair disgusted, is Dougal. Said he’d been kept cooling his heels in Toledo for nearly a month, and sent awa’ at last with no more than a vague promise of aid ‘in the fullness of time, Deo volente.’ ” His deep voice captured a pious intonation perfectly, and I laughed myself.

“Benedict wants to avoid friction between Spain and France; he doesna want Philip and Louis wasting money that he might have a use for, ye ken,” he added cynically. “It’s hardly fitting for a pope to say so, but Benedict has his doubts as to whether a Catholic king could hold England anymore. Scotland’s got its Catholic chiefs among the Highland clans, but it’s some time since England owned a Catholic king – likely to be the hell of a lot longer before they do again – Deo volente,” he added, grinning.

He scratched his head, ruffling the short red-gold hair above his temple. “It looks verra dim for the Stuarts, Sassenach, and that’s good news. No, there’ll be no aid from the Bourbon monarchs. The only thing that concerns me now is this investment Charles Stuart’s made with the Comte St. Germain.”

“You don’t think it’s just a business arrangement, then?”

“Well, it is,” he said, frowning, “and yet there’s more behind it. I’ve heard talk, aye?”

While the banking families of Paris were not inclined to take the Young Pretender to the throne of Scotland with any seriousness, that situation might easily change, were Charles Stuart suddenly to have money to invest.

“His Highness tells me he’s been talking to the Gobelins,” Jamie said. “St. Germain introduced him; otherwise they’d not give him the time o’ day. And old Gobelin thinks him a wastrel and a fool, and so does one of the Gobelin sons. The other, though – he says that he’ll wait and see; if Charles succeeds with this venture, then perhaps he can put other opportunities in his way.”

“Not at all good,” I observed.

Jamie shook his head. “No. Money breeds money, ye ken. Let him succeed at one or two large ventures, and the bankers will begin to listen to him. The man’s no great thinker,” he said, with a wry twist of his mouth, “but he’s verra charming in person; he can persuade people into things against their better judgment. Even so, he’ll make no headway without a small bit of capital to his name – but he’ll have that, if this investment succeeds.”

“Mm.” I shifted my position once more, wriggling my toes in their hot leather prison. The shoes had fit when made for me, but my feet were beginning to swell a bit, and my silk stockings were damp with sweat. “Is there anything we can do about it?”

Jamie shrugged, with a lopsided smile. “Pray for bad weather off Portugal, I suppose. Beyond the ship sinking, I dinna see much way for the venture to fail, truth be told. St. Germain has contracts already for the sale of the entire cargo. Both he and Charles Stuart stand to triple their money.”

I shivered briefly at the mention of the Comte. I couldn’t help recalling Dougal’s speculations. I had not told Jamie about Dougal’s visit, nor about his speculations as to the Comte’s nocturnal activities. I didn’t like keeping secrets from him, but Dougal had demanded my silence as his price for helping me in the matter of Jonathan Randall, and I had had little choice but to agree.

Jamie smiled suddenly at me, and stretched out a hand.

“I’ll think of something, Sassenach. For now, give me your feet. Jenny said it helped to have me rub her feet when she was wi’ child.”

I didn’t argue, but slipped my feet out of the hot shoes and swung them up onto his lap with a sigh of relief as the air from the window cooled the damp silk over my toes.

His hands were big, and his fingers at once strong and gentle. He rubbed his knuckles down the arch of my foot and I leaned back with a soft moan. We rode silently for several minutes, while I relaxed into a state of mindless bliss.

Head bent over my green silk toes, Jamie remarked casually, “It wasna really a debt, ye ken.”

“What wasn’t?” Fogged as I was by warm sun and foot massage, I hadn’t any idea what he meant.

Not stopping his rubbing, he looked up at me. His expression was serious, though the hint of a smile lit his eyes.

“You said that I owed ye a life, Sassenach, because you’d saved mine for me.” He took hold of one big toe and wiggled it. “But I’ve been reckoning, and I’m none so sure that’s true. Seems to me that it’s nearly even, taken all in all.”

“What you do mean, even?” I tried to pull my foot loose, but he held tight.

“If you’ve saved my life – and ye have – well, I’ve saved yours as well, and at least as often. I saved ye from Jack Randall at Fort William, you’ll recall – and I took ye from the mob at Cranesmuir, no?”

“Yes,” I said cautiously. I had no idea where he was going, but he wasn’t just making idle conversation. “I’m grateful for it, of course.”

He made a small Scottish noise of dismissal, deep in his throat. “It isna a matter for gratitude, Sassenach, on your part or mine – my point is only that it’s no a matter of obligation, either.” The smile had vanished from his eyes, and he was entirely serious.

“I didna give ye Randall’s life as an exchange for my own – it wouldna be a fair trade, for one thing. Close your mouth, Sassenach,” he added practically, “flies will get in.” There were in fact a number of the insects present; three were resting on the Fergus’s shirtfront, undisturbed by its constant rise and fall.

“Why did you agree, then?” I stopped struggling, and he wrapped both hands around my feet, running his thumbs slowly over the curves of my heels.

“Well, it wasna for any of the reasons you tried to make me see. As for Frank,” he said, “well, it’s true enough that I’ve taken his wife, and I do pity him for it – more sometimes than others,” he added, with an impudent quirk of one eyebrow. “Still, is it any different than if he were my rival here? You had free choice between us, and you chose me – even with such luxuries as hot baths thrown in on his side. Oof!” I jerked one foot loose and drove it into his ribs. He straightened up and grabbed it, in time to prevent me repeating the blow.

“Regretting your choice, are you?”

“Not yet,” I said, struggling to repossess my foot, “but I may any minute. Keep talking.”

“Well then. I couldna see that the fact that you picked me entitled Frank Randall to particular consideration. Besides,” he said frankly, “I’ll admit to bein’ just a wee bit jealous of the man.”

I kicked with my other foot, aiming lower. He caught that one before it landed, twisting my ankle skillfully.

“As for owing him his life, on general principles,” he continued, ignoring my attempts to escape, “that’s an argument Brother Anselm at the Abbey could answer better than I. Certainly I wouldna kill an innocent man in cold blood. But there again, I’ve killed men in battle, and is this different?”

I remembered the soldier, and the boy in the snow that I had killed in our escape from Wentworth. I no longer tormented myself with memories of them, but I knew they would never leave me.

He shook his head. “No, there are a good many arguments ye might make about that, but in the end, such choices come down to one: You kill when ye must, and ye live with it after. I remember the face of every man I’ve killed, and always will. But the fact remains, I am alive and they are not, and that is my only justification, whether it be right or no.”

“But that’s not true in this case,” I pointed out. “It isn’t a case of kill or be killed.”

He shook his head, dislodging a fly that had settled on his hair. “Now there you’re wrong, Sassenach. What it is that lies between Jack Randall and me will be settled only when one of us is dead – and maybe not then. There are ways of killing other than with a knife or a gun, and there are things worse than physical death.” His tone softened. “In Ste. Anne, you pulled me back from more than one kind of death, mo duinne, and never think I don’t know it.” He shook his head. “Perhaps I do owe you more than you owe me, after all.”

He let go my feet and rearranged his long legs. “And that leads me to consider your conscience as well as mine. After all, you had no idea what would happen when ye made your choice, and it’s one thing to abandon a man, and another to condemn him to death.”

I did not at all like this manner of describing my actions, but I couldn’t shirk the facts. I had in fact abandoned Frank, and while I could not regret the choice I had made, still I did and always would regret its necessity. Jamie’s next words echoed my thoughts eerily.

He continued, “If ye had known it might mean Frank’s – well, his death, shall we say – perhaps you would have chosen differently. Given that ye did choose me, have I the right to make your actions of more consequence than you intended?”

Absorbed in his argument, he had been oblivious of its effect on me. Catching sight of my face now, he stopped suddenly, watching me in silence as we jostled our way through the greens of the countryside.

“I dinna see how it can have been a sin for you to do as ye did, Claire,” he said at last, reaching out to lay a hand on my stockinged foot. “I am your lawful husband, as much as he ever was – or will be. You do not even know that ye could have returned to him; mo duinne, ye might have gone still further back, or gone forward to a different time altogether. You acted as ye thought ye must, and no one can do better than that.” He looked up, and the look in his eyes pierced my soul.

“I’m honest enough to say that I dinna care what the right and wrong of it may be, so long as you are here wi’ me, Claire,” he said softly. “If it was a sin for you to choose me… then I would go to the Devil himself and bless him for tempting ye to it.” He lifted my foot and gently kissed the tip of my big toe.

I laid my hand on his head; the short hair felt bristly but soft, like a very young hedgehog.

“I don’t think it was wrong,” I said softly. “But if it was… then I’ll go to the Devil with you, Jamie Fraser.”

He closed his eyes and bowed his head over my foot. He held it so tightly that I could feel the long, slender metatarsals pressed together; still, I didn’t pull back. I dug my fingers into his scalp and tugged his hair gently.

“Why then, Jamie? Why did you decide to let Jack Randall live?”

He still gripped my foot, but opened his eyes and smiled at me.

“Well, I thought a number of things, Sassenach, as I walked up and down that evening. For one thing, I thought that you would suffer, if I did kill the filthy scut. I would do, or not do, quite a few things to spare you distress, Sassenach, but – how heavily does your conscience weigh, against my honor?

“No.” He shook his head again, disposing of another point. “Each one of us can be responsible only for his own actions and his own conscience. What I do canna be laid to your account, no matter what the effects.” He blinked, eyes watering from the dusty wind, and passed a hand across his hair in a vain attempt to smooth the disheveled ends. Clipped short, the spikes of a cowlick stood up on the crest of his skull in a defiant spray.

“Why, then?” I demanded, leaning forward. “You’ve told me all the reasons why not; what’s left?”

He hesitated for a moment, but then met my eyes squarely.

“Because of Charles Stuart, Sassenach. So far we have stopped all the earths, but with this investment of his – well, he might yet succeed in leading an army in Scotland. And if so… well, ye ken better than I do what may come, Sassenach.”

I did, and the thought turned me cold. I could not help remembering one historian’s description of the Highlanders’ fate at Culloden – “the dead lay four deep, soaking in rain and their own blood.”

The Highlanders, mismanaged and starving, but ferocious to the end, would be wasted in one decisive half-hour. They would be left to lie in heaps, bleeding in a cold April rain, the cause they had cherished for a hundred years dead along with them.

Jamie reached forward suddenly and took my hands.

“I think it will not happen, Claire; I think we will stop him. And if not, then still I dinna expect anything to happen to me. But if it should…” He was in deadly earnest now, speaking soft and urgently. “If it does, then I want there to be a place for you; I want someone for you to go to if I am… not there to care for you. If it canna be me, then I would have it be a man who loves you.” His grasp on my fingers grew tighter; I could feel both rings digging into my flesh, and felt the urgency in his hands.

“Claire, ye know what it cost me to do this for you – to spare Randall’s life. Promise me that if the time should come, you’ll go back to Frank.” His eyes searched my face, deep blue as the sky in the window behind him. “I tried to send ye back twice before. And I thank God ye wouldna go. But if it comes to a third time – then promise me you will go back to him – back to Frank. For that is why I spare Jack Randall for a year – for your sake. Promise me, Claire?”

“Allez! Allez! Montez!” the coachman shouted from above, encouraging the team up a slope. We were nearly there.

“All right,” I said at last. “I promise.”

The stables at Argentan were clean and airy, redolent of summer and the smell of horses. In an open box stall, Jamie circled a Percheron mare, enamored as a horsefly.

“Ooh, what a bonnie wee lass ye are! Come here, sweetheart, let me see that beautiful fat rump. Mm, aye, that’s grand!”

“I wish my husband would talk that way to me,” remarked the Duchesse de Neve, provoking giggles from the other ladies of the party, who stood in the straw of the central aisle, watching.

“Perhaps he would, Madame, if your own back view provided such stimulation. But then, perhaps your husband does not share my lord Broch Tuarach’s appreciation for a finely shaped rump.” The Comte St. Germain allowed his eyes to drift over me with a hint of contemptuous amusement. I tried to imagine those black eyes gleaming through the slits of a mask, and succeeded only too well. Unfortunately, the lace of his wrist frills fell well past his knuckles; I couldn’t see the fork of his thumb.

Catching the byplay, Jamie leaned comfortably on the mare’s broad back, only his head, shoulders and forearms showing above the bulk of the Percheron.

“My lord Broch Tuarach appreciates beauty wherever it may be encountered, Monsieur le Comte; in animal or woman. Unlike some I might name, though, I am capable of telling the difference between the two.” He grinned maliciously at St. Germain, then patted the mare’s neck in farewell as the party broke out laughing.

Jamie took my arm to lead me toward the next stable, followed more slowly by the rest of the party.

“Ah,” he said, inhaling the mixture of horse, harness, manure, and hay as though it were incense. “I do miss the smell of a stable. And the country makes me sick for Scotland.”

“Doesn’t look a lot like Scotland,” I said, squinting in the bright sun as we emerged from the dimness of the stable.

“No, but it’s country,” he said, “it’s clean, and it’s green, and there’s nay smoke in the air, or sewage underfoot – unless ye count horse dung, which I don’t.”

The sun of early summer shone on the roofs of Argentan, nestled among gently rolling green hills. The Royal stud was just outside the town, much more solidly constructed than the houses of the King’s subjects nearby. The barns and stables were of quarried stone, stone-floored, slate-roofed, and maintained in a condition of cleanliness that surpassed that of L’Hôpital des Anges by a fair degree.

A loud whooping came from behind the corner of the stable, and Jamie stopped short, just in time to avoid Fergus, who shot out in front of us as though fired from a slingshot, hotly pursued by two stable-lads, both a good deal bigger. A dirty green streak of fresh manure down the side of the first boy’s face gave some clue as to the cause of the altercation.

With considerable presence of mind, Fergus doubled on his tracks, shot past his pursuers, and whizzed into the middle of the party, whence he took refuge behind the bulwark of Jamie’s kilted hips. Seeing their prey thus safely gone to earth, his pursuers glanced fearfully at the oncoming phalanx of courtiers and gowns, exchanged a look of decision, and, as one, turned and loped off.

Seeing them go, Fergus stuck his head out from behind my skirt and yelled something in gutter French that earned him a sharp cuff on the ear from Jamie.

“Off wi’ ye,” he said brusquely. “And for God’s sake, dinna be throwin’ horse apples at people bigger than you are. Now, go and keep out of trouble.” He followed up this advice with a healthy smack on the seat of the breeches that sent Fergus staggering off in the opposite direction to that taken by his erstwhile assailants.

I had been of two minds as to the wisdom of taking Fergus with us on this expedition, but most of the ladies were bringing pageboys with them, to run errands and carry the baskets of food and other paraphernalia deemed essential to a day’s outing. And Jamie had wanted to show the lad a bit of country, feeling that he’d earned a holiday. All well and good, except that Fergus, who had never been outside Paris in his life, had got the exhilaration of air, light, and beautiful huge animals right up his nose, and, demented with excitement, had been in constant trouble since our arrival.

“God knows what he’ll do next,” I said darkly, looking after Fergus’s retreating form. “Set one of the hayricks on fire, I expect.”

Jamie was unperturbed at the suggestion.

“He’ll be all right. All lads get into manure fights.”

“They do?” I turned around, scrutinizing St. Germain, immaculate in white linen, white serge, and white silk, bending courteously to listen to the Duchesse, as she minced slowly across the straw-strewn yard.

“Maybe you did,” I said. “Not him. Not the Bishop, either, I don’t think.” I was wondering whether this excursion had been a good idea, at least on my part. Jamie was in his element with the giant Percherons, and the Duke was clearly impressed with him, which was all to the good. On the other hand, my back ached miserably from the carriage ride, and my feet felt hot and swollen, pressing painfully against the tight leather of my shoes.

Jamie looked down at me and smiled, pressing my hand where it lay on his arm.

“None so long now, Sassenach. The guide wants to show us the breeding sheds, and then you and the other ladies can go and sit down wi’ the food, while the men stand about makin’ crude jests about the size of each other’s cock.”

“Is that the general effect of watching horses bred?” I asked, fascinated.

“Well, on men it is; I dinna ken what it does to ladies. Keep an ear out, and ye can tell me later.”

There was in fact an air of suppressed excitement among the members of the party as we all pressed into the rather cramped quarters of a breeding shed. Stone, like the other buildings, this one was equipped not with partitioned stalls down both sides, but with a small fenced pen, with holding stalls at either side, and a sort of chute or runway along the back, with several gates that could be opened or closed to control a horse’s movement.

The building itself was light and airy, owing to huge, unglazed windows that opened at either end, giving a view of a grassy paddock outside. I could see several of the enormous Percheron mares grazing near the edge of this; one or two seemed restless, breaking into a rocking gallop for a few paces, then dropping back to a trot or a walk, shaking heads and manes with a high, whinnying noise. Once, when this happened, there was a loud, nasal scream from one of the holding stalls at the end of the shed, and the paneling shook with the thud of a mighty kick from its inhabitant.

“He’s ready,” a voice murmured appreciatively behind me. “I wonder which is the lucky mademoiselle?”

“The one nearest the gate,” the Duchesse suggested, always ready to wager. “Five livres on that one.”

“Ah, no! You’re wrong, Madame, she’s too calm. It will be the little one, under the apple tree, rolling her eyes like a coquette. See how she tosses her head? That one’s my choice.”

The mares had all stopped at the sound of the stallion’s cry, lifting inquiring noses and flicking their ears nervously. The restless ones tossed their heads and whickered; one stretched her neck and let out a long, high call.

“That one,” Jamie said quietly, nodding at her. “Hear her call him?”

“And what is she saying, my lord?” the Bishop asked, a glint in his eye.

Jamie shook his head solemnly.

“It is a song, my lord, but one that a man of the cloth is deaf to – or should be,” he added, to gales of laughter.

Sure enough, it was the mare who had called who was chosen. Once inside, she stopped dead, head up, and stood testing the air with flaring nostrils. The stallion could smell her; his cries echoed eerily off the timbered roof, so loud that conversation was impossible.

No one wanted to talk now, anyway. Uncomfortable as I was, I could feel the quick tingle of arousal through my breasts, and a tightening of my swollen belly as the mare once more answered the stallion’s call.

Percherons are very large horses. A big one stands over five feet at the shoulder, and the rump of a well-fed mare is almost a yard across, a pale, dappled gray or shining black, adorned with a waterfall of black hair, thick as my arm at the root of it.

The stallion burst from his stall toward the tethered mare with a suddenness that made everyone fall back from the fence. Puffs of dust flew up in clouds as the huge hooves struck the packed dirt of the pen, and drops of saliva flew from his open mouth. The groom who had opened his stall door jumped aside, tiny and insignificant next to the magnicent fury let loose in the pen.

The mare curvetted and squealed in alarm, but then he was on her, and his teeth closed on the sturdy arch of her neck, forcing her head down into submission. The great swathe of her tail swept high, leaving her naked, exposed to his lust.

“Jésus,” whispered Monsieur Prudhomme.

It took very little time, but it seemed a lot longer, watching the heaving of sweat-darkened flanks, and the play of light on swirling hair and the sheen of great muscles, tense and straining in the flexible agony of mating.

Everyone was very quiet as we left the shed. Finally the Duke laughed, nudged Jamie, and said, “You are accustomed to such sights, my lord Broch Tuarach?”

“Aye,” Jamie answered. “I’ve seen it a good many times.”

“Ah?” the Duke said. “And tell me, my lord, how does the sight make you feel, after so many times?”

One corner of Jamie’s mouth twitched as he replied, but he remained otherwise straight-faced.

“Verra modest, Your Grace,” he said.

“What a sight!” the Duchesse de Neve said. She broke a biscuit, dreamy-eyed, and munched it slowly. “So arousing, was it not?”

“What a prick, you mean,” said Madame Prudhomme, rather coarsely. “I wish Philibert had one like that. As it is…” She cocked an eyebrow toward a plate of tiny sausages, each perhaps two inches long, and the ladies seated on the picnic cloth broke into giggles.

“A bit of chicken, please, Paul,” said the Comtesse St. Germain to her pageboy. She was young, and the bawdy conversation of the older ladies was making her blush. I wondered just what sort of marriage she had with St. Germain; he never took her out in public, save on occasions like this, where the presence of the Bishop prevented his appearing with one of his mistresses.

“Bah,” said Madame Montresor, one of the ladies-in-waiting, whose husband was a friend of the Bishop’s. “Size isn’t everything. What difference if it’s the size of a stallion’s, if he lasts no longer than one? Less than two minutes? I ask you, what good is that?” She held up a cornichon between two fingers and delicately licked the tiny pale-green pickle, the pink tip of her tongue pointed and dainty. “It isn’t what they have in their breeches, I say; it’s what they do with it.”

Madame Prudhomme snorted. “Well, if you find one who knows how to do anything with it but poke it into the nearest hole, tell me. I would be interested to see what else can be done with a thing like that.”

“At least you have one who’s interested,” broke in the Duchesse de Neve. She cast a glance of disgust at her husband, huddled with the other men near one of the paddocks, watching a harnessed mare being put through her paces.

“Not tonight, my dearest,” she imitated the sonorous, nasal tones of her husband to perfection. “I am fatigued.” She put a hand to her brow and rolled her eyes up. “The press of business is so wearing.” Encouraged by the giggles, she went on with her imitation, now widening her eyes in horror and crossing her hands protectively over her lap. “What, again? Do you not know that to expend the male essence gratuitously is to court ill-health? Is it not enough that your demands have worn me to a nubbin, Mathilde? Do you wish me to have an attack?”

The ladies cackled and screeched with laughter, loud enough to attract the attention of the Bishop, who waved at us and smiled indulgently, provoking further gales of hilarity.

“Well, at least he is not expending all his male essence in brothels – or elsewhere,” said Madame Prudhomme, with an eloquently pitying glance at the Comtesse St. Germain.

“No,” said Mathilde gloomily. “He hoards it as though it were gold. You’d think there was no more to be had, the way he… oh, Your Grace! Will you not have a cup of wine?” She smiled charmingly up at the Duke, who had approached quietly from behind. He stood smiling at the ladies, one fair brow slightly arched. If he had heard the subject of our conversation, he gave no sign of it.

Seating himself beside me on the cloth, His Grace made casual, witty conversation with the ladies, his oddly high-pitched voice forming no contrast to theirs. While he seemed to pay close attention to the conversation, I noticed that his eyes strayed periodically to the small cluster of men who stood by the paddock fence. Jamie’s kilt was bright even amid the gorgeous cut velvets and stiffened silk.

I had had some hesitation in meeting the Duke again. After all, our last visit had ended in the arrest of Jonathan Randall, upon my accusation of attempted rape. But the Duke had been all charming urbanity on this outing, with no mention of either of the Randall brothers. Neither had there been any public mention of the arrest; whatever the Duke’s diplomatic activities, they seemed to rank highly enough to merit a Royal seal of silence.

On the whole, I welcomed the Duke’s appearance at the picnic cloth. For one thing, his presence kept the ladies from asking me – as some bold souls did every so often, at parties – whether it was true about what Scotsmen wore beneath their kilts. Given the mood of the present party, I didn’t think my customary reply of “Oh, the usual” would suffice.

“Your husband has a fine eye for horses,” the Duke observed to me, freed for a moment when the Duchesse de Neve, on his other side, leaned across the cloth to talk to Madame Prudhomme. “He tells me that both his father and his uncle kept small but quite fine stables in the Highlands.”

“Yes, that’s true.” I sipped my wine. “But you’ve visited Colum MacKenzie at Castle Leoch; surely you’ve seen his stable for yourself.” I had in fact first met the Duke at Leoch the year before, though the meeting had been brief; he had left on a hunting expedition shortly before I was arrested for witchcraft. I thought surely he must have known about that, but if so, he gave no sign of it.

“Of course.” The Duke’s small, shrewd blue eyes darted left, then right, to see whether he was observed, then shifted into English. “At the time, your husband informed me that he did not reside upon his own estates, owing to an unfortunate – and mistaken – charge of murder laid against him by the English Crown. I wondered, my lady, whether that charge of outlawry still holds?”

“There’s still a price on his head,” I said bluntly.

The Duke’s expression of polite interest didn’t change. He reached absently for one of the small sausages on the platter.

“That is not an irremediable matter,” he said quietly. “After my encounter with your husband at Leoch, I made some inquiries – oh, suitably discreet, I assure you, my dear lady. And I think that the matter might be arranged without undue difficulty, given a word in the right ear – from the right sources.”

This was interesting. Jamie had first told the Duke of Sandringham about his outlawry at Colum MacKenzie’s suggestion, in the hopes that the Duke might be persuaded to intervene in the case. As Jamie had not in fact committed the crime in question, there could be little evidence against him; it was quite possible that the Duke, a powerful voice among the nobles of England, could indeed arrange to have the charges dismissed.

“Why?” I said. “What do you want in return?”

The sketchy blond brows shot upward, and he smiled, showing small white even teeth.

“My word, you are direct, are you not? Might it not be only that I appreciate your husband’s expertise and assistance in the selection of horses, and would like to see him restored to a place where that skill might once again be profitably exercised?”

“It might be, but it isn’t,” I said. I caught Madame Prudhomme’s sharp eyes on us, and smiled pleasantly at him. “Why?”

He popped the sausage whole into his mouth and chewed it slowly, his bland round face reflecting nothing more than enjoyment of the day and the meal. At last he swallowed and patted his mouth delicately with one of the linen napkins.

“Well,” he said, “as a matter of supposition only, you understand-”

I nodded, and he went on. “As a matter of supposition, then, perhaps we may suppose that your husband’s recent friendship with – a certain personage recently arrived from Rome? Ah, I see you understand me. Yes. Let us suppose that that friendship has become a matter of some concern to certain parties who would prefer this personage to return peaceably to Rome – or alternatively, to settle in France, though Rome would be better – safer, you know?”

“I see.” I took a sausage myself. They were richly spiced, and little bursts of garlic wafted up my nose at each bite. “And these parties take a sufficiently serious view of this friendship to offer a dismissal of the charges against my husband in return for its severance? Again, why? My husband is no one of great importance.”

“Not now,” the Duke agreed. “But he may be in future. He has linkages to several powerful interests among the French banking families, and more among the merchants. He is also received at Court, and has some access to Louis’s ear. In short, if he does not at present hold the power to command substantial sums of money and influence, he is likely to do so soon. He is also a member of not one but two of the more powerful Highland clans. And the parties who wish the personage in question to return to Rome harbor a not unreasonable fear that this influence might be exerted in undesirable directions. So much better if your husband were to return – his good name restored – to his lands in Scotland, do you not think?”

“It’s a thought,” I said. It was also a bribe, and an attractive one. Sever all connection with Charles Stuart, and be free to return to Scotland and Lallybroch, without the risk of being hanged. The removal of a possibly troublesome supporter of the Stuarts, at no expense to the Crown, was an attractive proposition from the English side, too.

I eyed the Duke, trying to figure out just where he fitted into the scheme of things. Ostensibly an envoy from George II, Elector of Hanover and King – so long as James Stuart remained in Rome – of England, he could well have a dual purpose in his visit to France. To engage with Louis in the delicate exchange of civility and threat that constituted diplomacy, and simultaneously to quash the specter of a fresh Jacobite rising? Several of Charles’s usual coterie had disappeared of late, pleading the press of urgent business abroad. Bought off or scared away? I wondered.

The bland countenance gave no clue to his thoughts. He pushed back the wig from a balding brow and scratched his head unselfconsciously.

“Do think about it, my dear,” he urged. “And when you have thought – speak to your husband.”

“Why don’t you speak to him yourself?”

He shrugged and took more sausages, three this time. “I find that so often men are more amenable to a word spoken from the home quarter, from one they trust, rather than to what they may perceive as pressure from an outside source.” He smiled. “There is the matter of pride to be considered; that must be handled delicately. And for delicate handling – well, they do talk of ‘the woman’s touch,’ do they not?”

I hadn’t time to respond to this, when a shout from the main stable jerked all heads in that direction.

A horse was coming toward us, up the narrow alley between the main stable and the long, open shed that held the forge. A Percheron colt, and a young one, no more than two or three, judging from the dappling of his hide. Even young Percherons are big, and the colt seemed huge, as he blundered to and fro at a slow trot, tail lashing from side to side. Plainly the colt was not yet broken to a saddle; the massive shoulders twitched in an effort to dislodge the small form that straddled his neck, both hands buried deep in the thick black mane.

“Bloody hell, it’s Fergus!” The ladies, disturbed by the shouting, had all gotten to their feet by now, and were peering interestedly at the sight.

I didn’t realize that the men had joined us until one woman said, “But how dangerous it seems! Surely the boy will be injured if he falls!”

“Well, if he doesna hurt himself falling off, I’ll attend to it directly, once I’ve got my hands on the wee bugger,” said a grim voice behind me. I turned to see Jamie peering over my head at the rapidly approaching horse.

“Should you get him off?” I asked.

He shook his head. “No, let the horse take care of it.”

In fact, the horse seemed more bewildered than frightened by the strange weight on his back. The dappled gray skin twitched and shivered as though beset by hordes of flies, and the colt shook its head confusedly, as though wondering what was going on.

As for Fergus, his legs were stretched nearly at right angles across the Percheron’s broad back; clearly the only hold he had on the horse was his death-grip on the mane. At that, he might have managed to slide down or at least tumble off unscathed, had the victims of the manure fight not completed their plan to exact a measure of revenge.

Two or three grooms were following the horse at a cautious distance, blocking the alleyway behind it. Another had succeeded in running ahead, and opening the gate to an empty paddock that stood near us. The gate was between the group of visiting picnickers and the end of the alleyway between the buildings; clearly the intention was to nudge the horse quietly into the paddock, where it could trample Fergus or not as it chose, but at least would itself be safe from escape or injury.

Before this could be accomplished, though, a lithe form popped its head through a small loft window, high above the alleyway. The spectators intent on the horse, no one noticed but me. The boy in the loft observed, withdrew, and reappeared almost at once, holding a large flake of hay in both hands. Judging the moment to a nicety, he dropped it as Fergus and his mount passed directly beneath.

The effect was much like a bomb going off. There was an explosion of hay where Fergus had been, and the colt gave a panicked whinny, got its hindquarters under it, and took off like a Derby winner, heading straight for the little knot of courtiers, who scattered to the four winds, screeching like geese.

Jamie had flung himself on me, pushing me out of the way and knocking me to the ground in the process. Now he rose off my supine form, cursing fluently in Gaelic. Without pausing to inquire after my welfare, he raced off in the direction taken by Fergus.

The horse was rearing and twisting, altogether spooked, churning forelegs keeping at bay a small gang of grooms and stable-lads, all of whom were rapidly losing their professional calm at the thought of one of the King’s valuable horses damaging itself before their eyes.

By some miracle of stubbornness or fear, Fergus was still in place, skinny legs flailing as he slithered and bounced on the heaving back. The grooms were all shouting at him to let go, but he ignored this advice, eyes squeezed tight shut as he clung to the two handfuls of horsehair like a lifeline. One of the grooms was carrying a pitchfork; he waved this menacingly in the air, causing a shriek of dismay from Madame Montresor, who plainly thought he meant to skewer the child.

The shriek didn’t ease the colt’s nerves to any marked extent. It danced and skittered, backing away from the people who were beginning to surround it. While I didn’t think the groom actually intended to stab Fergus off the horse’s back, there was a real danger that the child would be trampled if he fell off – and I didn’t see how he was going to avoid that fate for much longer. The horse made a sudden dash for a small clump of trees that grew near the paddock, either seeking shelter from the mob, or possibly having concluded that the incubus on its back might be scraped off on a branch.

As it passed beneath the first branches, I caught a glimpse of red tartan among the greenery, and then there was a flash of red as Jamie launched himself from the shelter of a tree. His body struck the colt a glancing blow and he tumbled to the ground in a flurry of plaid and bare legs that would have revealed to a discerning observer that this particular Scotsman wasn’t wearing anything under his kilt at the moment.

The party of courtiers rushed up as one, concentrating on the fallen Lord Broch Tuarach, as the grooms pursued the disappearing horse on the other side of the trees.

Jamie lay flat on his back under the beech trees, his face a dead greenish-white, both eyes and mouth wide open. Both arms were locked tight around Fergus, who clung to his chest like a leech. Jamie blinked at me as I dashed up to him, and made a faint effort at a smile. The faint wheezings from his open mouth deepened into a shallow panting, and I relaxed in relief; he’d only had his wind knocked out.

Finally realizing that he was no longer moving, Fergus raised a cautious head. Then he sat bolt upright on his employer’s stomach and said enthusiastically, “That was fun, milord! Can we do it again?”

Jamie had pulled a muscle in his thigh during the rescue at Argentan, and was limping badly by the time we returned to Paris. He sent Fergus – none the worse either for the escapade or the scolding that followed it – down to the kitchen to seek his supper, and sank into a chair by the hearth, rubbing the swollen leg.

“Hurt much?” I asked sympathetically.

“A bit. All it needs is rest, though.” He stood up and stretched luxuriously, long arms nearly reaching the blackened oak beams above the mantel. “Cramped in that coach; I’d’ve sooner ridden.”

“Mmm. So would I.” I rubbed the small of my back, aching with the strain of the trip. The ache seemed to press downward through my pelvis to my legs – joints loosening from pregnancy, I supposed.

I ran an exploratory hand over Jamie’s leg, then gestured to the chaise.

“Come and lie on your side. I’ve some nice ointment I can rub your leg with; it might ease the ache a bit.”

“Well, if ye dinna mind.” He rose stiffly and lay down on his left side, kilt pulled above his knee.

I opened my medicine box and rummaged through the boxes and jars. Agrimony, slippery elm, pellitory-of-the-wall… ah, there it was. I pulled out the small blue glass jar Monsieur Forez had given me and unscrewed the lid. I sniffed cautiously; salves went rancid easily, but this one appeared to have a good proportion of salt mixed in for preservation. It had a nice mellow scent, and was a beautiful color – the rich yellow-white of fresh cream.

I scooped out a good bit of the salve and spread it down the long muscle of the thigh, pushing Jamie’s kilt above his hip to keep out of the way. The flesh of his leg was warm; not the heat of infection, only the normal heat of a young male body, flushed with exercise and the glowing pulse of health. I massaged the cream gently into the skin, feeling the swell of the hard muscle, probing the divisions of quadriceps and hamstring. Jamie made a small grunting sound as I rubbed harder.

“Hurt?” I asked.

“Aye, a bit, but don’t stop,” he answered. “Feels as though it’s doing me good.” He chuckled. “I wouldna admit it to any but you, Sassenach, but it was fun. I havena moved like that in months.”

“Glad you enjoyed yourself,” I said dryly, taking another dab of cream. “I had an interesting time myself.” Not pausing in the massage, I told him of Sandringham’s offer.

He grunted in response, wincing slightly as I hit a tender spot. “So Colum was right, when he thought the man might be able to help with the charges against me.”

“So it would seem. I suppose the question is – do you want to take him up on it?” I tried not to hold my breath, as I waited for his answer. For one thing, I knew what it would be; the Frasers as a family were renowned for stubbornness, and despite his mother’s having been a MacKenzie, Jamie was a Fraser through and through. Having made up his mind to stopping Charles Stuart, he was hardly likely to abandon the effort. Still, it was tempting bait – to me, as well as to him. To be able to go back to Scotland, to his home; to live in peace.

But there was another rub, of course. If we did go back, leaving Charles’s plans to run their course into the future I knew, then any peace in Scotland would be short-lived indeed.

Jamie gave a small snort, apparently having followed my own thought processes. “Well, I’ll tell ye, Sassenach. If I thought that Charles Stuart might succeed – might free Scotland from English rule – then I would give my lands, my liberty, and life itself to help him. Fool he might be, but a royal fool, and not an ungallant one, I think.” He sighed.

“But I know the man, and I’ve talked with him – and with all the Jacobites that fought with his father. And given what you tell me will happen if it comes to a Rising again… I dinna see that I’ve any choice but to stay, Sassenach.

Once he is stopped, then there may be a chance to go back – or there may not. But for now, I must decline His Grace’s offer wi’ thanks.”

I patted his thigh gently. “That’s what I thought you’d say.”

He smiled at me, then glanced down at the yellowish cream that coated my fingers. “What’s that stuff?”

“Something Monsieur Forez gave me. He didn’t say what it’s called. I don’t think it’s got any active ingredients, but it’s a nice, greasy sort of cream.”

The body under my hands stiffened and Jamie glanced over his shoulder at the blue jar.

“Monsieur Forez gave it ye?” he said uneasily.

“Yes,” I answered, surprised. “What’s the matter?” For he had put aside my cream-smeared hands and, swinging his legs over the side of the chaise longue, was reaching for a towel.

“Has that jar a fleur-de-lys on the lid, Sassenach?” he asked, wiping the ointment from his leg.

“Yes, it has,” I said. “Jamie, what’s wrong with that salve?” The look on his face was peculiar in the extreme; it kept vacillating between dismay and amusement.

“Oh, I wouldna say there’s anything wrong about it, Sassenach,” he answered finally. Having rubbed his leg hard enough to leave the curly red-gold hair bristling above reddened skin, he tossed the towel aside and looked thoughtfully at the jar.

“Monsieur Forez must think rather highly of ye, Sassenach,” he said. “It’s expensive stuff, that.”

“But-”

“It’s not that I dinna appreciate it,” he assured me hastily. “It’s only that havin’ come within a day’s length of being one of the ingredients myself, it makes me feel a bit queer.”

“Jamie!” I felt my voice rising. “What is that stuff?” I grabbed the towel, hastily swabbing my salve-coated hands.

“Hanged-men’s grease,” he answered reluctantly.

“H-h-h…” I couldn’t even get the word out, and started over. “You mean…” Goose bumps rippled up my arms, raising the fine hairs like pins in a cushion.

“Er, aye. Rendered fat from hanged criminals.” He spoke cheerfully, regaining his composure as quickly as I was losing mine. “Verra good for the rheumatism and joint-ill, they say.”

I recalled the tidy way in which Monsieur Forez had gathered up the results of his operations in L’Hôpital des Anges, and the odd look on Jamie’s face when he had seen the tall chirurgien escort me home. My knees were watery, and I felt my stomach flip like a pancake.

“Jamie! Who in bloody fucking hell is Monsieur Forez?” I nearly screamed.

Amusement was definitely getting the upper hand in his expression.

“He’s the public hangman for the Fifth Arondissement, Sassenach. I thought ye knew.”

Jamie returned damp and chilled from the stableyard, where he had gone to scrub himself, the required ablutions being on a scale greater than the bedroom basin could provide.

“Don’t worry, it’s all off,” he assured me, skinning out of his shirt and sliding naked beneath the covers. His flesh was rough and chilly with gooseflesh, and he shivered briefly as he took me in his arms.

“What is it, Sassenach? I don’t still smell of it, do I?” he asked, as I huddled stiff under the bedclothes, hugging myself with my arms.

“No,” I said. “I’m scared. Jamie, I’m bleeding.”

“Jesus,” he said softly. I could feel the sudden thrill of fear that ran through him at my words, identical to the one that ran through me. He held me close to him, smoothing my hair and stroking my back, but both of us felt the awful helplessness in the face of physical disaster that made his actions futile. Strong as he was, he couldn’t protect me; willing he might be, but he couldn’t help. For the first time, I wasn’t safe in his arms, and the knowledge terrified both of us.

“D’ye think-” he began, then broke off and swallowed. I could feel the tremor run down his throat and hear the gulp as he swallowed his fear. “Is it bad, Sassenach? Can ye tell?”

“No,” I said. I held him tighter, trying to find an anchorage. “I don’t know. It isn’t heavy bleeding; not yet, anyway.”

The candle was still alight. He looked down at me, eyes dark with worry.

“Had I better fetch someone to ye, Claire? A healer, one of the women from the Hôpital?”

I shook my head and licked dry lips.

“No. I don’t… I don’t think there’s anything they could do.” It was the last thing I wanted to say; more than anything, I wanted there to be someone we could find who knew how to make it all right. But I remembered my early nurse’s training, the few days I had spent on the obstetrical ward, and the words of one of the doctors, shrugging as he left the bed of a patient who’d had a miscarriage. “There’s really nothing you can do,” he’d said. “If they’re going to lose a child, they generally do, no matter what you try. Bed rest is really the only thing, and even that often won’t do it.”

“It may be nothing,” I said, trying to hearten both of us. “It isn’t unusual for women to have slight bleeding sometimes during pregnancy.” It wasn’t unusual – during the first three months. I was more than five months along, and this was by no means usual. Still, there were many things that could cause bleeding, and not all of them were serious.

“It may be all right,” I said. I laid a hand on my stomach, pressing gently. I felt an immediate response from the occupant, a lazy, stretching push that at once made me feel better. I felt a rush of passionate gratitude that made tears come to my eyes.

“Sassenach, what can I do?” Jamie whispered. His hand came around me and lay over mine, cupping my threatened abdomen.

I put my other hand on top of his, and held on.

“Just pray,” I said. “Pray for us, Jamie.”

23 THE BEST-LAID PLANS OF MICE AND MEN…

The bleeding had stopped by the morning. I rose very cautiously, but all remained well. Still, it was obvious that the time had come for me to stop working at L’Hôpital des Anges, and I sent Fergus with a note of explanation and apology to Mother Hildegarde. He returned with her prayers and good wishes, and a bottle of a brownish elixir much esteemed – according to the accompanying note – by les maîtresses sage-femme for the prevention of miscarriage. After Monsieur Forez’s salve, I was more than a little dubious about using any medication I hadn’t prepared myself, but a careful sniff reassured me that at least the ingredients were purely botanical.

After considerable hesitation, I drank a spoonful. The liquid was bitter and left a nasty taste in my mouth, but the simple act of doing something – even something I thought likely to be useless – made me feel better. I spent the greater part of each day now lying on the chaise longue in my room, reading, dozing, sewing, or simply staring into space with my hands over my belly.

When I was alone, that is. When he was home, Jamie spent most of his time with me, talking over the day’s business, or discussing the most recent Jacobite letters. King James had apparently been told of his son’s proposed investment in port wine, and approved it wholeheartedly as “…a very sounde scheme, which I cannot but feel will go a great way in providing for you as I should wish to see you established in France.”

“So James thinks the money’s intended merely to establish Charles as a gentleman, and give him some position here,” I said. “Do you think that could be all he has in mind? Louise was here this afternoon; she says Charles came to see her last week – insisted on seeing her, though she refused to receive him at first. She says he was very excited and puffed up about something, but he wouldn’t tell her what; just kept hinting mysteriously about something great he was about to do. ‘A great adventure’ is what she says he said. That doesn’t sound like a simple investment in port, does it?”

“It doesn’t.” Jamie looked grim at the thought.

“Hm,” I said. “Well, all things taken together, it seems a good bet that Charles isn’t meaning just to settle down upon the profits of his venture and become an upstanding Paris merchant.”

“If I were a wagering man, I’d lay my last garter on it,” Jamie said. “The question now is, how do we stop him?”

The answer came several days later, after any amount of discussion and useless suggestions. Murtagh was with us in my bedroom, having brought up several bolts of cloth from the docks for me.

“They say there’s been an outbreak of pox in Portugal,” he observed, dumping the expensive watered silk on the bed as though it were a load of used burlap. “There was a ship carrying iron from Lisbon came in this morning, and the harbor master was over it with a toothcomb, him and three assistants. Found naught, though.” Spotting the brandy bottle on my table, he poured a tumbler half-full and drank it like water, in large, healthy swallows. I watched this performance openmouthed, pulled from the spectacle only by Jamie’s exclamation.

“Pox?”

“Aye,” said Murtagh, pausing between swallows. “Smallpox.” He lifted the glass again and resumed his systematic refreshment.

“Pox,” Jamie muttered to himself. “Pox.”

Slowly, the frown left his face and the vertical crease between his eyebrows disappeared. A deeply contemplative look came over him, and he lay back in his chair, hands linked behind his neck, staring fixedly at Murtagh. The hint of a smile twitched his wide mouth sideways.

Murtagh observed this process with considerable skeptical resignation. He drained his cup and sat stolidly hunched on his stool as Jamie sprang to his feet and began circling the little clansman, whistling tunelessly through his teeth.

“I take it you have an idea?” I said.

“Oh, aye,” he said, and began to laugh softly to himself. “Oh, aye, that I have.”

He turned to me, eyes alight with mischief and inspiration.

“Have ye anything in your box of medicines that would make a man feverish? Or give him flux? Or spots?”

“Well, yes,” I said slowly, thinking. “There’s rosemary. Or cayenne. And cascara, of course, for diarrhea. Why?”

He looked at Murtagh, grinning widely, then, overcome with his idea, cackled and ruffled his kinsman’s hair, so it stuck up in black spikes. Murtagh glared at him, exhibiting a strong resemblance to Louise’s pet monkey.

“Listen,” Jamie said, bending toward us conspiratorially. “What if the Comte St. Germain’s ship comes back from Portugal wi’ pox aboard?”

I stared at him. “Have you lost your mind?” I inquired politely. “What if it did?”

“If it did,” Murtagh interrupted, “they’d lose the cargo. It would be burnt or dumped in the harbor, by law.” A gleam of interest showed in the small black eyes. “And how d’ye mean to manage that, lad?”

Jamie’s exhilaration dropped slightly, though the light in his eyes remained.

“Well,” he admitted, “I havena got it thought out all the way as yet, but for a start…”

The plan took several days of discussion and research to refine, but was at last settled. Cascara to cause flux had been rejected as being too debilitating in action. However, I’d found some good substitutes in one of the herbals Master Raymond had lent me.

Murtagh, armed with a pouch full of rosemary essence, nettle juice, and madder root, would set out at the end of the week for Lisbon, where he would gossip among the sailors’ taverns, find out the ship chartered by the Comte St. Germain, and arrange to take passage on it, meanwhile sending back word of the ship’s name and sailing date to Paris.

“No, that’s common,” said Jamie, in answer to my question as to whether the captain might not find this behavior fishy. “Almost all cargo ships carry a few passengers; however many they can squeeze between decks. And Murtagh will have enough money to make him a welcome addition, even if they have to give him the captain’s cabin.” He wagged an admonitory finger at Murtagh.

“And get a cabin, d’ye hear? I don’t care what it costs; ye’ll need privacy for taking the herbs, and we dinna want the chance of someone seeing ye, if you’ve naught but a hammock slung in the bilges.” He surveyed his godfather with a critical eye. “Have ye a decent coat? If you go aboard looking like a beggar, they’re like to hurl ye off into the harbor before they find out what ye’ve got in your sporran.”

“Mmphm,” said Murtagh. The little clansman usually contributed little to the discussion, but what he did say was cogent and to the point. “And when do I take the stuff?” he asked.

I pulled out the sheet of paper on which I had written the instructions and dosages.

“Two spoonfuls of the rose madder – that’s this one” – I tapped the small clear-glass bottle, filled with a dark pinkish fluid – “to be taken four hours before you plan to demonstrate your symptoms. Take another spoonful every two hours after the first dose – we don’t know how long you’ll have to keep it up.”

I handed him the second bottle, this one of green glass filled with a purplish-black liquor. “This is concentrated essence of rosemary leaves. This one acts faster. Drink about one-quarter of the bottle half an hour before you mean to show yourself; you should start flushing within half an hour. It wears off quickly, so you’ll need to take more when you can manage inconspicuously.” I took another, smaller vial from my medicine box. “And once you’re well advanced with the ‘fever,’ then you can rub the nettle juice on your arms and face, to raise blisters. Do you want to keep these instructions?”

He shook his head decidedly. “Nay, I’ll remember. There’s more risk to being found wi’ the paper than there is to forgetting how much to take.” He turned to Jamie.

“And you’ll meet the ship at Orvieto, lad?”

Jamie nodded. “Aye. She’s bound to make port there; all the wine haulers do, to take on fresh water. If by chance she doesna do so, then-” He shrugged. “I shall hire a boat and try to catch her up. So long as I board her before we reach Le Havre, it should be all right, but best if we can do it while we’re still close off the coast of Spain. I dinna mean to spend longer at sea than I must.” He pointed with his chin at the bottle in Murtagh’s hand.

“Ye’d best wait to take the stuff ’til ye see me come on board. With no witnesses, the captain might take the easy way out and just put ye astern in the night.”

Murtagh grunted. “Aye, he might try.” He touched the hilt of his dirk, and there was the faintest ironic emphasis on the word “try.”

Jamie frowned at him. “Dinna forget yourself. You’re meant to be suffering from the pox. With luck, they’ll be afraid to touch ye, but just in case… wait ’til I’m within call and we’re well offshore.”

“Mmphm.”

I looked from one to the other of the two men. Farfetched as it was, it might conceivably work. If the captain of the ship could be convinced that one of his passengers was infected with smallpox, he would under no circumstances take his ship into the harbor at Le Havre, where the French health restrictions would require its destruction. And, faced with the necessity of sailing back with his cargo to Lisbon and losing all profit on the voyage, or losing two weeks at Orvieto while word was sent to Paris, he might very well instead consent to sell the cargo to the wealthy Scottish merchant who had just come aboard.

The impersonation of a smallpox victim was the crucial role in this masquerade. Jamie had volunteered to be the guinea pig for testing the herbs, and they had worked magnificently on him. His fair skin had flushed dark red within minutes, and the nettle juice raised immediate blisters that could easily be mistaken for those of pox by a ship’s doctor or a panicked captain. And should any doubt remain, the madder-stained urine gave an absolutely perfect illusion of a man pissing blood as the smallpox attacked his kidneys.

“Christ!” Jamie had exclaimed, startled despite himself at the first demonstration of the herb’s efficacy.

“Oh, jolly good!” I said, peering over his shoulder at the white porcelain chamber pot and its crimson contents. “That’s better than I expected.”

“Oh, aye? How long does it take to wear off, then?” Jamie had asked, looking down rather nervously.

“A few hours, I think,” I told him. “Why? Does it feel odd?”

“Not odd, exactly,” he said, rubbing. “It itches a bit.”

“That’s no the herb,” Murtagh interjected dourly. “It’s just the natural condition for a lad of your age.”

Jamie grinned at his godfather. “Remember back that far, do ye?”

“Farther back than you were born or thought of, laddie,” Murtagh had said, shaking his head.

The little clansman now stowed the vials in his sporran, methodically wrapping each one in a bit of soft leather to prevent breakage.

“I’ll send word of the ship and her sailing so soon as I may. And I’ll see ye within the month off Spain. You’ll have the money before then?”

Jamie nodded. “Oh, aye. By next week, I imagine.” Jared’s business had prospered under Jamie’s stewardship, but the cash reserves were not sufficient to purchase entire shiploads of port, while still fulfilling the other commitments of the House of Fraser. The chess games had borne fruit in more than one regard, though, and Monsieur Duverney the younger, a prominent banker, had willingly guaranteed a sizable loan for his father’s friend.

“It’s a pity we can’t bring the stuff into Paris,” Jamie had remarked during the planning, “but St. Germain would be sure to find out. I expect we’ll do best to sell it through a broker in Spain – I know a good man in Bilbao. The profit will be much smaller than it would be in France, and the taxes are higher, but ye canna have everything, can ye?”

“I’ll settle for paying back Duverney’s loan,” I said. “And speaking of loans, what’s Signore Manzetti going to do about the money he’s loaned Charles Stuart?”

“Whistle for it, I expect,” said Jamie cheerfully. “And ruin the Stuarts’ reputation with every banker on the Continent while he’s about it.”

“Seems a bit hard on poor old Manzetti,” I observed.

“Aye well. Ye canna make an omelet wi’out breakin’ eggs, as my auld grannie says.”

“You haven’t got an auld grannie,” I pointed out.

“No,” he admitted, “but if I had, that’s what she’d say.” He had dropped the playfulness then, momentarily. “It’s no verra fair to the Stuarts, forbye. In fact, should any of the Jacobite lords come to know what I’ve been doing, I expect they’d call it treason, and they’d be right.” He rubbed a hand over his brow, and shook his head, and I saw the deadly seriousness that his playfulness covered.

“It canna be helped, Sassenach. If you’re right – and I’ve staked my life so far on it – then it’s a choice between the aspirations of Charles Stuart and the lives of a hell of a lot of Scotsmen. I’ve no love for King Geordie – me, wi’ a price on my head? – but I dinna see that I can do otherwise.”

He frowned, running a hand through his hair, as he always did when thinking or upset. “If there were a chance of Charles succeeding… aye, well, that might be different. To take a risk in an honorable cause – but your history says he willna succeed, and I must say, all I know of the man makes it seem likely that you’re right. They’re my folk and my family at stake, and if the cost of their lives is a banker’s gold… well, it doesna seem more a sacrifice than that of my own honor.”

He shrugged in half-humorous despair. “So now I’ve gone from stealing His Highness’s mail to bank robbery and piracy on the high seas, and it seems there’s nay help for it.”

He was silent for a moment, looking down at his hands, clenched together on the desk. Then he turned his head to me and smiled.

“I always wanted to be a pirate, when I was a bairn,” he said. “Pity I canna wear a cutlass.”

I lay in bed, head and shoulders propped on pillows, hands clasped lightly over my stomach, thinking. Since the first alarm, there had been very little bleeding, and I felt well. Still, any sort of bleeding at this stage was cause for alarm. I wondered privately what would happen if any emergency arose while Jamie was gone to Spain, but there was little to be gained by worrying. He had to go; there was too much riding on that particular shipload of wine for any private concerns to intrude. And if everything went all right, he should be back well before the baby was due.

As it was, all personal concerns would have to be put aside, danger or no. Charles, unable to contain his own excitement, had confided to Jamie that he would shortly require two ships – possibly more – and had asked his advice on hull design and the mounting of deck cannon. His father’s most recent letters from Rome had betrayed a slight tone of questioning – with his acute Bourbon nose for politics, James Stuart smelled a rat, but plainly hadn’t yet been informed of what his son was up to. Jamie, hip-deep in decoded letters, thought it likely that Philip of Spain had not yet mentioned Charles’s overtures or the Pope’s interest, but James Stuart had his spies, as well.

After a little while, I became aware of some slight change in Jamie’s attitude. Glancing toward him, I saw that while he was still holding a book open on his knee, he had ceased to turn the pages – or to look at them, for that matter. His eyes were fixed on me instead; or, to be specific, on the spot where my nightrobe parted, several inches lower than strict modesty might dictate, strict modesty hardly seeming necessary in bed with one’s husband.

His gaze was abstracted, dark blue with longing, and I realized that if not socially required, modesty in bed with one’s husband might be at least considerate, under the circumstances. There were alternatives, of course.

Catching me looking at him, Jamie blushed slightly and hastily returned to an exaggerated interest in his book. I rolled onto my side and rested a hand on his thigh.

“Interesting book?” I asked, idly caressing him.

“Mphm. Oh, aye.” The blush deepened, but he didn’t take his eyes from the page.

Grinning to myself, I slipped my hand under the bedclothes. He dropped the book.

“Sassenach!” he said. “Ye know you canna…”

“No,” I said, “but you can. Or rather, I can for you.”

He firmly detached my hand and gave it back to me.

“No, Sassenach. It wouldna be right.”

“It wouldn’t?” I said, surprised. “Whyever not?”

He squirmed uncomfortably, avoiding my eyes.

“Well, I… I wouldna feel right, Sassenach. To take my pleasure from ye, and not be able to give ye… well, I wouldna feel right about it, is all.”

I burst into laughter, laying my head on his thigh.

“Jamie, you are too sweet for words!”

“I am not sweet,” he said indignantly. “But I’m no such a selfish – Claire, stop that!”

“You were planning to wait several more months?” I asked, not stopping.

“I could,” he said, with what dignity was possible under the circumstances. “I waited tw-twenty-two years, and I can…”

“No, you can’t,” I said, pulling back the bedclothes and admiring the shape so clearly visible beneath his nightshirt. I touched it, and it moved slightly, eager against my hand. “Whatever God meant you to be, Jamie Fraser, it wasn’t a monk.”

With a sure hand, I pulled up his nightshirt.

“But…” he began.

“Two against one,” I said, leaning down. “You lose.”

Jamie worked hard for the next few days, readying the wine business to look after itself during his absence. Still, he found time to come up and sit with me for a short time after lunch most days, and so it was that he was with me when a visitor was announced. Visitors were not uncommon; Louise came every other day or so, to chatter about pregnancy or to moan over her lost love – though I privately thought she enjoyed Charles a great deal more as the object of noble renunciation than she did as a present lover. She had promised to bring me some Turkish sweetmeats, and I rather expected her plump pink face to peek through the door.

To my surprise, though, the visitor was Monsieur Forez. Magnus himself showed him into my sitting room, taking his hat and cloak with an almost superstitious reverence.

Jamie looked surprised at this visitation, but rose to his feet to greet the hangman politely and offer him refreshment.

“As a general rule, I take no spirits,” Monsieur Forez said with a smile. “But I would not insult the hospitality of my esteemed colleague.” He bowed ceremoniously in the direction of the chaise where I reclined. “You are well, I trust, Madame Fraser?”

“Yes,” I said cautiously. “Thank you.” I wondered to what we owed the honor of the visit. For while Monsieur Forez enjoyed considerable prestige and a fair amount of wealth in return for his official duties, I didn’t think his job got him many dinner invitations. I wondered suddenly whether hangmen had any social life to speak of.

He crossed the room and laid a small package on the chaise beside me, rather like a fatherly vulture bringing home dinner for his chicks. Keeping in mind the hanged-men’s grease, I picked the package up gingerly and weighed it in my hand; light for its size, and smelling faintly astringent.

“A small remembrance from Mother Hildegarde,” he explained. “I understand it is a favorite remedy of les maîtresses sage-femme. She has written directions for its use, as well.” He withdrew a folded, sealed note from his inner pocket and handed it over.

I sniffed the package. Raspberry leaves and saxifrage; something else I didn’t recognize. I hoped Mother Hildegarde had included a list of the ingredients as well.

“Please thank Mother Hildegarde for me,” I said. “And how is everyone at the Hôpital?” I greatly missed my work there, as well as the nuns and the odd assortment of medical practitioners. We gossiped for some time about the Hôpital and its personnel, with Jamie contributing the occasional comment, but usually just listening with a polite smile, or – when the subject turned to the clinical – burying his nose in his glass of wine.

“What a pity,” I said regretfully, as Monsieur Forez finished his description of the repair of a crushed shoulder blade. “I’ve never seen that done. I do miss the surgical work.”

“Yes, I will miss it as well,” Monsieur Forez nodded, taking a small sip from his wineglass. It was still more than half-full; apparently he hadn’t been joking about his abstention from spirits.

“You’re leaving Paris?” Jamie said in some surprise.

Monsieur Forez shrugged, the folds of his long coat rustling like feathers.

“Only for a time,” he said. “Still, I will be gone for at least two months. In fact, Madame,” he bowed his head toward me again, “that is the main reason for my visit today.”

“It is?”

“Yes. I am going to England, you understand, and it occurred to me that if you wished it, Madame, it would be a matter of the greatest simplicity for me to carry any message that you desired. Should there be anyone with whom you wished to communicate, that is,” he added, with his usual precision.

I glanced at Jamie, whose face had suddenly altered, from an open expression of polite interest to that pleasantly smiling mask that hid all thoughts. A stranger wouldn’t have noticed the difference, but I did.

“No,” I said hesitantly. “I have no friends or relatives in England; I’m afraid I have no connections there at all, since I was – widowed.” I felt the usual small stab at this reference to Frank, but suppressed it.

If this seemed odd to Monsieur Forez, he didn’t show it. He merely nodded, and set down his half-drunk glass of wine.

“I see. It is fortunate indeed that you have friends here, then.” His voice seemed to hold a warning of some kind, but he didn’t look at me as he bent to straighten his stocking before rising. “I shall call upon you on my return, then, and hope to find you again in good health.”

“What is the business that takes you to England, Monsieur?” Jamie said bluntly.

Monsieur Forez turned to him with a faint smile. He cocked his head, eyes bright, and I was struck once more by his resemblance to a large bird. Not a carrion crow at the moment, though, but a raptor, a bird of prey.

“And what business should a man of my profession travel on, Monsieur Fraser?” he asked. “I have been hired to perform my usual duties, at Smithfield.”

“An important occasion, I take it,” said Jamie. “To justify the summoning of a man of your skill, I mean.” His eyes were watchful, though his expression showed nothing beyond polite inquiry.

Monsieur Forez’s eyes grew brighter. He rose slowly to his feet, looking down at Jamie where he sat near the window.

“That is true, Monsieur Fraser,” he said softly. “For it is a matter of skill, make no mistake. To choke a man to death at the end of a rope – pah! Anyone can do that. To break a neck cleanly, with one quick fall, that requires some calculation in terms of weight and drop, and a certain amount of practice in the placing of the rope, as well. But to walk the line between these methods, to properly execute the sentence of a traitor’s death; that requires great skill indeed.”

My mouth felt suddenly dry, and I reached for my own glass. “A traitor’s death?” I said, feeling as though I really didn’t want to hear the answer.

“Hanging, drawing, and quartering,” Jamie said briefly. “That’s what you mean, of course, Monsieur Forez?”

The hangman nodded. Jamie rose to his feet, as though against his will, facing the gaunt, black-clad visitor. They were much of a height, and could look each other in the face without difficulty. Monsieur Forez took a step toward Jamie, expression suddenly abstracted, as though he were about to make a demonstration of some medical point.

“Oh, yes,” he said. “Yes, that is the traitor’s death. First, the man must be hanged, as you say, but with a nice judgment, so that the neck is not broken, nor the windpipe crushed – suffocation is not the desired result, you understand.”

“Oh, I understand.” Jamie’s voice was soft, with an almost mocking edge, and I glanced at him in bewilderment.

“Do you, Monsieur?” Monsieur Forez smiled faintly, but went on without waiting for an answer. “It is a matter of timing then; you judge by the eyes. The face will darken with blood almost immediately – more quickly if the subject is of fair complexion – and as choking proceeds, the tongue is forced from the mouth. That is what delights the crowds, of course, as well as the popping eyes. But you watch for the signs of redness at the corners of the eyes, as the small blood vessels burst. When that happens, you must give at once the signal for the subject to be cut down – a dependable assistant is indispensable, you understand,” he half-turned, to include me in this macabre conversation, and I nodded, despite myself.

“Then,” he continued, turning back to Jamie, “you must administer at once a stimulant, to revive the subject while the shirt is being removed – you must insist that a shirt opening down the front is provided; often it is difficult to get them off over the head.” One long, slender finger reached out, pointing at the middle button of Jamie’s shirt, but not quite touching the fresh-starched linen.

“I would suppose so,” Jamie said.

Monsieur Forez retracted the finger, nodding in approval at this evidence of comprehension.

“Just so. The assistant will have kindled the fire beforehand; this is beneath the dignity of the executioner. And then the time of the knife is at hand.”

There was a dead silence in the room. Jamie’s face was still set in inscrutability, but a slight moisture gleamed on the side of his neck.

“It is here that the utmost of skill is required,” Monsieur Forez explained, raising a finger in admonition. “You must work quickly, lest the subject expire before you have finished. Mixing a dose with the stimulant which constricts the blood vessels will give you a few moments’ grace, but not much.”

Spotting a silver letter-opener on the table, he crossed to it and picked it up. He held it with his hand wrapped about the hilt, forefinger braced on top of the blade, pointed down at the shining walnut of the tabletop.

“Just there,” he said, almost dreamily. “At the base of the breastbone. And quickly, to the crest of the groin. You can see the bone easily in most cases. Again” – and the letter opener flashed to one side and then the other, quick and delicate as the zigzag flight of a hummingbird – “following the arch of the ribs. You must not cut deeply, for you do not wish to puncture the sac which encloses the entrails. Still, you must get through skin, fat, and muscle, and do it with one stroke. This,” he said with satisfaction, gazing down at his own reflection in the tabletop, “is artistry.”

He laid the knife gently on the table, and turned back to Jamie. He shrugged pleasantly.

“After that, it is a matter of speed and some dexterity, but if you have been exact in your methods, it will present little difficulty. The entrails are sealed within a membrane, you see, resembling a bag. If you have not severed this by accident, it is a simple matter, needing only a little strength, to force your hands beneath the muscular layer and pull free the entire mass. A quick cut at stomach and anus” – he glanced disparagingly at the letter opener – “and then the entrails may be thrown upon the fire.”

“Now” – he raised an admonitory finger – “if you have been swift and delicate in your work, there is now a moment’s leisure, for mark you, as yet no large vessels will have been severed.”

I felt quite faint, although I was sitting down, and I was sure that my face was as white as Jamie’s. Pale as he was, Jamie smiled, as though humoring a guest in conversation.

“So the… subject… can live a bit longer?”

“Mais oui, Monsieur.” The hangman’s bright black eyes swept over Jamie’s powerful frame, taking in the width of shoulder and the muscular legs. “The effects of such shock are unpredictable, but I have seen a strong man live for more than a quarter of an hour in this state.”

“I imagine it seems a lot longer to the subject,” Jamie said dryly.

Monsieur Forez appeared not to hear this, picking up the letter opener again and flourishing it as he spoke.

“As death approaches, then, you must reach up into the cavity of the body to grasp the heart. Here skill is called upon again. The heart retracts, you see, without the downward anchorage of the viscera, and often it is surprisingly far up. In addition, it is most slippery.” He wiped one hand on the skirt of his coat in pantomime. “But the major difficulty lies in severing the large vessels above very quickly, so that the organ may be pulled forth while still beating. You wish to please the crowd,” he explained. “It makes a great difference to the remuneration. As to the rest-” He shrugged a lean, disdainful shoulder. “Mere butchery. Once life is extinct, there is no further need of skill.”

“No, I suppose not,” I said faintly.

“But you are pale, Madame! I have detained you far too long in tedious conversation!” he exclaimed. He reached for my hand, and I resisted the very strong urge to yank it back. His own hand was cool, but the warmth of his lips as he brushed his mouth lightly across my hand was so unexpected that I tightened my own grasp in surprise. He gave my hand a slight, invisible squeeze, and turned to bow formally to Jamie.

“I must take my leave, Monsieur Fraser. I shall hope to meet you and your charming wife again… under such pleasant circumstances as we have enjoyed today.” The eyes of the two men met for a second. Then Monsieur Forez appeared to recall the letter opener he was still holding in one hand. With an exclamation of surprise, he held it out on his open palm. Jamie arched one brow, and picked the knife up delicately by the point.

“Bon voyage, Monsieur Forez,” he said. “And I thank you” – his mouth twisted wryly – “for your most instructive visit.”

He insisted upon seeing our visitor to the door himself. Left alone, I got up and went to the window, where I stood practicing deep-breathing exercises until the dark-blue carriage disappeared around the corner of the Rue Gamboge.

The door opened behind me, and Jamie stepped in. He still held the letter opener. He crossed deliberately to the large famille rose jar that stood by the hearth and dropped the paper knife into it with a clang, then turned to me, doing his best to smile.

“Well, as warnings go,” he said, “that one was verra effective.”

I shuddered briefly.

“Wasn’t it, though?”

“Who do you think sent him?” Jamie asked. “Mother Hildegarde?”

“I expect so. She warned me, when we decoded the music. She said what you were doing was dangerous.” The fact of just how dangerous had been lost upon me, until the hangman’s visit. I hadn’t suffered from morning nausea for some time, but I felt my gorge rising now. If the Jacobite lords knew what I was doing, they’d call it treason. And what steps might they take, if they did find out?

To all outward intents, Jamie was an avowed Jacobite supporter; in that guise, he visited Charles, entertained the Earl Marischal to dinner, and attended court. And so far, he had been skillful enough, in his chess games, his tavern visits, and his drinking parties, to undercut the Stuart cause while seeming outwardly to support it. Besides the two of us, only Murtagh knew that we sought to thwart a Stuart rising – and even he didn’t know why, merely accepting his chief’s word that it was right. That pretense was necessary, while operating in France. But the same pretense would brand Jamie a traitor, should he ever set foot on English soil.

I had known that, of course, but in my ignorance, had thought that there was little difference between being hanged as an outlaw, and executed as a traitor. Monsieur Forez’s visit had taken care of that bit of naiveté.

“You’re bloody calm about it,” I said. My own heart was still thumping erratically, and my palms were cold, but sweaty. I wiped them on my gown, and tucked them between my knees to warm them.

Jamie shrugged slightly and gave me a lopsided smile.

“Well, there’s the hell of a lot of unpleasant ways to die, Sassenach. And if one of them should fall to my lot, I wouldna like it much. But the question is: Am I scairt enough of the possibility that I would stop what I’m doing to avoid it?” He sat down on the chaise beside me, and took one of my hands between his own. His palms were warm, and the solid bulk of him next to me was reassuring.

“I thought that over for some time, Sassenach, in those weeks at the Abbey while I healed. And again, when we came to Paris. And again, when I met Charles Stuart.” He shook his head, bent over our linked hands.

“Aye, I can see myself standing on a scaffold. I saw the gallows at Wentworth – did I tell ye that?”

“No. No, you didn’t.”

He nodded, eyes gone blank in remembrance.

“They marched us down to the courtyard; those of us in the condemned cell. And made us stand in rows on the stones, to watch an execution. They hanged six men that day, men I knew. I watched each man mount the steps – twelve steps, there were – and stand, hands bound behind his back, looking down at the yard as they put the rope around his neck. And I wondered then, how I would manage come my turn to mount those steps. Would I weep and pray, like John Sutter, or could I stand straight like Willie MacLeod, and smile at a friend in the yard below?”

He shook his head suddenly, like a dog flinging off drops of water, and smiled at me a little grimly. “Anyway, Monsieur Forez didna tell me anything I hadna thought of before. But it’s too late, mo duinne.” He laid a hand over mine. “Aye, I’m afraid. But if I would not turn back for the chance of home and freedom, I shallna do it for fear. No, mo duinne. It’s too late.”

24 THE BOIS DE BOULOGNE

Monsieur Forez’s visit proved merely to be the first of a series of unusual disruptions.

“There is an Italian person downstairs, Madame,” Magnus informed me. “He would not give me his name.” There was a pinched look about the butler’s mouth; I gathered that if the visitor would not give his name, he had been more than willing to give the butler a number of other words.

That, coupled with the “iian person” designation, was enough to give me a clue as to the visitor’s identity, and it was with relatively little surprise that I entered the drawing room to find Charles Stuart standing by the window.

He swung about at my entrance, hat in his hands. He was plainly surprised to see me; his mouth dropped open for a second, then he caught himself and gave me a quick, brief bow of acknowledgment.

“Milord Broch Tuarach is not at home?” he inquired. His brows drew together in displeasure.

“No, he isn’t,” I said. “Will you take a little refreshment, Your Highness?”

He looked around the richly appointed drawing-room with interest, but shook his head. So far as I knew, he had been in the house only once before, when he had come over the rooftops from his rendezvous with Louise. Neither he nor Jamie had thought it appropriate for him to be invited to the dinners here; without official recognition by Louis, the French nobility scorned him.

“No. I thank you, Madame Fraser. I shall not stay; my servant waits outside, and it is a long ride to return to my lodgings. I wished only to make a request of my friend James.”

“Er… well, I’m sure that my husband would be happy to oblige Your Highness – if he can,” I answered cautiously, wondering just what the request was. A loan, probably; Fergus’s gleanings of late had included quite a number of impatient letters from tailors, bootmakers, and other creditors.

Charles smiled, his expression altering to one of surprising sweetness.

“I know; I cannot tell you, Madame, how greatly I esteem the devotion and service of your husband; the sight of his loyal face warms my heart amid the loneliness of my present surroundings.”

“Oh?” I said.

“It is not a difficult thing I ask,” he assured me. “It is only that I have made a small investment; a cargo of bottled port.”

“Really?” I said. “How interesting.” Murtagh had left for Lisbon that morning, vials of nettle juice and madder root in his pouch.

“It is a small thing,” Charles flipped a lordly hand, disdaining the investment of every cent he had been able to borrow. “But I wish that my friend James shall accomplish the task of disposing of the cargo, once it shall arrive. It is not appropriate, you know” – and here he straightened his shoulders and elevated his nose just a trifle, quite unconsciously – “for a – a person such as myself, to be seen to engage in trade.”

“Yes, I quite see, Your Highness,” I said, biting my lip. I wondered whether he had expressed this point of view to his business partner, St. Germain – who undoubtedly regarded the young pretender to the Scottish throne as a person of less consequence than any of the French nobles – who engaged in “trade” with both hands, whenever the chance of profit offered.

“Is Your Highness quite alone in this enterprise?” I inquired innocently.

He frowned slightly. “No, I have a partner; but he is a Frenchman. I should much prefer to entrust the proceeds of my venture to the hands of a countryman. Besides,” he added thoughtfully, “I have heard that my dear James is a most astute and capable merchant; it is possible that he might be able to increase the value of my investment by means of judicious sale.”

I supposed whoever had told him of Jamie’s capability hadn’t bothered to add the information that there was probably no wine merchant in Paris whom St. Germain more disliked. Still, if everything worked out as planned, that shouldn’t matter. And if it didn’t, it was possible that St. Germain would solve all of our problems by strangling Charles Stuart, once he found out that the latter had contracted delivery of half his exclusive Gostos port to his most hated rival.

“I’m sure that my husband will do his utmost to dispose of Your Highness’s merchandise to the maximum benefit of all concerned,” I said, with complete truth.

His Highness thanked me graciously, as befitting a prince accepting the service of a loyal subject. He bowed, kissed my hand with great formality, and departed with continuing protestations of gratitude to Jamie. Magnus, looking dourly unimpressed by the Royal visit, closed the door upon him.

In the event, Jamie didn’t come home until after I had fallen asleep, but I told him over breakfast of Charles’s visit, and his request.

“God, I wonder if His Highness will tell the Comte?” he said. Having ensured the health of his bowels by disposing of his parritch in short order, he proceeded to add a French breakfast of buttered rolls and steaming chocolate on top of it. A broad grin spread across his face in contemplation of the Comte’s reaction, as he sipped his cocoa.

“I wonder is it lèse-majesté to hammer an exiled prince? For if it’s not, I hope His Highness has Sheridan or Balhaldy close by when St. Germain hears about it.”

Further speculation along these lines was curtailed by the sudden sound of voices in the hallway. A moment later, Magnus appeared in the door, a note borne on his silver tray.

“Your pardon, milord,” he said, bowing. “The messenger who brought this desired most urgently that it be brought to your attention at once.”

Brows raised, Jamie took the note from the tray, opened and read it.

“Oh, bloody hell!” he said in disgust.

“What is it?” I asked. “Not word from Murtagh already?”

He shook his head. “No. It’s from the foreman of the warehouse.”

“Trouble at the docks?”

An odd mixture of emotions was visible on Jamie’s face; impatience struggling with amusement.

“Well, not precisely. The man’s got himself into a coil at a brothel, it seems. He humbly begs my pardon” – he waved ironically at the note – “but hopes I’ll see fit to come round and assist him. In other words,” he translated, crumpling his napkin as he rose, “will I pay his bill?”

“Will you?” I said, amused.

He snorted briefly and dusted crumbs from his lap.

“I suppose I’ll have to, unless I want to supervise the warehouse myself – and I havena time for that.” His brow creased as he mentally reviewed the duties of the day. This was a task that might take some little time, and there were orders waiting on his desk, ship’s captains waiting on the docks, and casks waiting in the warehouse.

“I’d best take Fergus wi’ me to carry messages,” he said, resigned. “He can maybe go to Montmartre wi’ a letter, if I’m too short of time.”

“Kind hearts are more than coronets,” I told Jamie as he stood by his desk, ruefully flipping through the impressive pile of waiting paperwork.

“Oh, aye?” he said. “And whose opinion is that?”

“Alfred, Lord Tennyson, I think,” I said. “I don’t believe he’s come along yet, but he’s a poet. Uncle Lamb had a book of famous British poets. There was a bit from Burns in there, too, I recall – he’s a Scot,” I explained. “He said, ‘Freedom and Whisky gang tegither.’ ”

Jamie snorted. “I canna say if he’s a poet, but he’s a Scot, at least.” He smiled then, and bent to kiss me on the forehead. “I’ll be home to my supper, mo duinne. Keep ye well.”

I finished my own breakfast, and thriftily polished off Jamie’s toast as well, then waddled upstairs for my morning nap. I had had small episodes of bleeding since the first alarm, though no more than a spot or two, and nothing at all for several weeks. Still, I kept to my bed or the chaise as much as possible, only venturing down to the salon to receive visitors, or to the dining room for meals with Jamie. When I descended for lunch, though, I found the table laid for one.

“Milord has not come back yet?” I asked in some surprise. The elderly butler shook his head.

“No, milady.”

“Well, I imagine he’ll be back soon; make sure there’s food waiting for him when he arrives.” I was too hungry to wait for Jamie; the nausea tended to return if I went too long without eating.

After lunch, I lay down to rest again. Conjugal relations being temporarily in abeyance, there wasn’t that much one could do in bed, other than read or sleep, which meant I did quite a lot of both. Sleeping on my stomach was impossible, sleeping on my back uncomfortable, as it tended to make the baby squirm. Consequently, I lay on my side, curling around my growing abdomen like a cocktail shrimp round a caper. I seldom slept deeply, but tended rather to doze, letting my mind drift to the gentle random movements of the child.

Somewhere in my dreams, I thought I felt Jamie near me, but when I opened my eyes the room was empty, and I closed them again, lulled as though I, too, floated weightless in a blood-warm sea.

I was wakened at length, somewhere in the late afternoon, by a soft tap on the bedroom door.

“Entrez,” I said, blinking as I came awake. It was the butler, Magnus, apologetically announcing more visitors.

“It is the Princesse de Rohan, Madame,” he said. “The Princesse wished to wait until you awakened, but when Madame d’Arbanville also arrived, I thought perhaps…”

“That’s all right, Magnus,” I said, struggling upright and swinging my feet over the side of the bed. “I’ll come down.”

I looked forward to the visitors. We had stopped entertaining during the last month, and I rather missed the bustle and conversation, silly as much of it was. Louise came frequently to sit with me and regale me with the latest doings of the Court, but I hadn’t seen Marie d’Arbanville in some time. I wondered what brought her here today.

I was ungainly enough to take the stairs slowly, my increased weight jarring upward from the soles of my feet on each step. The paneled door of the drawing room was closed, but I heard the voice inside clearly.

“Do you think she knows?”

The question, asked in the lowered tones that portended the juiciest of gossip, reached me just as I was about to enter the drawing room. Instead, I paused at the threshold, just out of sight.

It was Marie d’Arbanville who had spoken. Welcome everywhere because of her elderly husband’s position, and gregarious even by French standards, Marie heard everything worth hearing within the environs of Paris.

“Does she know what?” The reply was Louise’s; her high, carrying voice had the perfect self-confidence of the born aristocrat, who doesn’t care who hears what.

“Oh, you haven’t heard!” Marie pounced on the opening like a kitten, delighted to find a new mouse to play with. “Goodness! Of course, I only heard myself an hour ago.”

And raced directly over here to tell me about it, I thought. Whatever “it” was. I thought I stood a better chance of hearing the unexpurgated version from my position in the hallway.

“It is my lord Broch Tuarach,” Marie said, and I didn’t need to see her, to imagine her leaning forward, green eyes darting back and forth, snapping with enjoyment of her news. “Only this morning, he challenged an Englishman to a duel – over a whore!”

“What!” Louise’s cry of astonishment drowned out my own gasp. I grabbed hold of a small table and held on, black spots whirling before my eyes as the world came apart at the seams.

“Oh, yes!” Marie was saying. “Jacques Vincennes was there; he told my husband all about it! It was in that brothel down near the fish market – imagine going to a brothel at that hour of the morning! Men are so odd. Anyway, Jacques was having a drink with Madame Elise, who runs the place, when all of a sudden there was the most frightful outcry upstairs, and all kinds of thumping and shouting.”

She paused for breath – and dramatic effect – and I heard the sound of liquid being poured.

“So, Jacques of course raced to the stairs – well, that’s what he says, anyway; I expect he actually hid behind the sofa, he’s such a coward – and after more shouting and thumping, there was a terrible crash, and an English officer came hurtling down the stairs, half-undressed, with his wig off, staggering and smashing into the walls. And who should appear at the top of the stairs, looking like the vengeance of God, but our own petit James!”

“No! And I would have sworn he was the last… but go on! What happened then?”

A teacup chimed softly against its saucer, followed by Marie’s voice, released by excitement from the modulations of secrecy.

“Well – the man reached the foot of the stairs still on his feet, by some miracle, and he turned at once, and looked up at Lord Tuarach. Jacques says the man was very self-possessed, for someone who’d just been kicked downstairs with his breeches undone. He smiled – not a real smile, you know, the nasty sort – and said, ‘There’s no need for violence, Fraser; you could have waited for your turn, surely? I should have thought you get enough at home. But then, some men derive pleasure from paying for it.’ ”

Louise made shocked noises. “How awful! The canaille! But of course, it is no reproach to milord Tuarach-” I could hear the strain in her voice as friendship warred with the urge to gossip. Not surprisingly, gossip won.

“Milord Tuarach cannot enjoy his wife’s favors at the moment; she carries a child, and the pregnancy is dangerous. So of course he would relieve his needs at a brothel; what gentleman would do otherwise? But go on, Marie! What happened then?”

“Well.” Marie drew breath as she approached the high point of the story. “Milord Tuarach rushed down the stairs, seized the Englishman by the throat, and shook him like a rat!”

“Non! Ce n’est pas vrai!”

“Oh, yes! It took three of Madame’s servants to restrain him – such a wonderful big man, isn’t he? So fierce-looking!”

“Yes, but then what?”

“Oh – well, Jacques said the Englishman gasped for a bit, then straightened up and said to milord Tuarach, ‘That’s twice you’ve come near killing me, Fraser. Someday you may succeed.’ And then milord Tuarach cursed in that terrible Scottish tongue – I don’t understand a word, do you? – and then he wrenched himself free from the men holding him, struck the Englishman across the face with his bare hand” – Louise gasped at the insult – “and said, ‘Tomorrow’s dawn will see you dead!’ Then he turned about and ran up the stairs, and the Englishman left. John said he looked quite white – and no wonder! Just imagine!”

I imagined, all right.

“Are you well, Madame?” Magnus’s anxious voice drowned out Louise’s further exclamations. I put out a hand, groping, and he took it at once, putting his other hand under my elbow in support.

“No. I’m not well. Please… tell the ladies?” I waved weakly toward the drawing room.

“Of course, Madame. In a moment; but now let me see you to your chamber. This way, chère Madame…” He led me up the stairs, murmuring consolingly as he supported me. He escorted me to the bedroom chaise, where he left me, promising to send up a maid at once to attend me.

I didn’t wait for assistance; the first shock passing, I could navigate well enough, and I stood and made my way across the room to where my small medicine box sat on the dressing table. I didn’t think I was going to faint now, but there was a bottle of spirits of ammonia in there that I wanted handy, just in case.

I turned back the lid and stood still, staring into the box. For a moment, my mind refused to register what my eyes saw; the folded white square of paper, carefully wedged upright between the multicolored bottles. I noted rather abstractedly that my fingers shook as I took the paper out; it took several tries to unfold it.

I am sorry. The words were bold and black, the letters carefully formed in the center of the sheet, the single letter “J” written with equal care below. And below that, two more words, these scrawled hastily, done as a postscript of desperation: I must!

“You must,” I murmured to myself, and then my knees buckled. Lying on the floor, with the carved panels of the ceiling flickering dimly above, I found myself thinking that I had always heretofore assumed that the tendency of eighteenth-century ladies to swoon was due to tight stays; now I rather thought it might be due to the idiocy of eighteenth-century men.

There was a cry of dismay from somewhere nearby, and then helpful hands were lifting me, and I felt the yielding softness of the wool-stuffed mattress under me, and cool cloths on my brow and wrists, smelling of vinegar.

I was soon restored to what senses I had, but strongly disinclined to talk. I reassured the maids that I was in fact all right, shooed them out of the room, and lay back on the pillows, trying to think.

It was Jack Randall, of course, and Jamie had gone to kill him. That was the only clear thought in the morass of whirling horror and speculation that filled my mind. Why, though? What could have made him break the promise he had made me?

Trying to consider carefully the events Marie had related – third-hand as they were – I thought there had to have been something more than just the shock of an unexpected encounter. I knew the Captain, knew him a great deal better than I wanted to. And if there was one thing of which I was reasonably sure, it was that he would not have been purchasing the usual services of a brothel – the simple enjoyment of a woman was not in his nature. What he enjoyed – needed – was pain, fear, humiliation.

These commodities, of course, could also be purchased, if at a somewhat higher price. I had seen enough, in my work at L’Hôpital des Anges, to know that there were les putains whose chief stock in trade lay not between their legs, but in strong bones overlaid with expensive fragile skin that bruised at once, and showed the marks of whips and blows.

And if Jamie, his own fair skin scarred with the marks of Randall’s favor, had come upon the Captain, enjoying himself in similar fashion with one of the ladies of the establishment – That, I thought, could have carried him past any thought of promises or restraint. There was a small mark on his left breast, just below the nipple; a tiny whitish pucker, where he had cut from his skin the branded mark of Jonathan Randall’s heated signet ring. The rage that had led him to suffer mutilation rather than bear that shameful mark could easily break forth again, to destroy its inflictor – and his hapless progeny.

“Frank,” I said, and my left hand curled involuntarily over the shimmer of my gold wedding ring. “Oh, dear God. Frank.” For Jamie, Frank was no more than a ghost, the dim possibility of a refuge for me, in the unlikely event of necessity. For me, Frank was the man I had lived with, had shared my bed and body with – had abandoned, at the last, to stay with Jamie Fraser.

“I can’t,” I whispered, to the empty air, to the small companion who stretched and twisted lazily within me, undisturbed by my own distress. “I can’t let him do it!”

The afternoon light had faded into the gray shades of dusk, and the room seemed filled with all the despair of the world’s ending. Tomorrow’s dawn will see you dead. There was no hope of finding Jamie tonight. I knew he would not return to the Rue Tremoulins; he wouldn’t have left that note if he were coming back. He could never lie beside me through the night, knowing what he intended doing in the morning. No, he had undoubtedly sought refuge in some inn or tavern, there to ready himself in solitude for the execution of justice that he had sworn.

I thought I knew where the place of execution would be. With the memory of his first duel strong in his mind, Jamie had shorn his hair in preparation. The memory would have come to him again, I was sure, when choosing a spot to meet his enemy. The Bois de Boulogne, near the path of the Seven Saints. The Bois was a popular place for illicit duels, its dense growth sheltering the participants from detection. Tomorrow, one of its shady clearings would see the meeting of Jamie Fraser and Jack Randall. And me.

I lay on the bed, not bothering to undress or cover myself, hands clasped across my belly. I watched the twilight fade to black, and knew I would not sleep tonight. I took what comfort I could in the small movements of my unseen inhabitant, with the echo of Jamie’s words ringing in my ears: Tomorrow’s dawn will see you dead.

The Bois de Boulogne was a small patch of almost-virgin forest, perched incongruously on the edge of Paris. It was said that wolves as well as foxes and badgers were still to be found lurking in its depths, but this story did nothing to discourage the amorous couples that dallied under the branches on the grassy earth of the forest. It was an escape from the noise and dirt of the city, and only its location kept it from becoming a playground for the nobility. As it was, it was patronized largely by those who lived nearby, who found a moment’s respite in the shade of the large oaks and pale birches of the Bois, and by those from farther away who sought privacy.

It was a small wood, but still too large to quarter on foot, looking for a clearing large enough to hold a pair of duelists. It had begun to rain during the night, and the dawn had come reluctantly, glowing sullen through a cloud-dark sky. The forest whispered to itself, the faint patter of rain on the leaves blending with the subdued rustle and rub of leaf and branches.

The carriage pulled to a stop on the road that led through the Bois, near the last small cluster of ramshackle buildings. I had told the coachman what to do; he swung down from his seat, tethered the horses, and disappeared among the buildings. The folk who lived near the Bois knew what went on there. There could not be that many spots suitable for dueling; those there were would be known.

I sat back and pulled the heavy cloak tighter around me, shivering in the cold of the early dawn. I felt terrible, with the fatigue of a sleepless night dragging at me, and the leaden weight of fear and grief resting in the pit of my stomach. Overlying everything was a seething anger that I tried to push away, lest it interfere with the job at hand.

It kept creeping back, though, bubbling up whenever my guard was down, as it was now. How could he do this? my mind kept muttering, in a cold fury. I shouldn’t be here; I should be home, resting quietly by Jamie’s side. I shouldn’t have to be pursuing him, preventing him, fighting both anger and illness. A nagging pain from the coach ride knotted at the base of my spine. Yes, he might well be upset; I could understand that. But it was a man’s life at stake, for God’s sake. How could his bloody pride be more important than that? And to leave me, with no word of explanation! To leave me to find out from the gossip of neighbors what had happened.

“You promised me, Jamie, damn you, you promised me!” I whispered, under my breath. The wood was quiet, dripping and mist-shrouded. Were they here already? Would they be here? Was I wrong in my guess about the place?

The coachman reappeared, accompanied by a young lad, perhaps fourteen, who hopped nimbly up on the seat beside the coachman, and waved his hand, gesturing ahead and to the left. With a brief crack of the whip and a click of the tongue, the coachman urged the horses into a slow trot, and we turned down the road into the shadows of the wakening wood.

We stopped twice, pausing while the lad hopped down and darted into the undergrowth, each time reappearing within a moment or two, shaking his head in negation. The third time, he came tearing back, the excitement on his face so evident that I had the carriage door open before he got near enough to call out to the coachman.

I had money ready in my hand; I thrust it at him, simultaneously clutching at his sleeve, saying, “Show me where! Quickly, quickly!”

I scarcely noticed either the clutching branches that laced across the path, nor the sudden wetness that soaked my clothing as I brushed them. The path was soft with fallen leaves, and neither my shoes nor those of my guide made any sound as I followed the shadow of his ragged, damp-spotted shirt.

I heard them before I saw them; they had started. The clash of metal was muffled by the wet shrubbery, but clear enough, nonetheless. No birds sang in the wet dawn, but the deadly voice of battle rang in my ears.

It was a large clearing, deep in the Bois, but accessible by path and road. Large enough to accommodate the footwork needed for a serious duel. They were stripped to their shirts, fighting in the rain, the wet fabric clinging, showing the outline of shoulder and backbone.

Jamie had said he was the better fighter; he might be, but Jonathan Randall was no mean swordsman, either. He wove and dodged, lithe as a snake, sword striking like a silver fang. Jamie was just as fast, amazing grace in such a tall man, light-footed and sure-handed. I watched, rooted to the ground, afraid to cry out for fear of distracting Jamie’s attention. They spun in a tight circle of stroke and parry, feet touching lightly as a dance on the turf.

I stood stock-still, watching. I had come through the fading night to find this, to stop them. And having found them, now I could not intervene, for fear of causing a fatal interruption. All I could do was wait, to see which of my men would die.

Randall had his blade up and in place to deflect the stroke, but not quickly enough to brace it against the savagery that sent his sword flying.

I opened my mouth to scream. I had meant to call Jamie’s name, to stop him now, in that moment’s grace between the disarming of his opponent and the killing stroke that must come next. I did scream, in fact, but the sound emerged weak and strangled. As I had stood there, watching, the nagging pain in my back had deepened, clenching like a fist. Now I felt a sudden breaking somewhere, as though the fist had torn loose what it held.

I groped wildly, clutching at a nearby branch. I saw Jamie’s face, set in a sort of calm exultance, and realized that he could hear nothing through the haze of violence that enveloped him. He would see nothing but his goal, until the fight was ended. Randall, retreating before the inexorable blade, slipped on the wet grass and went down. He arched his back, attempting to rise, but the grass was slippery. The fabric of his stock was torn, and his head was thrown back, dark hair rain-soaked, throat exposed like that of a wolf begging mercy. But vengeance knows no mercy, and it was not the exposed throat that the descending blade sought.

Through a blackening mist, I saw Jamie’s sword come down, graceful and deadly, cold as death. The point touched the waist of the doeskin breeches, pierced and cut down in a twisting wrench that darkened the fawn with a sudden flood of black-red blood.

The blood was a hot rush down my thighs, and the chill of my skin moved inward, toward the bone. The bone where my pelvis joined my back was breaking; I could feel the strain as each pain came on, a stroke of lightning flashing down my backbone to explode and flame in the basin of my hips, a stroke of destruction, leaving burnt and blackened fields behind.

My body as well as my senses seemed to fragment. I saw nothing, but could not tell whether my eyes were open or closed; everything was spinning dark, patched now and then with the shifting patterns you see at night as a child, when you press your fists against shut eyelids.

The raindrops beat on my face, on my throat and shoulders. Each heavy drop struck cold, then dissolved into a tiny warm stream, coursing across my chilled skin. The sensation was quite distinct, apart from the wrenching agony that advanced and retreated, lower down. I tried to focus my mind on that, to force my attention from the small, detached voice in the center of my brain, the one saying, as though making notes on a clinical record: “You’re having a hemorrhage, of course. Probably a ruptured placenta, judging from the amount of blood. Generally fatal. The loss of blood accounts for the numbness in hands and feet, and the darkened vision. They say that the sense of hearing is the last to go; that seems to be true.”

Whether it were the last of my senses to be left to me or not, hearing I still had. And it was voices I heard, most agitated, some striving for calmness, all speaking in French. There was one word I could hear and understand – my own name, shouted over and over, but at a distance. “Claire! Claire!”

“Jamie,” I tried to say, but my lips were stiff and numb with cold. Movement of any kind was beyond me. The commotion near me was settling to a steadier level; someone had arrived who was at least willing to act as though they knew what to do.

Perhaps they did. The soaked wad of my skirt was lifted gently from between my thighs, and a thick pad of cloth thrust firmly into place instead. Helpful hands turned me onto my left side, and drew my knees up toward my chest.

“Take her to the Hôpital,” suggested one voice near my ear.

“She won’t live that long,” said another, pessimistically. “Might as well wait a few minutes, then send for the meat wagon.”

“No,” insisted another. “The bleeding is slowing; she may live. Besides, I know her; I’ve seen her at L’Hôpital des Anges. Take her to Mother Hildegarde.”

I summoned all the strength I had left, and managed to whisper, “Mother.” Then I gave up the struggle, and let the darkness take me.

25 RAYMOND THE HERETIC

The high, vaulted ceiling over me was supported by ogives, those fourteenth-century architectural features in which four ribs rise from the tops of pillars, to join in double crossing arches.

My bed was set under one of these, gauze curtains drawn around me for privacy. The central point of the ogive was not directly above me, though; my bed had been placed a few feet off-center. This bothered me whenever I glanced upward; I kept wanting to move the bed by force of will, as though being centered beneath the roof would help to center me within myself.

If I had a center any longer. My body felt bruised and tender, as though I had been beaten. My joints ached and felt loose, like teeth undermined by scurvy. Several thick blankets covered me, but they could do no more than trap heat, and I had none to save. The chill of the rainy dawn had settled in my bones.

All these physical symptoms I noted objectively, as though they belonged to someone else; otherwise I felt nothing. The small, cold, logical center of my brain was still there, but the envelope of feeling through which its utterances were usually filtered was gone; dead, or paralyzed, or simply no longer there. I neither knew nor cared. I had been in L’Hôpital des Anges for five days.

Mother Hildegarde’s long fingers probed in relentless gentleness through the cotton of the bedgown I wore, probing the depths of my belly, seeking the hard edges of a contracting uterus. The flesh was soft as ripe fruit, though, and tender beneath her fingers. I winced as her fingers sank deep, and she frowned, muttering something under her breath that might have been a prayer.

I caught a name in the murmurings, and asked, “Raymond? You know Master Raymond?” I could think of few less likely pairings than this redoubtable nun and the little gnome of the cavern of skulls.

Mother Hildegarde’s thick brows shot up, astonished.

“Master Raymond, you say? That heretical charlatan? Que Dieu nous en garde!” May God protect us.

“Oh. I thought I heard you say ‘Raymond.’ ”

“Ah.” The fingers had returned to their work, probing the crease of my groin in search of the lumps of enlarged lymph nodes that would signal infection. They were there, I knew; I had felt them myself, moving my hands in restless misery over my empty body. I could feel the fever, an ache and a chill deep in my bones, that would burst into flame when it reached the surface of my skin.

“I was invoking the aid of St. Raymond Nonnatus,” Mother Hildegarde explained, wringing out a cloth in cold water. “He is an aid most invaluable in the assistance of expectant mothers.”

“Of which I am no longer one.” I noticed remotely the brief stab of pain that creased her brows; it disappeared almost at once as she busied herself in mopping my brow, smoothing the cold water briskly over the rounds of my cheeks and down into the hot, damp creases of my neck.

I shivered suddenly at the touch of the cold water, and she stopped at once, laying a considering hand on my forehead.

“St. Raymond is not one to be picky,” she said, absently reproving. “I myself take help where it can be found; a course I would recommend to you.”

“Mmm.” I shut my eyes, retreating into the haven of gray fog. Now there seemed to be faint lights in the fog, brief cracklings like the scatter of sheet lightning on a summer horizon.

I heard the clicking of jet rosary beads as Mother Hildegarde straightened up, and the soft voice of one of the sisters in the doorway, summoning her to another in the day’s string of emergencies. She had almost reached the door when a thought struck her. She turned with a swish of heavy skirts, pointing at the foot of my bed with an authoritative finger.

“Bouton!” she said. “Au pied, reste!”

The dog, as unhesitating as his mistress, whirled smartly in mid-step and leaped to the foot of the bed. Once there, he took a moment to knead the bedclothes with his paws and turn three times widdershins, as though taking the curse off his resting place, before lying down at my feet, resting his nose on his paws with a deep sigh.

Satisfied, Mother Hildegarde murmured, “Que Dieu vous bénisse, mon enfant,” in farewell, and disappeared.

Through the gathering fog and the icy numbness that wrapped me, I dimly appreciated her gesture. With no child to lay in my arms, she had given me her own best substitute.

The shaggy weight on my feet was in fact a small bodily comfort. Bouton lay still as the dogs beneath the feet of the kings carved on the lids of their tombs at St. Denis, his warmth denying the marble chill of my feet, his presence an improvement on either solitude or the company of humans, as he required nothing of me. Nothing was precisely what I felt, and all I had to give.

Bouton emitted a small, popping dog-fart and settled into sleep. I drew the covers over my nose and tried to do likewise.

I slept, eventually. And I dreamed. Fever dreams of weariness and desolation, of an impossible task done endlessly. Unceasing painful effort, carried out in a stony, barren place. Of thick gray fog, through which loss pursued me like a demon in the mist.

I woke, quite suddenly, to find that Bouton was gone, but I was not alone.

Raymond’s hairline was completely level, a flat line drawn across the wide brow as though with a rule. He wore his thick, graying hair swept back and hanging straight to the shoulder, so the massive forehead protruded like a block of stone, completely overshadowing the rest of his face. It hovered over me now, looking to my fevered eyes like the slab of a tombstone.

The lines and furrows moved slightly as he spoke to the sisters, and I thought they seemed like letters, written just below the surface of the stone, trying to burrow their way to the surface so that the name of the dead could be read. I was convinced that in another moment, my name would be legible on that white slab, and at that moment, I would truly die. I arched my back and screamed.

“Now, see there! She doesn’t want you, you disgusting old creature – you’re disturbing her rest. Come away at once!” Mother Hildegarde clutched Raymond imperatively by the arm, tugging him away from the bed. He resisted, standing rooted like a stone gnome in a lawn, but Sister Celeste added her not inconsiderable efforts to Mother Hildegarde’s, and they lifted him clean off his feet and bore him away between them, the clog dropping from one frantically kicking foot as they went.

The clog lay where it had fallen, on its side, square in the center of a scrubbed flagstone. With the intense fixation of fever, I was unable to take my eyes off it. I traced the impossibly smooth curve of the worn edge over and over, each time pulling back my gaze from the impenetrable darkness of the inside. If I let myself enter that blackness, my soul would be sucked out into chaos. As my eyes rested on it, I could hear again the sounds of the time passage through the circle of stones, and I flung out my arms, clutching frantically at the wadded bedding, seeking some anchorage against confusion.

Suddenly an arm shot through the draperies, and a work-reddened hand snatched up the shoe and disappeared. Deprived of focus, my heat-addled mind spun round the grooves of the flags for a time, then, soothed by the geometric regularity, turned inward and wobbled into sleep like a dying top.

There was no stillness in my dreams, though, and I stumbled wearily through mazes of repeating figures, endless loopings and whorls. It was with a sense of profound relief that I saw at last the irregularities of a human face.

And an irregular face it was, to be sure, screwed up as it was in a ferocious frown, lips pursed in adjuration. It was only as I felt the pressure of the hand over my mouth that I realized I was no longer asleep.

The long, lipless mouth of the gargoyle hovered next to my ear.

“Be still, ma chère! If they find me here again, I’m done for!” The large, dark eyes darted from side to side, keeping watch for any movement of the drapes.

I nodded slowly, and he released my mouth, his fingers leaving a faint whiff of ammonium and sulfur behind. He had somewhere found – or stolen, I thought dimly – a ragged gray friar’s gown to cover the grimy velvet of his apothecary’s robe, and the depths of the hood concealed both the telltale silver hair and that monstrous forehead.

The fevered delusions receded slightly, displaced by what remnants of curiosity remained to me. I was too weak to say more than “What…” when he placed a finger once more across my lips, and threw back the sheet covering me.

I watched in some bemusement as he rapidly unknotted the strings of my shift and opened the garment to the waist. His movements were swift and businesslike, completely lacking in lechery. Not that I could imagine anyone capable of trying to ravish a fever-wracked carcass like mine, particularly not within hearing of Mother Hildegarde. But still…

I watched with remote fascination as he placed his cupped hands on my breasts. They were broad and almost square, the fingers all of a length, with unusually long and supple thumbs that curved around my breasts with amazing delicacy. Watching them, I had an unusually vivid memory of Marian Jenkinson, a girl with whom I had trained at Pembroke Hospital, telling the rapt inmates of the nurses’ quarters that the size and shape of a man’s thumbs were a sure indication of the quality of his more intimate appendage.

“And it’s true, I swear it,” Marian would declare, shaking back her blond hair dramatically. But when pressed for examples, she would only giggle and dimple, rolling her eyes toward Lieutenant Hanley, who strongly resembled a gorilla, opposable – and sizable – thumbs notwithstanding.

The large thumbs were pressing gently but firmly into my flesh, and I could feel my swollen nipples rising against the hard palms, cold by comparison with my own heated skin.

“Jamie,” I said, and a shiver passed over me.

“Hush, madonna,” said Raymond. His voice was low, kind but somehow abstracted, as though he were paying no attention to me, in spite of what he was doing.

The shiver came back; it was as though the heat passed from me to him, but his hands did not warm. His fingers stayed cool, and I chilled and shook as the fever ebbed and flowed, draining from my bones.

The afternoon light was dim through the thick gauze of the drapes around my bed, and Raymond’s hands were dark on the white flesh of my breasts. The shadows between the thick, grimy fingers were not black, though. They were… blue, I thought.

I closed my eyes, looking at the particolored swirl of patterns that immediately appeared behind my lids. When I opened them again, it was as though something of the color remained behind, coating Raymond’s hands.

As the fever ebbed, leaving my mind clearer, I blinked, trying to raise my head for a better look. Raymond pressed slightly harder, urging me to lie back, and I let my head fall on the pillow, peering slantwise over my chest.

I wasn’t imagining it after all – or was I? While Raymond’s hands weren’t moving themselves, a faint flicker of colored light seemed to move over them, shedding a glow of rose and a pallor of blue across my own white skin.

My breasts were warming now, but warming with the natural heat of health, not the gnawing burn of fever. The draft from the open archway outside found a way through the drapes and lifted the damp hair at my temples, but I wasn’t chilled now.

Raymond’s head was bent, face hidden by the cowl of his borrowed robe. After what seemed a long time, he moved his hands from my breasts, very slowly over my arms, pausing and squeezing gently at the joints of shoulder and elbow, wrists and fingers. The soreness eased, and I thought I could see briefly a faint blue line within my upper arm, the glowing ghost of the bone.

Always touching, never hurrying, he brought his hands back over the shallow curve of my collarbone and down the meridian of my body, splaying his palms across my ribs.

The oddest thing about all this was that I was not at all astonished. It seemed an infinitely natural thing, and my tortured body relaxed gratefully into the hard mold of his hands, melting and reforming like molded wax. Only the lines of my skeleton held firm.

An odd feeling of warmth now emanated from those broad, square, workman’s hands. They moved with painstaking slowness over my body, and I could feel the tiny deaths of the bacteria that inhabited my blood, small explosions as each scintilla of infection disappeared. I could feel each interior organ, complete and three-dimensional, and see it as well, as though it sat on a table before me. There the hollow-walled stomach, here the lobed solidness of my liver, and each convolution and twist of intestine, turned in and on and around itself, neatly packed in the shining web of its mesentery membrane. The warmth glowed and spread within each organ, illuminating it like a small sun within me, then died and moved on.

Raymond paused, hands pressed side by side on my swollen belly. I thought he frowned, but it was hard to tell. The cowled head turned, listening, but the usual noises of the hospital continued in the distance, with no warning heeltaps coming our way.

I gasped and moved involuntarily, as one hand moved lower, cupped briefly between my legs. An increase in pressure from the other hand warned me to be silent, and the blunt fingers eased their way inside me.

I closed my eyes and waited, feeling my inner walls adjust to this odd intrusion, the inflammation subsiding bit by bit as he probed gently deeper.

Now he touched the center of my loss, and a spasm of pain contracted the heavy walls of my inflamed uterus. I breathed a small moan, then clamped my lips as he shook his head.

The other hand slid down to rest comfortingly on my belly as the groping fingers of the other touched my womb. He was still then, holding the source of my pain between his two hands as though it were a sphere of crystal, heavy and fragile.

“Now,” he said softly. “Call him. Call the red man. Call him.”

The pressure of the fingers within and the palm without grew harder, and I pressed my legs against the the bed, fighting it. But there was no strength left in me to resist, and the inexorable pressure went on, cracking the crystal sphere, freeing the chaos within.

My mind filled with images, worse than the misery of the fever-dreams, because more real. Grief and loss and fear racked me, and the dusty scent of death and white chalk filled my nostrils. Casting about in the random patterns of my mind for help, I heard the voice still muttering, patiently but firmly, “Call him,” and I sought my anchor.

“Jamie! JAMIE!”

A bolt of heat shot through my belly, from one hand to the other, like an arrow through the center of the basin of my bones. The pressing grip relaxed, slid free, and the lightness of harmony filled me.

The bedframe quivered as he ducked beneath it, barely in time.

“Milady! Are you all right?” Sister Angelique shoved through the drapes, round face creased with worry beneath her wimple. The concern in her eyes was underlaid with resignation; the sisters knew I would die soon – if this looked to be my last struggle, she was prepared to summon the priest.

Her small, hard hand rested briefly against my cheek, moved quickly to my brow, then back. The sheet still lay crumpled around my thighs, and my gown lay open. Her hands slid inside it, into my armpits, where they remained for a moment before withdrawing.

“God be praised!” she cried, eyes moistening. “The fever is gone!” She bent close, peering in sudden alarm, to be sure that the disappearance of the fever was not due to the fact that I was dead. I smiled at her weakly.

“I’m all right,” I said. “Tell Mother.”

She nodded eagerly, and pausing only long enough to draw the sheet modestly over me, she hurried from the room. The drapes had hardly swung closed behind her when Raymond emerged from under the bed.

“I must go,” he said. He laid a hand upon my head. “Be well, madonna.”

Weak as I was, I rose up, grasping his arm. I slid my hand up the length of forge-tough muscle, seeking, but not finding. The smoothness of his skin was unblemished, clear to the crest of the shoulder. He stared down at me in astonishment.

“What are you doing, madonna?”

“Nothing.” I sank back, disappointed. I was too weak and too light-headed to be careful of my words.

“I wanted to see whether you had a vaccination scar.”

“Vaccination?” Skilled as I was at reading faces by now, I would have seen the slightest twitch of comprehension, no matter how swiftly it was concealed. But there was none.

“Why do you call me madonna still?” I asked. My hands rested on the slight concavity of my stomach, gently as though not to disturb the shattering emptiness. “I’ve lost my child.”

He looked mildly surprised.

“Ah. I did not call you madonna because you were with child, my lady.”

“Why, then?” I didn’t really expect him to answer, but he did. Tired and drained as we both were, it was as though we were suspended together in a place where neither time nor consequence existed; there was room for nothing but truth between us.

He sighed.

“Everyone has a color about them,” he said simply. “All around them, like a cloud. Yours is blue, madonna. Like the Virgin’s cloak. Like my own.”

The gauze curtain fluttered briefly and he was gone.

26 FONTAINEBLEAU

For several days, I slept. Whether this was a necessary part of physical recovery, or a stubborn retreat from waking reality, I do not know, but I woke only reluctantly to take a little food, falling at once back into a stupor of oblivion, as though the small, warm weight of broth in my stomach were an anchor that pulled me after it, down through the murky fathoms of sleep.

A few days later I woke to the sound of insistent voices near my ear, and the touch of hands lifting me from the bed. The arms that held me were strong and masculine, and for a moment, I felt afloat in joy. Then I woke all the way, struggling feebly against a wave of tobacco and cheap wine, to find myself in the grasp of Hugo, Louise de La Tour ’s enormous footman.

“Put me down!” I said, batting at him weakly. He looked startled at this sudden resurrection from the dead, and nearly dropped me, but a high, commanding voice stopped both of us.

“Claire, my dear friend! Do not be afraid, ma chère, it’s all right. I am taking you to Fontainebleau. The air, and good food – it’s what you need. And rest, you need rest…”

I blinked against the light like a newborn lamb. Louise’s face, round, pink, and anxious, floated nearby like a cherub on a cloud. Mother Hildegarde stood behind her, tall and stern as the angel at the gates of Eden, the heavenly illusion enhanced by the fact that they were both standing in front of the stained-glass window in the vestibule of the Hôpital.

“Yes,” she said, her deep voice making the simplest word more emphatic than all Louise’s twittering. “It will be good for you. Au revoir, my dear.”

And with that, I was borne down the steps of the Hôpital and stuffed willy-nilly into Louise’s coach, with neither strength nor will to protest.

The bumping of the coach over potholes and ruts kept me awake on the journey to Fontainebleau. That, and Louise’s constant conversation, aimed at reassurance. At first I made some dazed attempt to respond, but soon realized that she required no answers, and in fact, talked more easily without them.

After days in the cool gray stone vault of the Hôpital, I felt like a freshly unwrapped mummy, and shrank from the assault of so much brightness and color. I found it easier to deal with if I drew back a bit, and let it all wash past me without trying to distinguish its elements.

This strategy worked until we reached a small wood just outside Fontainebleau. The trunks of the oaks were dark and thick, with low, spreading canopies that shadowed the ground beneath with shifting light, so that the whole wood seemed to be moving slightly in the wind. I was vaguely admiring the effect, when I noticed that some of what I had assumed to be tree trunks were in fact moving, turning very slowly to and fro.

“Louise!” My exclamation and my grip on her arm stopped her chatter in mid-word.

She lunged heavily across me to see what I was looking at, then flopped back to her side of the carriage and thrust her head out of the window, shouting at the coachman.

We came to a slithering, dusty halt just opposite the wood. There were three of them, two men and a woman. Louise’s high, agitated voice went on, expostulating and questioning, punctuated by the coachman’s attempts to explain or apologize, but I paid no attention.

In spite of their turning and the small fluttering of their clothing, they were very still, more inert than the trees that held them. The faces were black with suffocation; Monsieur Forez wouldn’t have approved at all, I thought, through the haze of shock. An amateur execution, but effective, for all that. The wind shifted, and a faint, gassy stink blew over us.

Louise shrieked and pounded on the window frame in a frenzy of indignation, and the carriage started with a jerk that rocked her back in the seat.

“Merde!” she said, rapidly fanning her flushed face. “The idiocy of that fool, stopping like that right there! What recklessness! The shock of it is bad for the baby, I am sure, and you, my poor dear… oh, dear, my poor Claire! I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to remind you… how can you forgive me, I’m so tactless…”

Luckily her agitation at possibly having upset me made her forget her own upset at sight of the bodies, but it was very wearying, trying to stem her apologies. At last, in desperation, I changed the subject back to the hanged ones.

“Who?” The distraction worked; she blinked, and remembering the shock to her système, pulled out a bottle of ammoniac spirits and took a hearty sniff that made her sneeze in reflex.

“Hugue… choo! Huguenots,” she got out, snorting and wheezing. “Protestant heretics. That’s what the coachman says.”

“They hang them? Still?” Somehow, I had thought such religious persecution a relic of earlier times.

“Well, not just for being Protestants usually, though that’s enough,” Louise said, sniffing. She dabbed her nose delicately with an embroidered handkerchief, examined the results critically, then reapplied the cloth to her nose and blew it with a satisfying honk.

“Ah, that’s better.” She tucked the handkerchief back in her pocket and leaned back with a sigh. “Now I am restored. What a shock! If they have to hang them, that’s all well, but must they do so by a public thoroughfare, where ladies must be exposed to such disgustingness? Did you smell them? Pheew! This is the Comte Medard’s land; I’ll send him a very nasty letter about it, see if I don’t.”

“But why did they hang these people?” I asked, interrupting in the brutal manner that was the only possible way of actually conversing with Louise.

“Oh, witchcraft, most likely. There was a woman, you saw. Usually it’s witchcraft when the women are involved. If it’s only men, most often it’s just preaching sedition and heresy, but the women don’t preach. Did you see the ugly dark clothes she had on? Horrible! So depressing only to wear dark colors all the time; what kind of religion would make its followers wear such plain clothes all the time? Obviously the Devil’s work, anyone can see that. They are afraid of women, that’s what it is, so they…”

I closed my eyes and leaned back in the seat. I hoped it wasn’t very far to Louise’s country house.

In addition to the monkey, from whom she would not be parted, Louise’s country house contained a number of other decorations of dubious taste. In Paris, her husband’s taste and her father’s must be consulted, and the rooms of the house there were consequently done richly, but in subdued tones. But Jules seldom came to the country house, being too busy in the city, and so Louise’s taste was allowed free rein.

“This is my newest toy; is it not lovely?” she cooed, running her hand lovingly over the carved dark wood of a tiny house that sprouted incongruously from the wall next to a gilt-bronze sconce in the shape of Eurydice.

“That looks like a cuckoo clock,” I said disbelievingly.

“You have seen one before? I didn’t think there were any to be found anywhere in Paris!” Louise pouted slightly at the thought that her toy might not be unique, but brightened as she twisted the hands of the clock to the next hour. She stood back, beaming proudly as the tiny clockwork bird stuck its head out and emitted several shrill Cuckoo!s in succession.

“Isn’t it precious?” She touched the bird’s head briefly as it disappeared back into its hidey-hole. “Berta, the housekeeper here, got it for me; her brother brought it all the way from Switzerland. Whatever you want to say about the Swiss, they are clever woodcarvers, no?”

I wanted to say no, but instead merely murmured something tactfully admiring.

Louise’s grasshopper mind leaped nimbly to a new topic, possibly triggered by thoughts of Swiss servants.

“You know, Claire,” she said, with a touch of reproof, “you ought really to come to Mass in the chapel each morning.”

“Why?”

She tossed her head in the direction of the doorway, where one of the maids was passing with a tray.

“I don’t care at all, myself, but the servants – they’re very superstitious out here in the countryside, you know. And one of the footmen from the Paris house was foolish enough to tell the cook all about that silly story of your being La Dame Blanche. I have told them that’s all nonsense, of course, and threatened to dismiss anyone I catch spreading such gossip, but… well, it might help if you came to Mass. Or at least prayed out loud now and then, so they could hear you.”

Unbeliever that I was, I thought daily Mass in the house’s chapel might be going a bit far, but with vague amusement, agreed to do what I could to allay the servants’ fears; consequently, Louise and I spent the next hour reading psalms aloud to each other, and reciting the Lord’s Prayer in unison – loudly. I had no idea what effect this performance might have on the servants, but it did at least exhaust me sufficiently that I went up to my room for a nap, and slept without dreaming until the next morning.

I often had difficulty sleeping, possibly because my waking state was little different from an uneasy doze. I lay awake at night, gazing at the white-gesso ceiling with its furbishes of fruit and flowers. It hung above me like a dim gray shape in the darkness, the personification of the depression that clouded my mind by day. When I did close my eyes at night, I dreamed. I couldn’t block the dreams with grayness; they came in vivid colors to assault me in the dark. And so I seldom slept.

There was no word from Jamie – or of him. Whether it was guilt or injury that had kept him from coming to me at the Hôpital, I didn’t know. But he hadn’t come, nor did he come to Fontainebleau. By now he likely had left for Orvieto.

Sometimes I found myself wondering when – or whether – I would see him again, and what – if anything – we might say to each other. But for the most part, I preferred not to think about it, letting the days come and go, one by one, avoiding thoughts of both the future and the past by living only in the present.

Deprived of his idol, Fergus drooped. Again and again, I saw him from my window, sitting disconsolately beneath a hawthorn bush in the garden, hugging his knees and looking down the road toward Paris. At last, I stirred myself to go out to him, making my way heavily downstairs and down the garden path.

“Can’t you find anything to do, Fergus?” I asked him. “Surely one of the stable-lads could use a hand, or something.”

“Yes, milady,” he agreed doubtfully. He scratched absentmindedly at his buttocks. I observed this behavior with deep suspicion.

“Fergus,” I said, folding my arms, “have you got lice?” He snatched his hand back as though burned.

“Oh, no, milady!”

I reached down and pulled him to his feet, sniffed delicately in his general vicinity, and put a finger inside his collar, far enough to reveal the grimy ring around his neck.

“Bath,” I said succinctly.

“No!” He jerked away, but I grabbed him by the shoulder. I was surprised by his vehemence; while no fonder of bathing than the normal Parisian – who regarded the prospect of immersion with a repugnance akin to horror – still, I could scarcely reconcile the usually obliging child I knew with the little fury that suddenly squirmed and twisted under my hand.

There was a ripping noise, and he was free, bounding through the black-berry bushes like a rabbit pursued by a weasel. There was a rustle of leaves and a scrabble of stones, and he was gone, over the wall and headed for the outbuildings at the back of the estate.

I made my way through the maze of rickety outbuildings behind the château, cursing under my breath as I skirted mud puddles and heaps of filth. Suddenly, there was a high-pitched whining buzz and a cloud of flies rose from the pile a few feet ahead of me, bodies sparking blue in the sunlight.

I wasn’t close enough to have disturbed them; there must have been some movement from the darkened doorway beside the dungheap.

“Aha!” I said out loud. “Got you, you filthy little son of a whatnot! Come out of there this instant!”

No one emerged, but there was an audible stir inside the shed, and I thought I caught a glimpse of white in the shadowed interior. Holding my nose, I stepped over the manure pile into the shed.

There were two gasps of horror; mine, at beholding something that looked like the Wild Man of Borneo flattened against the back wall, and his, at beholding me.

The sunlight trickled through the cracks between the boards, giving enough light for us to see each other clearly, once my eyes had adapted to the relative dark. He wasn’t, after all, quite as awful-looking as I’d thought at first, but he wasn’t a lot better, either. His beard was as filthy and matted as his hair, flowing past his shoulders onto a shirt ragged as any beggar’s. He was barefoot, and if the term sans-culottes wasn’t yet in common use, it wasn’t for lack of trying on his part.

I wasn’t afraid of him, because he was so obviously afraid of me. He was pressing himself against the wall as though trying to get through it by osmosis.

“It’s all right,” I said soothingly. “I won’t hurt you.”

Instead of being soothed, he drew himself abruptly upright, reached into the bosom of his shirt and pulled out a wooden crucifix on a leather thong. He held this out toward me and started praying, in a voice shaking with terror.

“Oh, bother,” I said crossly. “Not another one!” I took a deep breath. “Pater-Noster-qui-es-in-coeliset-in-terra…” His eyes bugged out, and he kept holding the crucifix, but at least he stopped his own praying in response to this performance.

“…Amen!” I concluded with a gasp. I held up both hands and waggled them in front of his face. “See? Not a word backward, not a single quotidianus da nobis hodie out of place, right? Didn’t even have my fingers crossed. So I can’t be a witch, can I?”

The man slowly lowered his crucifix and stood gaping at me. “A witch?” he said. He looked as though he thought I were crazy, which I felt was a bit thick under the circumstances.

“You didn’t think I was a witch?” I said, beginning to feel a trifle foolish.

Something that looked like a smile twitched into existence and out again among the tangles of his beard.

“No, Madame,” he said. “I am accustomed to people saying such things of me.”

“You are?” I eyed him closely. Besides the rags and filth, the man was obviously starving; the wrists that stuck out of his shirt were scrawny as a child’s. At the same time, his French was graceful and educated, if oddly accented.

“If you’re a witch,” I said, “you aren’t very successful at it. Who the hell are you?”

At this, the fright came back into his eyes again. He looked from side to side, seeking escape, but the shed was solidly built, if old, with no entrance other than the one in which I was standing. At last, calling on some hidden reserve of courage, he drew himself up to his full height – some three inches below my own – and with great dignity, said “I am the Reverend Walter Laurent, of Geneva.”

“You’re a priest?” I was thunderstruck. I couldn’t imagine what might have brought a priest – Swiss or not – to this state.

Father Laurent looked nearly as horror-struck as I.

“A priest?” he echoed. “A papist? Never!”

Suddenly the truth struck me.

“A Huguenot!” I said. “That’s it – you’re a Protestant, aren’t you?” I remembered the bodies I had seen hanging in the forest. That, I thought, explained rather a lot.

His lips quivered, but he pressed them tightly together for a moment before opening them to reply.

“Yes, Madame. I am a pastor; I have been preaching in this district for a month.” He licked his lips briefly, eyeing me. “Your pardon, Madame – I think you are not French?”

“I’m English,” I said, and he relaxed suddenly, as though someone had taken all the stiffening out of his spine.

“Great Father in Heaven,” he said, prayerfully. “You are then a Protestant also?”

“No, I’m a Catholic,” I answered. “But I’m not at all vicious about it,” I added hastily, seeing the look of alarm spring back into his light-brown eyes. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone you’re here. I suppose you came to try to steal a little food?” I asked sympathetically.

“To steal is a sin!” he said, horrified. “No, Madame. But…” He clamped his lips shut, but his glance in the direction of the château gave him away.

“So one of the servants brings you food,” I said. “So you let them do the stealing for you. But then I suppose you can absolve them from the sin, so it all works out. Rather thin moral ice you’re on, if you ask me,” I said reprovingly, “but then it isn’t any of my business, I suppose.”

A light of hope shone in his eyes. “You mean – you will not have me arrested, Madame?”

“No, of course not. I’ve a sort of fellow-feeling for fugitives from the law, having come rather close to being burnt at the stake once myself.” I didn’t know quite why I was being so chatty; the relief of meeting someone who seemed intelligent, I supposed. Louise was sweet, devoted and kind, and had precisely as much brain as the cuckoo clock in her drawing room. Thinking of the Swiss clock, I suddenly realized who Pastor Laurent’s secret parishioners must be.

“Look,” I said, “if you want to stay here, I’ll go up to the château and tell Berta or Maurice that you’re here.”

The poor man was nothing but skin, bones, and eyes. Everything he thought was reflected in those large, gentle brown orbs. Right now, he was plainly thinking that whoever had tried to burn me at the stake had been on the right track.

“I have heard,” he began slowly, reaching for a fresh grip on his crucifix, “of an Englishwoman whom the Parisians call ‘ La Dame Blanche.’ An associate of Raymond the Heretic.”

I sighed. “That’s me. Though I’m not an associate of Master Raymond’s, I don’t think. He’s just a friend.” Seeing him squint doubtfully at me, I inhaled again. “Pater Noster…”

“No, no, Madame, please.” To my surprise, he had lowered the crucifix, and was smiling.

“I also am an acquaintance of Master Raymond’s, whom I knew in Geneva. There he was a reputable physician and herbalist. Now, alas, I fear that he has turned to darker pursuits, though of course nothing was proved.”

“Proved? About what? And what’s all this about Raymond the Heretic?”

“You did not know?” Thin brows lifted over the brown eyes. “Ah. Then you are not associated with Master Raymond’s… activities.” He relaxed noticeably.

“Activity” seemed like a poor description for the way in which Raymond had healed me, so I shook my head.

“No, but I wish you’d tell me. Oh, but I shouldn’t be standing here talking; I should go and send Berta with food.”

He waved a hand, with some dignity.

“It is of no urgency, Madame. The appetites of the body are of no importance when weighed against the appetites of the soul. And Catholic or not, you have been kind to me. If you are not now associated with Master Raymond’s occult activities, then it is right that you should be warned in time.”

And ignoring the dirt and the splintered boards of the floor, he folded his legs and sat down against the wall of the shed, gracefully motioning me also to sit. Intrigued, I collapsed opposite him, tucking up the folds of my skirt to keep them from dragging in the manure.

“Have you heard of a man named du Carrefours, Madame?” the Pastor said. “No? Well, his name is well known in Paris, I assure you, but you would do well not to speak it. This man was the organizer and the leader of a ring of unspeakable vice and depravity, in association with the most debased occult practices. I cannot bring myself to mention to you some of the ceremonies that were performed in secret among the nobility. And they call me a witch!” he muttered, almost under his breath.

He raised one bony forefinger, as though to forestall my unspoken objection.

“I am aware, Madame, of the sort of gossip that is commonly spread, without reference to fact – who should know it better than we? But the activities of du Carrefours and his followers – these are a matter of common knowledge, for he was tried for them, imprisoned, and eventually burned in the Place de la Bastille as punishment for his crimes.”

I remembered Raymond’s light remark, “No one’s been burned in Paris in – oh, twenty years at least,” and shuddered, in spite of the warm weather.

“And you say that Master Raymond was associated with this du Carrefours?”

The Pastor frowned, scratching absently at his matted beard. He likely had both lice and fleas, I thought, and tried to move back imperceptibly.

“Well, it is difficult to say. No one knows where Master Raymond came from; he speaks several tongues, all without noticeable accent. A very mysterious man, Master Raymond, but – I would swear by the name of my God – a good one.”

I smiled at him. “I think so, too.”

He nodded, smiling, but then grew serious as he resumed his story. “Just so, Madame. Still, he corresponded with du Carrefours from Geneva; I know this, for he told me so himself – he supplied various substances to order: plants, elixirs, the dried skins of animals. Even a sort of fish – a most peculiar and frightening thing, which he told me was brought up from the darkest depths of the sea; a horrible thing, all teeth, with almost no flesh – but with the most horrifying small… lights… like tiny lanterns, beneath its eyes.”

“Really,” I said, fascinated.

Pastor Laurent shrugged. “All this may be quite innocent, of course, a mere matter of business. But he disappeared from Geneva at the same time that du Carrefours came at first under suspicion – and within weeks of du Carrefours’s execution, I had begun to hear stories that Master Raymond had established his business in Paris, and that he had taken over a number of du Carre-fours’s clandestine activities as well.”

“Hmm,” I said. I was thinking of Raymond’s inner room, and the cabinet painted with Cabbalistic signs. To keep out those who believed in them. “Anything else?”

The Reverend Laurent’s eyebrows arched skyward.

“No, Madame,” he said, rather weakly. “Nothing else, to my knowledge.”

“Well, I’m really not given to that sort of thing myself,” I assured him.

“Oh? Good,” he said, hesitantly. He sat silently for a moment, as though making up his mind about something, then inclined his head courteously toward me.

“You will pardon me if I intrude, Madame? Berta and Maurice have told me something of your loss. I am sorry, Madame.”

“Thank you,” I said, staring at the stripes of sunlight on the floor.

There was another silence, then Pastor Laurent said delicately, “Your husband, Madame? He is not here with you?”

“No,” I said, still keeping my eyes on the floor. Flies lighted momentarily, then zoomed off, finding no nourishment. “I don’t know where he is.”

I didn’t mean to say any more, but something made me look up at the ragged little preacher.

“He cared more for his honor than he did for me or his child or an innocent man,” I said bitterly. “I don’t care where he is; I never want to see him again!”

I stopped abruptly, shaken. I had not put it into words before, even to myself. But it was true. There had been a great trust between us, and Jamie had broken it, for the sake of revenge. I understood; I had seen the power of the thing that drove him, and knew it couldn’t be denied forever. But I had asked for a few months’ grace, which he had promised me. And then, unable to wait, he had broken his word, and by so doing, sacrificed everything that lay between him and me. Not only that: He had jeopardized the undertaking in which we were engaged. I could understand, but I would not forgive.

Pastor Laurent laid a hand on mine. It was grimy with crusted dirt, and his nails were broken and black-edged, but I didn’t draw away. I expected platitudes or a homily, but he didn’t speak, either; just held my hand, very gently, for a long time, as the sun moved across the floor and the flies buzzed slow and heavy past our heads.

“You had better go,” he said at last, releasing my hand. “You will be missed.”

“I suppose so.” I drew a deep breath, feeling at least steadier, if not better. I felt in the pocket of my gown; I had a small purse with me.

I hesitated, not wanting to offend him. After all, by his lights I was a heretic, even if not a witch.

“Will you let me give you some money?” I asked carefully.

He thought for a moment, then smiled, the light-brown eyes glowing.

“On one condition, Madame. If you will allow me to pray for you?”

“A bargain,” I said, and gave him the purse.

27 AN AUDIENCE WITH HIS MAJESTY

As the days passed at Fontainebleau, I gradually regained my bodily strength, though my mind continued to drift, my thoughts shying away from any sort of memory or action.

There were few visitors; the country house was a refuge, where the frenetic social life of Paris seemed like one more of the uneasy dreams that haunted me. I was surprised, then, to have a maid summon me to the drawing room to meet a visitor. The thought crossed my mind that it might be Jamie, and I felt a surge of dizzy sickness. But then reason reasserted itself; Jamie must have left for Spain by now; he could not possibly return before late August. And when he did?

I couldn’t think of it. I pushed the idea into the back of my mind, but my hands shook as I fastened my laces to go downstairs.

Much to my surprise, the “visitor” was Magnus, the butler from Jared’s Paris house.

“Your pardon, Madame,” he said, bowing deeply when he saw me. “I did not wish to presume… but I could not tell whether perhaps the matter was of importance… and with the master gone…” Lordly in his own sphere of influence, the old man was badly discomposed by being so far afield. It took some time to extract a coherent story from him, but at length a note was produced, folded and sealed, addressed to me.

“The hand is that of Monsieur Murtagh,” Magnus said, in a tone of half-repugnant awe. That explained his hesitance, I thought. The servants in the Paris house all regarded Murtagh with a sort of respectful horror, which had been exaggerated by reports of the events in the Rue du Faubourg St.-Honoré.

It had come to the Paris house two weeks earlier, Magnus explained. Unsure what to do with it, the servants had dithered and conferred, but at length, he had decided that it must be brought to my attention.

“The master being gone,” he repeated. This time I paid attention to what he was saying.

“Gone?” I said. The note was crumpled and stained from its journey, light as a leaf in my hand. “You mean Jamie left before this note arrived?” I could make no sense of this; this must be Murtagh’s note giving the name and sailing date of the ship that would bear Charles Stuart’s port from Lisbon. Jamie could not have left for Spain before receiving the information.

As though to verify this, I broke the seal and unfolded the note. It was addressed to me, because Jamie had thought there was less chance of my mail being intercepted than his. From Lisbon, dated nearly a month before, the letter boasted no signature, but didn’t need one.

“The Scalamandre sails from Lisbon on the 18th of July” was all the note said. I was surprised to see what a small, neat hand Murtagh wrote; somehow I had been expecting a formless scrawl.

I looked up from the paper to see Magnus and Louise exchanging a very odd kind of look.

“What is it?” I said abruptly. “Where’s Jamie?” I had put down his absence from L’Hôpital des Anges after the miscarriage to his guilt at the knowledge that his reckless action had killed our child, had killed Frank, and had nearly cost me my life. At that point, I didn’t care; I didn’t want to see him, either. Now I began to think of another, more sinister explanation for his absence.

It was Louise who spoke at last, squaring her plump shoulders to the task.

“He’s in the Bastille,” she said, taking a deep breath. “For dueling.”

My knees felt watery, and I sat down on the nearest available surface.

“Why in hell didn’t you tell me?” I wasn’t sure what I felt at this news; shock, or horror – fear? or a small sense of satisfaction?

“I – I didn’t want to upset you, chérie,” Louise stammered, taken aback at my apparent distress. “You were so weak… and there was nothing you could do, after all. And you didn’t ask,” she pointed out.

“But what… how… how long is the sentence?” I demanded. Whatever my initial emotion, it was superseded by a sudden rush of urgency. Murtagh’s note had arrived at the Rue Tremoulins two weeks ago. Jamie should have left upon its receipt – but he hadn’t.

Louise was summoning servants and ordering wine and ammoniac spirits and burnt feathers, all at once; I must look rather alarming.

“It is a contravention of the King’s order,” she said, pausing in her flutter. “He will remain in prison at the King’s pleasure.”

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” I muttered, wishing I had something stronger to say.

“It is fortunate that le petit James did not kill his opponent,” Louise hastened to add. “In that case, the penalty would have been much more… eek!” She twitched her striped skirts aside just in time to avoid the cascade of chocolate and biscuits as I knocked over the newly arrived refreshments. The tray clanged to the floor unregarded as I stared down at her. My hands were clasped tightly against my ribs, the right protectively curled over the gold ring on my left hand. The thin metal seemed to burn against my skin.

“He isn’t dead, then?” I asked, like one in a dream. “Captain Randall… he’s alive?”

“Why, yes,” she said, peering curiously up at me. “You did not know? He is badly wounded, but it is said that he recovers. Are you quite well, Claire? You look…” But the rest of what she was saying was lost in the roaring that filled my ears.

“You did too much, too soon,” Louise said severely, pulling back the curtains. “I said so, didn’t I?”

“I imagine so,” I said. I sat up and swung my legs out of bed, checking cautiously for any residual signs of faintness. No swimming of head, ringing of ears, double vision, or inclination to fall on the floor. Vital signs all right.

“I need my yellow gown, and then would you send for the carriage, Louise?” I asked.

Louise looked at me in horror. “You are not meaning to go out? Nonsense! Monsieur Clouseau is coming to attend you! I have sent a messenger to fetch him here at once!”

The news that Monsieur Clouseau, a prominent society physician, was coming from Paris to examine me, would have been sufficient grounds to get me on my feet, had I needed them.

The eighteenth of July was ten days away. With a fast horse, good weather, and a disregard for bodily comfort, the journey from Paris to Orvieto could be made in six. That left me four days to contrive Jamie’s release from the Bastille; no time to fiddle about with Monsieur Clouseau.

“Hmm,” I said, looking round the room thoughtfully. “Well, call the maid to dress me, at any rate. I don’t want Monsieur Clouseau to find me in my shift.”

Though she still looked suspicious, this sounded plausible; most ladies of the Court would rise from a deathbed in order to make sure they were dressed appropriately for the occasion.

“All right,” she agreed, turning to go. “But you stay in bed until Yvonne arrives, you hear?”

The yellow gown was one of my best, a loose, graceful thing made in the modish sacque style, with a wide rolled collar, full sleeves, and a beaded closure down the front. Powdered, combed, stockinged, and perfumed at last, I surveyed the pair of shoes Yvonne had laid out for me to step into. I turned my head this way and that, frowning appraisingly.

“Mm, no,” I said at last. “I don’t think so. I’ll wear the others, the ones with the red morocco heels, instead.”

The maid looked dubiously at my dress, as though mentally assessing the effect of red morocco with yellow moiré silk, but obediently turned to rummage in the foot of the huge armoire.

Tiptoeing silently up behind her in my stockinged feet, I shoved her headfirst into the armoire, and slammed the door on the heaving, shrieking mass beneath the pile of fallen dresses within. Turning the key in the door, I dropped it neatly into my pocket, mentally shaking hands with myself. Neat job, Beauchamp, I thought. All this political intrigue is teaching you things they never dreamt of in nursing school, no doubt about it.

“Don’t worry,” I told the shaking armoire soothingly. “Someone will be along to let you out soon, I imagine. And you can tell La Princesse that you didn’t let me go anywhere.”

A despairing wail from inside the armoire seemed to be mentioning Monsieur Clouseau’s name.

“Tell him to have a look at the monkey,” I called over my shoulder, “It’s got mange.”

The success of my encounter with Yvonne buoyed my mood. Once ensconced in the carriage, rattling back toward Paris, though, my spirits sank appreciably.

While I was no longer quite so angry at Jamie, I still did not wish to see him. My feelings were in complete turmoil, and I had no intention of examining them closely; it hurt too much. Grief was there, and a horrible sense of failure, and over all, the sense of betrayal; his and mine. He should never have gone to the Bois de Boulogne; I should never have gone after him.

But we both did as our natures and our feelings dictated, and together we had – perhaps – caused the death of our child. I had no wish to meet my partner in the crime, still less to expose my grief to him, to match my guilt with his. I fled from anything that reminded me of the dripping morning in the Bois; certainly I fled from any memory of Jamie, caught as I had last seen him, rising from the body of his victim, face glowing with the vengeance that would shortly claim his own family.

I could not think of it even in passing, without a terrible clenching in my stomach, that brought back the ghost of the pain of premature labor. I pressed my fists into the blue velvet of the carriage seat, raising myself to ease the imagined pressure on my back.

I turned to look out the window, hoping to distract myself, but the sights went blindly by, as my mind returned, unbidden, to thoughts of my journey. Whatever my feelings for Jamie, whether we would ever see each other again, what we might be, or not be, to one another – still the fact remained that he was in prison. And I rather thought I knew just what imprisonment might mean to him, with the memories of Wentworth that he carried; the groping hands that fondled him in dreams, the stone walls he hammered in his sleep.

More importantly, there was the matter of Charles and the ship from Portugal; the loan from Monsieur Duverney, and Murtagh, about to take ship from Lisbon for a rendezvous off Orvieto. The stakes were too high to allow my own emotions any play. For the sake of the Scottish clans, and the Highlands themselves, for Jamie’s family and tenants at Lallybroch, for the thousands who would die at Culloden and in its aftermath – it had to be tried. And to try, Jamie would have to be free; it wasn’t something I could undertake myself.

No, there was no question. I would have to do whatever I must to have him released from the Bastille.

And just what could I do?

I watched the beggars scramble and gesture toward the windows as we entered the Rue du Faubourg St.-Honoré. When in doubt, I thought, seek the assistance of a Higher Authority.

I rapped on the panel beside the driver’s seat. It slid back with a grating noise, and the mustached face of Louise’s coachman peered down at me.

“Madame?”

“Left,” I said. “To L’Hôpital des Anges.”

Mother Hildegarde tapped her blunt fingers thoughtfully on a sheet of music paper, as though drumming out a troublesome sequence. She sat at the mosaic table in her private office, across from Herr Gerstmann, summoned to join us in urgent council.

“Well, yes,” said Herr Gerstmann doubtfully. “Yes, I believe I can arrange a private audience with His Majesty, but… you are certain that your husband… um…” The music master seemed to be having unusual trouble in expressing himself, which made me suspect that petitioning the King for Jamie’s release might be just a trifle more complicated than I had thought. Mother Hildegarde verified this suspicion with her own reaction.

“Johannes!” she exclaimed, so agitated as to drop her usual formal manner of address. “She cannot do that! After all, Madame Fraser is not one of the Court ladies – she is a person of virtue!”

“Er, thank you,” I said politely. “If you don’t mind, though… what, precisely, would my state of virtue have to do with my seeing the King to ask for Jamie’s release?”

The nun and the singing-master exchanged looks in which horror at my naiveté was mingled with a general reluctance to remedy it. At last Mother Hildegarde, braver of the two, bit the bullet.

“If you go alone to ask such a favor from the King, he will expect to lie with you,” she said bluntly. After all the carry-on over telling me, I was hardly surprised, but I glanced at Herr Gerstmann for confirmation, which he gave in the form of a reluctant nod.

“His Majesty is susceptible to requests from ladies of a certain personal charm,” he said delicately, taking a sudden interest in one of the ornaments on the desk.

“But there is a price to such requests,” added Mother Hildegarde, not nearly so delicate. “Most of the courtiers are only too pleased when their wives find Royal favor; the gain to them is well worth the sacrifice of their wives’ virtue.” The wide mouth curled with scorn at the thought, then straightened into its usual grimly humorous line.

“But your husband,” she said, “does not appear to me to be the sort who makes a complaisant cuckold.” The heavy arched brows supplied the question mark at the end of the sentence, and I shook my head in response.

“I shouldn’t think so.” In fact, this was one of the grosser understatements I had ever heard. If “complaisant” was not the very last word that came to mind at the thought of Jamie Fraser, it was certainly well down toward the bottom of the list. I tried to imagine just what Jamie would think, say, or do, if he ever learned that I had lain with another man, up to and including the King of France.

The thought made me remember the trust that had existed between us, almost since the day of our marriage, and a sudden feeling of desolation swept over me. I shut my eyes for a moment, fighting illness, but the prospect had to be faced.

“Well,” I said, taking a deep breath, “is there another way?”

Mother Hildegarde knitted her brows, frowning at Herr Gerstmann, as though expecting him to produce the answer. The little music master shrugged, though, frowning in his turn.

“If there were a friend of some importance, who might intercede for your husband with His Majesty?” he asked tentatively.

“Not likely.” I had examined all such alternatives myself, in the coach from Fontainebleau, and been forced to conclude that there was no one whom I could reasonably ask to undertake such an ambassage. Owing to the illegal and scandalous nature of the duel – for of course Marie d’Arbanville had spread her gossip all over Paris – none of the Frenchmen of our acquaintance could very well afford to take an interest in it. Monsieur Duverney, who had agreed to see me, had been kind, but discouraging. Wait, had been his advice. In a few months, when the scandal has died down a bit, then His Majesty might be approached. But now…

Likewise the Duke of Sandringham, so bound by the delicate proprieties of diplomacy that he had dismissed his private secretary for only the appearance of involvement in scandal, was in no position to petition Louis for a favor of this sort.

I stared down at the inlaid tabletop, scarcely seeing the complex curves of enamel that swept through abstractions of geometry and color. My forefinger traced the loops and whorls before me, providing a precarious anchor for my racing thoughts. If it was indeed necessary for Jamie to be released from prison, in order to prevent the Jacobite invasion of Scotland, then it seemed that I would have to do the releasing, whatever the method, and whatever its consequences.

At last I looked up, meeting the music master’s eyes. “I’ll have to,” I said softly. “There’s no other way.”

There was a moment of silence. Then Herr Gerstmann glanced at Mother Hildegarde.

“She will stay here,” Mother Hildegarde declared firmly. “You may send to tell her the time of the audience, Johannes, once you have arranged it.”

She turned to me. “After all, if you are really set upon this course, my dear friend…” Her lips pressed tightly together, then opened to say, “It may be a sin to assist you in committing immorality. Still, I will do it. I know that your reasons seem good to you, whatever they may be. And perhaps the sin will be outweighed by the grace of your friendship.”

“Oh, Mother.” I thought I might cry if I said more, so contented myself with merely squeezing the big, work-roughened hand that rested on my shoulder. I had a sudden longing to fling myself into her arms and bury my face against the comforting black serge bosom, but her hand left my shoulder and went to the long jet rosary that clicked among the folds of her skirt as she walked.

“I will pray for you,” she said, smiling what would have been a tremulous smile on a face less solidly carved. Her expression changed suddenly to one of deep consideration. “Though I do wonder,” she added meditatively, “exactly who would be the proper patron saint to invoke in the circumstances?”

Mary Magdalene was the name that came to mind as I raised my hands overhead in a simulation of prayer, to allow the small wicker dress frame to slip over my shoulders and settle onto my hips. Or Mata Hari, but I was quite sure she’d never make the Calendar of Saints. I wasn’t sure about the Magdalene, for that matter, but a reformed prostitute seemed the most likely among the heavenly host to be sympathetic to the venture being now undertaken.

I reflected that the Convent of the Angels had probably never before seen a robing such as this. While the postulants about to take their final vows were most splendidly arrayed as brides of Christ, red silk and rice powder probably didn’t figure heavily in the ceremonies.

Very symbolic, I thought, as the rich scarlet folds slithered over my upturned face. White for purity, and red for… whatever this was. Sister Minèrve, a young sister from a wealthy noble family, had been selected to assist me in my toilette; with considerable skill and aplomb, she dressed my hair, tucking in the merest scrap of ostrich feather trimmed with seed pearls. She combed my brows carefully, darkening them with the small lead combs, and painted my lips with a feather dipped in a pot of rouge. The feel of it on my lips tickled unbearably, exaggerating my tendency to break into unhinged giggles. Not hilarity; hysteria.

Sister Minèrve reached for the hand mirror. I stopped her with a gesture; I didn’t want to look myself in the eye. I took a deep breath, and nodded.

“I’m ready,” I said. “Send for the coach.”

I had never been in this part of the palace before. In fact, after the multiple twists and turnings through the candle-lit corridors of mirrors, I was no longer sure exactly how many of me there were, let alone where any of them were going.

The discreet and anonymous Gentleman of the Bedchamber led me to a small paneled door in an alcove. He rapped once, then bowed to me, whirled, and left without waiting for an answer. The door swung inward, and I entered.

The King still had his breeches on. The realization slowed my heartbeat to something like a tolerable rate, and I ceased feeling as though I might throw up any minute.

I didn’t know quite what I had been expecting, but the reality was mildly reassuring. He was informally dressed, in shirt and breeches, with a dressing gown of brown silk draped across his shoulders for warmth. His Majesty smiled, and urged me to rise with a hand under my arm. His palm was warm – I had subconsciously expected his touch to be clammy – and I smiled back, as best I could.

The attempt must not have been altogether successful, for he patted my arm kindly, and said “Don’t be afraid of me, chère Madame. I don’t bite.”

“No,” I said. “Of course not.”

He was a lot more poised than I was. Well, of course he is, I thought to myself, he does this all the time. I took a deep breath and tried to relax.

“You will have a little wine, Madame?” he asked. We were alone; there were no servants, but the wine was already poured, in a pair of goblets that stood on the table, glowing like rubies in the candlelight. The chamber was ornate, but very small, and aside from the table and a pair of oval-backed chairs, held only a luxuriously padded green-velvet chaise longue. I tried to avoid looking at it as I took my goblet, with a murmur of thanks.

“Sit, please.” Louis sank down upon one of the chairs, gesturing to me to take the other. “Now please,” he said, smiling at me, “tell me what it is that I may do for you.”

“M-my husband,” I began, stammering a little from nervousness. “He’s in the Bastille.”

“Of course,” the King murmured. “For dueling. I recall.” He took my free hand in his own, fingers resting lightly on my pulse. “What would you have me do, chère Madame? You know it is a serious offense; your husband has broken my own decree.” One finger stroked the underside of my wrist, sending small tickling sensations up my arm.

“Y-yes, I understand that. But he was… provoked.” I had an idea. “You know he’s a Scot; men of that country are” – I tried to think of a good synonym for “berserk” – “most fierce where questions of their honor are concerned.”

Louis nodded, head bent in apparent absorption over the hand he held. I could see the faint greasy shine to his skin, and smell his perfume. Violets. A strong, sweet smell, but not enough to completely mask his own acrid maleness.

He drained his wine in two long swallows and discarded the goblet, the better to clasp my hand in both his own. One short-nailed finger traced the lines of my wedding ring, with its interlaced links and thistle blossoms.

“Quite so,” he said, bringing my hand closer, as though to examine the ring. “Quite so, Madame. However…”

“I’d be… most grateful, Your Majesty,” I interrupted. His head rose and I met his eyes, dark and quizzical. My heart was going like a trip-hammer. “Most… grateful.”

He had thin lips and bad teeth; I could smell his breath, thick with onion and decay. I tried holding my own breath, but this could hardly be more than a temporary expedient.

“Well…” he said slowly, as though thinking it over. “I would myself be inclined toward mercy, Madame…”

I released my breath in a short gasp, and his fingers tightened on mine in warning. “But you see, there are complications.”

“There are?” I said faintly.

He nodded, eyes still fixed on my face. His fingers wandered lightly over the back of my hand, tracing the veins.

“The Englishman who was so unfortunate as to have offended milord Broch Tuarach,” he said. “He was in the employ of… a certain man – an English noble of some importance.”

Sandringham. My heart lurched at the mention of him, indirect as it was.

“This noble is engaged in – shall we say, certain negotiations which entitle him to consideration?” The thin lips smiled, emphasizing the imperious prow of the nose above. “And this nobleman has interested himself in the matter of the duel between your husband and the English Captain Randall. I am afraid that he was most exigent in demanding that your husband suffer the full penalty of his indiscretion, Madame.”

Bloody tub of lard, I thought. Of course – since Jamie had refused the bribe of a pardon, what better way to prevent his “involving himself” in the Stuarts’ affairs than to ensure Jamie’s staying safely jugged in the Bastille for the next few years? Sure, discreet, and inexpensive; a method bound to appeal to the Duke.

On the other hand, Louis was still breathing heavily on my hand, which I took as a sign that all was not necessarily lost. If he wasn’t going to grant my request, he could scarcely expect me to go to bed with him – or if he did, he was in for a rude surprise.

I girded my loins for another try.

“And does Your Majesty take orders from the English?” I asked boldly.

Louis’s eyes flew open with momentary shock. Then he smiled wryly, seeing what I intended. Still, I had touched a nerve; I saw the small twitch of his shoulders as he resettled his conviction of power like an invisible mantle.

“No, Madame, I do not,” he said with some dryness. “I do, however, take account of… various factors.” The heavy lids drooped over his eyes for a moment, but he still held my hand.

“I have heard that your husband interests himself in the affairs of my cousin,” he said.

“Your Majesty is well informed,” I said politely. “But since that is so, you will know that my husband does not support the restoration of the Stuarts to the throne of Scotland.” I prayed that this was what he wanted to hear.

Apparently it was; he smiled, raised my hand to his lips, and kissed it briefly.

“Ah? I had heard… conflicting stories about your husband.”

I took a deep breath and resisted the impulse to snatch my hand back.

“Well, it’s a matter of business,” I said, trying to sound as matter-of-fact as possible. “My husband’s cousin, Jared Fraser, is an avowed Jacobite; Jamie – my husband – can’t very well go about letting his real views be made public, when he’s in partnership with Jared.” Seeing the doubt begin to fade from his face, I hurried it along. “Ask Monsieur Duverney,” I suggested. “He’s well acquainted with my husband’s true sympathies.”

“I have.” Louis paused for a long moment, watching his own fingers, dark and stubby, tracing delicate circles over the back of my hand.

“So very pale,” he murmured. “So fine. I believe I could see the blood flow beneath your skin.”

He let go of my hand then and sat regarding me. I was extremely good at reading faces, but Louis’s was quite impenetrable at the moment. I realized suddenly that he’d been a king since the age of five; the ability to hide his thoughts was as much a part of him as his Bourbon nose or the sleepy black eyes.

This thought brought another in its wake, with a chill that struck me deep in the pit of the stomach. He was the King. The Citizens of Paris would not rise for forty years or more; until that day, his rule within France was absolute. He could free Jamie with a word – or kill him. He could do with me as he liked; there was no recourse. One nod of his head, and the coffers of France could spill the gold that would launch Charles Stuart, loosing him like a deadly bolt of lightning to strike through the heart of Scotland.

He was the King. He would do as he wished. And I watched his dark eyes, clouded with thought, and waited, trembling, to see what the Royal pleasure might be.

“Tell me, ma chère Madame,” he said at last, stirring from his introspection. “If I were to grant your request, to free your husband…” he paused, considering.

“Yes?”

“He would have to leave France,” Louis said, one thick brow raised in warning. “That would be a condition of his release.”

“I understand.” My heart was pounding so hard that it nearly drowned out his words. Jamie leaving France was, after all, precisely the point. “But he’s exiled from Scotland…”

“I think that might be arranged.”

I hesitated, but there seemed little choice but to agree on Jamie’s behalf. “All right.”

“Good.” The King nodded, pleased. Then his eyes returned to me, rested on my face, glided down my neck, my breasts, my body. “I would ask a small service of you in return, Madame,” he said softly.

I met his eyes squarely for one second. Then I bowed my head. “I am at Your Majesty’s complete disposal,” I said.

“Ah.” He rose and threw off the dressing gown, leaving it flung carelessly over the back of his armchair. He smiled and held out a hand to me. “Très bien, ma chère. Come with me, then.”

I closed my eyes briefly, willing my knees to work. You’ve been married twice, for heaven’s sake, I thought to myself. Quit making such a bloody fuss about it.

I rose to my feet and took his hand. To my surprise, he didn’t turn toward the velvet chaise, but instead led me toward the door at the far side of the room.

I had one moment of ice-cold clarity as he let go my hand to open the door.

Damn you, Jamie Fraser, I thought. Damn you to hell!

I stood quite still on the threshold, blinking. My meditations on the protocol of Royal disrobing faded into sheer astonishment.

The room was quite dark, lit only by numerous tiny oil-lamps, set in groups of five in alcoves in the wall of the chamber. The room itself was round, and so was the huge table that stood in its center, the dark wood gleaming with pinpoint reflections. There were people sitting at the table, no more than hunched dark blurs against the blackness of the room.

There was a murmur at my entrance, quickly stilled at the King’s appearance. As my eyes grew more accustomed to the murk, I realized with a sense of shock that the people seated at the table wore hoods; the nearest man turned toward me, and I caught the faint gleam of eyes through holes in the velvet. It looked like a convention of hangmen.

Apparently I was the guest of honor. I wondered for a nervous moment just what might be expected of me. From Raymond’s hints, and Marguerite’s, I had nightmare visions of occult ceremonies involving infant sacrifice, ceremonial rape, and general-purpose satanic rites. It is, however, quite rare for the supernatural actually to live up to its billing, and I hoped this occasion would be no exception.

“We have heard of your great skill, Madame, and your… reputation.” Louis smiled, but there was a tinge of caution in his eyes as he looked at me, as though not quite certain what I might do. “We should be most obliged, my dear Madame, should you be willing to give us the benefits of such skill this evening.”

I nodded. Most obliged, eh? Well, that was all to the good; I wanted him obliged to me. What was he expecting me to do, though? A servant placed a huge wax candle on the table and lighted it, shedding a pool of mellow light on the polished wood. The candle was decorated with symbols like those I had seen in Master Raymond’s secret chamber.

“Regardez, Madame.” The King’s hand was under my elbow, directing my attention beyond the table. Now that the candle was lighted, I could see the two figures who stood silently among the flickering shadows. I started at the sight, and the King’s hand tightened on my arm.

The Comte St. Germain and Master Raymond stood there, side by side, separated by a distance of six feet or so. Raymond gave no sign of acknowledgment, but stood quietly, staring off to one side with the pupil-less black eyes of a frog in a bottomless well.

The Comte saw me, and his eyes widened in disbelief; then he scowled at me. He was dressed in his finest, all in white, as usual; a white stiffened satin coat over cream-colored silk vest and breeches. A tracery of seed pearls decorated his cuffs and lapels, gleaming in the candlelight. Sartorial splendor aside, the Comte looked rather the worse for wear, I thought – his face was drawn with strain, and the lace of his stock was wilted, his collar darkened with sweat.

Raymond, conversely, looked calm as a turbot on ice, standing stolidly with both hands folded into the sleeves of his usual scruffy velvet robe, broad, flat face placid and inscrutable.

“These two men stand accused, Madame,” said Louis, with a gesture at Raymond and the Comte. “Of sorcery, of witchcraft, of the perversion of the legitimate search for knowledge into an exploration of arcane arts.” His voice was cold and grim. “Such practices flourished during the reign of my grandfather; but we shall not suffer such wickedness in our realm.”

The King flicked his fingers at one of the hooded figures, who sat with pen and ink before a sheaf of papers. “Read the indictments, if you please,” he said.

The hooded man rose obediently to his feet and began to read from one of the papers: charges of bestiality and foul sacrifice, of the spilling of the blood of innocents, the profanation of the most holy rite of the Mass by desecration of the Host, the performance of amatory rites upon the altar of God – I had a quick flash of just what the healing Raymond had performed on me at L’Hôpital des Anges must have looked like, and felt profoundly grateful that no one had discovered him.

I heard the name “du Carrefours” mentioned, and swallowed a sudden rising of bile. What had Pastor Laurent said? The sorcerer du Carrefours had been burned in Paris, only twenty years before, on just such charges as those I was hearing: “ – the summoning of demons and powers of darkness, the procurement of illness and death for payment” – I put a hand to my stomach, in vivid memory of bitter cascara – “the ill-wishing of members of the Court, the defilement of virgins-” I shot a quick look at the Comte, but his face was stony, lips pressed tight as he listened.

Raymond stood quite still, silver hair brushing his shoulders, as though listening to something as inconsequential as the song of a thrush in the bushes. I had seen the Cabbalistic symbols on his cabinet, but I could hardly reconcile the man I knew – the compassionate poisoner, the practical apothecary – with the list of vileness being read.

At last the indictments ceased. The hooded man glanced at the King, and at a signal, sank back into his chair.

“Extensive inquiry has been made,” the King said, turning to me. “Evidence has been presented, and the testimony of many witnesses taken. It seems clear” – he turned a cold gaze on the two accused magic – “that both men have undertaken investigations into the writings of ancient philosophers, and have employed the art of divinations, using calculation of the movements of heavenly bodies. Still…” He shrugged. “This is not of itself a crime. I am given to understand” – he glanced at a heavyset man in a hood, whom I suspected of being the Bishop of Paris – “that this is not necessarily at variance with the teachings of the Church; even the blessed St. Augustine was known to have made inquiries into the mysteries of astrology.”

I rather dimly recalled that St. Augustine had indeed looked into astrology, and had rather scornfully dismissed it as a load of rubbish. Still, I doubted that Louis had read Augustine’s Confessions, and this line of argument was undoubtedly a good one for an accused sorcerer; star-gazing seemed fairly harmless, by comparison with infant sacrifice and nameless orgies.

I was beginning to wonder, with considerable apprehension, just what I was doing in this assemblage. Had someone seen Master Raymond with me in the Hôpital after all?

“We have no quarrel with the proper use of knowledge, nor the search for wisdom,” the King went on in measured tones. “There is much that can be learned from the writings of the ancient philosophers, if they are approached with proper caution and humility of spirit. But it is true that while much good may be found in such writings, so, too, may evil be discovered, and the pure search for wisdom be perverted into the desire for power and wealth – the things of this world.”

He glanced back and forth between the two accused sorcerers once more, obviously drawing conclusions as to who might be more inclined to that sort of perversion. The Comte was still sweating, damp patches showing dark on the white silk of his coat.

“No, Your Majesty!” he said, shaking back his dark hair and fixing burning eyes on Master Raymond. “It is true that there are dark forces at work in the land – the vileness of which you speak walks among us! But such wickedness does not dwell in the breast of your most loyal subject” – he smote himself on the breast, lest we have missed the point – “no, Your Majesty! For the perversion of knowledge and the use of forbidden arts, you must look beyond your own Court.” He didn’t accuse Master Raymond directly, but the direction of his pointed gaze was obvious.

The King was unmoved by this outburst. “Such abominations flourished during the reign of my grandfather,” he said softly. “We have rooted them out wherever they have been found; destroyed the threat of such evil where it shall exist in our realm. Sorcerers, witches, those who pervert the teachings of the Church… Monsieurs, we shall not suffer such wickedness to arise again.”

“So.” He slapped both palms lightly against the table and straightened himself. Still staring at the Raymond and the Comte, he held out a hand in my direction.

“We have brought here a witness,” he declared. “An infallible judge of truth, of purity of heart.”

I made a small, gurgling noise, which made the King turn to look at me.

“A White Lady,” he said softly. “ La Dame Blanche cannot lie; she sees the heart and the soul of a man, and may turn that truth to good… or to destruction.”

The air of unreality that had hung over the evening vanished in a pop. The faint wine-buzz was gone, and I was suddenly stone-cold sober. I opened my mouth, and then shut it, realizing that there was precisely nothing I could say.

Horror snaked down my backbone and coiled in my belly as the King made his dispositions. Two pentagrams were to be drawn on the floor, within which the two sorcerers would stand. Each would then bear witness to his own activities and motives. And the White Lady would judge the truth of what was said.

“Jesus H. Christ,” I said, under my breath.

“Monsieur le Comte?” The King gestured to the first pentagram, chalked on the carpet. Only a king would treat a genuine Aubusson with that kind of cavalier disregard.

The Comte brushed close to me as he went to take his place. As he passed me, I caught the faintest whisper: “Be warned, Madame. I do not work alone.” He took up his spot and turned to face me with an ironic bow, outwardly composed.

The implication was reasonably clear; I condemned him, and his minions would be round promptly to cut off my nipples and burn Jared’s warehouse. I licked dry lips, cursing Louis. Why couldn’t he just have wanted my body?

Raymond stepped casually into his own chalk-limned space, and nodded cordially in my direction. No hint of guidance in those round black eyes.

I hadn’t the faintest idea what to do next. The King motioned to me to stand opposite him, between the two pentagrams. The hooded men rose to stand behind the King; a blank-faced crowd of menace.

Everything was extremely quiet. Candle smoke hung in a pall near the gilded ceiling, wisps drifting the languid air currents. All eyes were trained on me. Finally, out of desperation, I turned to the Comte and nodded.

“You may begin, Monsieur le Comte,” I said.

He smiled – at least I assumed it was meant to be a smile – and began, starting out with an explication of the foundation of the Cabbala and moving right along to an exegesis on the twenty-three letters of the Hebrew alphabet, and the profound symbolism of it all. It sounded thoroughly scholarly, completely innocuous, and terribly dull. The King yawned, not bothering to cover his mouth.

Meanwhile, I was turning over alternatives in my mind. This man had threatened and attacked me, and tried to have Jamie assassinated – whether for personal or political reasons, it made little difference. He had in all likelihood been the ringleader of the gang of rapists who had waylaid me and Mary. Beyond all this, and beyond the rumors I had heard of his other activities, he was a major threat to the success of our attempt at stopping Charles Stuart. Was I going to let him get away? Let him go on to exert his influence with the King on the Stuarts’ behalf, and to go on roaming the darkened streets of Paris with his band of masked bullies?

I could see my nipples, erect with fright, standing out boldly against the silk of my dress. But I drew myself up and glared at him anyway.

“Just one minute,” I said. “All that you say so far is true, Monsieur le Comte, but I see a shadow behind your words.”

The Comte’s mouth fell open. Louis, suddenly interested, ceased slouching against the table and stood upright. I closed my eyes and laid my fingers against my lids, as though looking inward.

“I see a name in your mind, Monsieur le Comte,” I said. I sounded breathless and half-choked with fright, but there was no help for it. I dropped my hands and looked straight at him. “Les Disciples du Mal,” I said. “What have you to do with Les Disciples, Monsieur le Comte?”

He really wasn’t good at hiding his emotions. His eyes bulged and his face went white, and I felt a small fierce surge of satisfaction under my fear.

The name of Les Disciples du Mal was familiar to the King as well; the sleepy dark eyes narrowed suddenly to slits.

The Comte may have been a crook and a charlatan, but he wasn’t a coward. Summoning his resources, he glared at me and flung back his head.

“This woman lies,” he said, sounding as definite as he had when informing the audience that the letter aleph was symbolic of the font of Christ’s blood. “She is no true White Lady, but the servant of Satan! In league with her master, the notorious sorcerer, du Carrefours’s apprentice!” He pointed dramatically at Raymond, who looked mildly surprised.

One of the hooded men crossed himself, and I heard the soft whisper of a brief prayer among the shadows.

“I can prove what I say,” the Comte declared, not letting anyone else get a word in edgewise. He reached into the breast of his coat. I remembered the dagger he had produced from his sleeve on the night of the dinner party, and tensed myself to duck. It wasn’t a knife that he brought out, though.

“The Holy Bible says, ‘They shall handle serpents unharmed,’ ” he thundered. “ ‘And by such signs shall ye know the servants of the true God!’ ”

I thought it was probably a small python. It was nearly three feet long, a smooth, gleaming length of gold and brown, slick and sinuous as oiled rope, with a pair of disconcerting golden eyes.

There was a concerted gasp at its appearance, and two of the hooded judges took a quick step back. Louis himself was more than slightly taken aback, and looked hastily about for his bodyguard, who stood goggle-eyed by the door of the chamber.

The snake flicked its tongue once or twice, tasting the air. Apparently deciding that the mix of candle wax and incense wasn’t edible, it turned and made an attempt to burrow back into the warm pocket from which it had been so rudely removed. The Comte caught it expertly behind the head, and shoved it toward me.

“You see?” he said triumphantly. “The woman shrinks away in fear! She is a witch!”

Actually, compared to one judge, who was huddling against the far wall, I was a monument of fortitude, but I must admit that I had taken an involuntary step backward when the snake appeared. Now I stepped forward again, intending to take it away from him. The bloody thing wasn’t poisonous, after all. Maybe we’d see how harmless it was if I wrapped it round his neck.

Before I could reach him, though, Master Raymond spoke behind me. What with all the commotion, I’d rather forgotten him.

“That is not all the Bible says, Monsieur le Comte,” Raymond observed. He didn’t raise his voice, and the wide amphibian face was bland as pudding. Still, the buzz of voices stopped, and the King turned to listen.

“Yes, Monsieur?” he said.

Raymond nodded in polite acknowledgment of having the floor, and reached into his robe with both hands. From one pocket he produced a flask, from the other a small cup.

“ ‘They shall handle serpents unharmed,’ ” he quoted, “ ‘and if they drink any deadly poison, they shall not die.’ ” He held the cup out on the palm of his hand, its silver lining gleaming in the candlelight. The flask was poised above it, ready to pour.

“Since both milady Broch Tuarach and myself have been accused,” Raymond said, with a quick glance at me, “I would suggest that all three of us partake of this test. With your permission, Your Majesty?”

Louis looked rather stunned by the rapid progress of events, but he nodded, and a thin stream of amber liquid splashed into the cup, which at once turned red and began to bubble, as though the contents were boiling.

“Dragon’s blood,” Raymond said informatively, waving at the cup. “Entirely harmless to the pure of heart.” He smiled a toothless, encouraging smile, and handed me the cup.

There didn’t seem much to do but drink it. Dragon’s blood appeared to be some form of sodium bicarbonate; it tasted like brandy with seltzer. I took two or three medium-sized swallows and handed it back.

With due ceremony, Raymond drank as well. He lowered the cup, exhibiting pink-stained lips, and turned to the King.

“If La Dame Blanche may be asked to give the cup to Monsieur le Comte?” he said. He gestured to the chalk lines at his feet, to indicate that he might not step outside the protection of the pentagram.

At the King’s nod, I took the cup and turned mechanically toward the Comte. Perhaps six feet of carpeting to cross. I took the first step, and then another, knees trembling more violently than they had in the small anteroom, alone with the King.

The White Lady sees a man’s true nature. Did I? Did I really know about either of them, Raymond or the Comte?

Could I have stopped it? I asked myself that a hundred times, a thousand times – later. Could I have done otherwise?

I remembered my errant thought on meeting Charles Stuart; how convenient for everyone if he should die. But one cannot kill a man for his beliefs, even if the exercise of those beliefs means the death of innocents – or can one?

I didn’t know. I didn’t know that the Comte was guilty, I didn’t know that Raymond was innocent. I didn’t know whether the pursuit of an honorable cause justified the use of dishonorable means. I didn’t know what one life was worth – or a thousand. I didn’t know the true cost of revenge.

I did know that the cup I held in my hands was death. The white crystal hung around my neck, its weight a reminder of poison. I hadn’t seen Raymond add anything to it; no one had, I was sure. But I didn’t need to dip the crystal into the bloodred liquid to know what it now contained.

The Comte saw the knowledge in my face; La Dame Blanche cannot lie. He hesitated, looking at the bubbling cup.

“Drink, Monsieur,” said the King. The dark eyes were hooded once more, showing nothing. “Or are you afraid?”

The Comte might have a number of things to his discredit, but cowardice wasn’t one of them. His face was pale and set, but he met the King’s eyes squarely, with a slight smile.

“No, Majesty,” he said.

He took the cup from my hand and drained it, his eyes fixed on mine. They stayed fixed, staring into my face, even as they glazed with the knowledge of death. The White Lady may turn a man’s nature to good, or to destruction.

The Comte’s body hit the floor, writhing, and a chorus of shouts and cries rose from the hooded watchers, drowning any sound he might have made. His heels drummed briefly, silent on the flowered carpet; his body arched, then subsided into limpness. The snake, thoroughly disgruntled, struggled free of the disordered folds of white satin and slithered rapidly away, heading for the sanctuary of Louis’s feet.

All was pandemonium.

28 THE COMING OF THE LIGHT

I returned from Paris to Louise’s house at Fontainebleau. I didn’t want to go to the Rue Tremoulins – or anywhere else that Jamie might find me. He would have little time to look; he would have to leave for Spain virtually at once, or risk the failure of his scheme.

Louise, good friend that she was, forgave my subterfuge, and – to her credit – forbore to ask me where I had gone, or what I had done there. I didn’t speak much to anyone, but stayed in my room, eating little, and staring at the fat, naked putti that decorated the white ceiling. The sheer necessity of the trip to Paris had roused me for a time, but now there was nothing I must do, no daily routine to support me. Rudderless, I began to drift again.

Still, I tried sometimes to make an effort. Prodded by Louise, I would come down to a social dinner, or join her for tea with a visiting friend. And I tried to pay attention to Fergus, the only person in the world for whom I had still some sense of responsibility.

So, when I heard his voice raised in altercation on the other side of an outbuilding as I dutifully took my afternoon walk, I felt obliged to go and see what was the matter.

He was face to face with one of the stable-lads, a bigger boy with a sullen expression and broad shoulders.

“Shut your mouth, ignorant toad,” the stable-lad was saying. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“I know better than you – you, whose mother mated with a pig!” Fergus put two fingers in his nostrils, pushed his nose up and danced to and fro, shouting “Oink, oink!” repeatedly.

The stable-lad, who did have a rather noticeably upturned proboscis, wasted no time in idle repartee, but waded in with both fists clenched and swinging. Within seconds, the two were rolling on the muddy ground, squalling like cats and ripping at each other’s clothes.

While I was still debating whether to interfere, the stable-lad rolled on top of Fergus, got his neck in both hands, and began to bang his head on the ground. On the one hand, I rather considered that Fergus had been inviting some such attention. On the other, his face was turning a dark, dusky red, and I had some reservations about seeing him cut off in his prime. With a certain amount of deliberation, I walked up behind the struggling pair.

The stable-lad was kneeling astride Fergus’s body, choking him, and the seat of his breeches was stretched tight before me. I drew back my foot and booted him smartly in the trouser seam. Precariously balanced, he fell forward with a startled cry, atop the body of his erstwhile victim. He rolled to the side and bounced to his feet, fists clenched. Then he saw me, and fled without a word.

“What do you think you’re playing at?” I demanded. I yanked Fergus, gasping and spluttering, to his feet, and began to beat his clothes, knocking the worst of the mud clumps and hay wisps off of him.

“Look at that,” I said accusingly. “You’ve torn not only your shirt, but your breeches as well. We’ll have to ask Berta to mend them.” I turned him around and fingered the torn flap of fabric. The stable-lad had apparently gotten a hand in the waistband of the breeches, and ripped them down the side seam; the buckram fabric drooped from his slender hips, all but baring one buttock.

I stopped talking suddenly, and stared. It wasn’t the disgraceful expanse of bare flesh that riveted me, but a small red mark that adorned it. About the size of a halfpenny piece, it was the dark, purplish-red color of a freshly healed burn. Disbelievingly, I touched it, making Fergus start in alarm. The edges of the mark were incised; whatever had made it had sunk into the flesh. I grabbed the boy by the arm to stop him running away, and bent to examine the mark more closely.

At a distance of six inches, the shape of the mark was clear; it was an oval, carrying within it smudged shapes that must have been letters.

“Who did this to you, Fergus?” I asked. My voice sounded queer to my own ears; preternaturally calm and detached.

Fergus yanked, trying to pull away, but I held on.

“Who, Fergus?” I demanded, giving him a little shake.

“It’s nothing, Madame; I hurt myself sliding off the fence. It’s just a splinter.” His large black eyes darted to and fro, seeking a refuge.

“That’s not a splinter. I know what it is, Fergus. But I want to know who did it.” I had seen something like it only once before, and that wound freshly inflicted, while this had had some time to heal. But the mark of a brand is unmistakable.

Seeing that I meant it, he quit struggling. He licked his lips, hesitating, but his shoulders slumped, and I knew I had him now.

“It was… an Englishman, milady. With a ring.”

“When?”

“A long time ago, Madame! In May.”

I drew a deep breath, calculating. Three months. Three months earlier when Jamie had left the house to visit a brothel, in search of his warehouse foreman. In Fergus’s company. Three months since Jamie had encountered Jack Randall in Madame Elise’s establishment, and seen something that made all promises null and void, that had formed in him the determination to kill Jack Randall. Three months since he had left – never to return.

It took considerable patience, supplemented by a firm grip on Fergus’s upper arm, but I succeeded at last in extracting the story from him.

When they arrived at Madame Elise’s establishment, Jamie had told Fergus to wait for him while he went upstairs to make the financial arrangements. Judging from prior experience that this might take some time, Fergus had wandered into the large salon, where a number of young ladies that he knew were “resting,” chattering together and fixing each other’s hair in anticipation of customers.

“Business is sometimes slow in the mornings,” he explained to me. “But on Tuesdays and Fridays, the fishermen come up the Seine to sell their catch at the morning market. Then they have money, and Madame Elise does a fine business, so les jeunes filles must be ready right after breakfast.”

Most of the “girls” were in fact the older inhabitants of the establishment; fishermen were not considered the choicest of clients, and so went by default to the less desirable prostitutes. Among these were most of Fergus’s former friends, though, and he passed an agreeable quarter of an hour in the salon, being petted and teased. A few early clients appeared, made their choice, and departed for the upstairs rooms – Madame Elise’s house boasted four narrow stories – without disturbing the conversation of the remaining ladies.

“And then the Englishman came in, with Madame Elise.” Fergus stopped and swallowed, the large Adam’s apple bobbing uneasily in his skinny throat.

It was obvious to Fergus, who had seen men in every state of inebriation and arousal, that the Captain had been making a night of it. He was flushed and untidy, and his eyes were bloodshot. Ignoring Madame Elise’s attempts to guide him toward one of the prostitutes, he had broken away and wandered through the room, restlessly scanning the wares on display. Then his eye had lighted on Fergus.

“He said, ‘You. Come along,’ and took me by the arm. I held back, Madame – I told him my employer was above, and that I couldn’t – but he wouldn’t listen. Madame Elise whispered in my ear that I should go with him, and she would split the money with me afterward.” Fergus shrugged, and looked at me helplessly. “I knew the ones who like little boys don’t usually take very long; I thought he would be finished long before milord was ready to leave.”

“Jesus bloody Christ,” I said. My fingers relaxed their grip and slid nervelessly down his sleeve. “Do you mean – Fergus, had you done it before?”

He looked as though he wanted to cry. So did I.

“Not very often, Madame,” he said, and it was almost a plea for understanding. “There are houses where that is the specialty, and usually the men who like that go there. But sometimes a customer would see me and take a fancy…” His nose was starting to run and he wiped it with the back of his hand.

I rummaged in my pocket for a handkerchief and gave it to him. He was beginning to sniffle as he recalled that Friday morning.

“He was much bigger than I thought. I asked him if I could take it in my mouth, but he… but he wanted to…”

I pulled him to me and pressed his head tight against my shoulder, muffling his voice in the cloth of my gown. The frail blades of his shoulder bones were like a bird’s wings under my hand.

“Don’t tell me any more,” I said. “Don’t. It’s all right, Fergus; I’m not angry. But don’t tell me any more.”

This was a futile order; he couldn’t stop talking, after so many days of fear and silence.

“But it’s all my fault, Madame!” he burst out, pulling away. His lip was trembling, and tears welled in his eyes. “I should have kept quiet; I shouldn’t have cried out! But I couldn’t help it, and milord heard me, and… and he burst in… and… oh, Madame, I shouldn’t have, but I was so glad to see him, and I ran to him, and he put me behind him and hit the Englishman in the face. And then the Englishman came up from the floor with the stool in his hand, and threw it, and I was so afraid, I ran out of the room and hid in the closet at the end of the hall. Then there was so much shouting and banging, and a terrible crash, and more shouting. And then it stopped, and soon milord opened the door of the closet and took me out. He had my clothes, and he dressed me himself, because I couldn’t fasten the buttons – my fingers shook.”

He grabbed my skirt with both hands, the necessity of making me believe him tightening his face into a monkey mask of grief.

“It’s my fault, Madame, but I didn’t know! I didn’t know he would go to fight the Englishman. And now milord is gone, and he’ll never come back, and it’s all my fault!”

Wailing now, he fell facedown on the ground at my feet. He was crying so loudly that I didn’t think he heard me as I bent to lift him up, but I said it anyway.

“It isn’t your fault, Fergus. It isn’t mine, either – but you’re right; he’s gone.”

Following Fergus’s revelation, I sank ever deeper into apathy. The gray cloud that had surrounded me since the miscarriage seemed to draw closer, wrapping me in swaddling folds that dimmed the light of the brightest day. Sounds seemed to reach me faintly, like the far-off ringing of a buoy through fog at sea.

Louise stood in front of me, frowning worriedly as she looked down at me.

“You’re much too thin,” she scolded. “And white as a plate of tripes. Yvonne said you didn’t eat any breakfast again!”

I couldn’t remember when I had last been hungry. It hardly seemed important. Long before the Bois de Boulogne, long before my trip to Paris. I fixed my gaze on the mantelpiece and drifted off into the curlicues of the rococo carving. Louise’s voice went on, but I didn’t pay attention; it was only a noise in the room, like the brushing of a tree branch against the stone wall of the château, or the humming of the flies that had been drawn in by the smell of my discarded breakfast.

I watched one of them, rising off the eggs in sudden motion as Louise clapped her hands. It buzzed in short, irritable circles before settling back to its feeding spot. The sound of hurrying footsteps came behind me, there was a sharp order from Louise, a submissive “Oui, Madame,” and the sudden thwap! of a flywhisk as the maid set about removing the flies, one by one. She dropped each small black corpse into her pocket, plucking it off the table and polishing the smear left behind with a corner of her apron.

Louise bent down, thrusting her face suddenly into my field of view.

“I can see all the bones in your face! If you won’t eat, at least go outside for a bit!” she said impatiently. “The rain’s stopped; come along, and we’ll see if there are any muscats left in the arbor. Maybe you’ll eat some of those.”

Outside or inside was much the same to me; the soft, numbing grayness was still with me, blurring outlines and making every place seem like every other. But it seemed to matter to Louise, so I rose obediently to go with her.

Near the garden door, though, she was waylaid by the cook, with a list of questions and complaints about the menu for dinner. Guests had been invited, with the intention of distracting me, and the bustle of preparation had been causing small explosions of domestic discord all morning.

Louise emitted a martyred sigh, then patted me on the back.

“You go on,” she said, urging me toward the door. “I’ll send a footman with your cloak.”

It was a cool day for August because of the rain that had been coming down since the night before. Pools of water lay in the graveled paths, and the dripping from the drenched trees was nearly as incessant as the rain itself.

The sky was still filled with gray, but it had faded from the angry black of water-logged cloud. I folded my arms around my elbows; it looked as though the sun might come out soon, but it was still cold enough to want a cloak.

When I heard steps behind me on the path, I turned to find François, the second footman, but he carried nothing. He looked oddly hesitant, peering as though to make sure I was the person he was looking for.

“Madame,” he said, “there is a visitor for you.”

I sighed internally; I didn’t want to be bothered with the effort of rousing myself to be civil to company.

“Tell them I’m indisposed, please,” I said, turning to continue my walk. “And when they’ve gone, bring me my cloak.”

“But Madame,” he said behind me, “it is le seigneur Broch Tuarach – your husband.”

Startled, I whirled to look at the house. It was true; I could see Jamie’s tall figure, already coming around the corner of the house. I turned, pretending I hadn’t seen him, and walked off toward the arbor. The shrubbery was thick down there; perhaps I could hide.

“Claire!” Pretending was useless; he had seen me as well, and was coming down the path after me. I walked faster, but I was no match for those long legs. I was puffing before I had covered half the distance to the arbor, and had to slow down; I was in no condition for strenuous exercise.

“Wait, Claire!”

I half-turned; he was almost upon me. The soft gray numbness around me quivered, and I felt a sort of frozen panic at the thought that the sight of him might rip it away from me. If it did, I would die, I thought, like a grub dug up from the soil and tossed onto a rock to shrivel, naked and defenseless in the sun.

“No!” I said. “I don’t want to talk to you. Go away.” He hesitated for a moment, and I turned away from him and began to walk rapidly down the path toward the arbor. I heard his steps on the gravel of the path behind me, but kept my back turned, and walked faster, almost running.

As I paused to duck under the arbor, he made a sudden lunge forward and grasped my wrist. I tried to pull away from him, but he held on tight.

“Claire!” he said again. I struggled, but kept my face turned away; if I didn’t look at him, I could pretend he wasn’t there. I could stay safe.

He let go of my wrist, but grabbed me by both shoulders instead, so that I had to lift my head to keep my balance. His face was sunburned and thin, with harsh lines cut beside his mouth, and his eyes above were dark with pain. “Claire,” he said more softly, now that he could see me looking at him. “Claire – it was my child, too.”

“Yes, it was – and you killed it!” I ripped away from him, flinging myself through the narrow arch. I stopped inside, panting like a terrified dog. I hadn’t realized that the arch led into a tiny vine-covered folly. Latticed walls surrounded me on all sides – I was trapped. The light behind me failed as his body blocked the arch.

“Don’t touch me.” I backed away, staring at the ground. Go away! I thought frantically. Please, for God’s sake, leave me in peace! I could feel my gray wrappings being inexorably stripped away, and small, bright streaks of pain shot through me like lightning bolts piercing cloud.

He stopped, a few feet away. I stumbled blindly toward the latticed wall and half-sat, half-fell onto a wooden bench. I closed my eyes and sat shivering. While it was no longer raining, there was a cold, damp wind coming through the lattice to chill my neck.

He didn’t come closer. I could feel him, standing there, looking down at me. I could hear the raggedness of his breathing.

“Claire,” he said once more, with something like despair in his voice, “Claire, do ye not see… Claire, you must speak to me! For God’s sake, Claire, I don’t know even was it a girl or a boy!”

I sat frozen, hands gripping the rough wood of the bench. After a moment, there was a heavy, crunching noise on the ground in front of me. I cracked my eyes open, and saw that he had sat down, just as he was, on the wet gravel at my feet. He sat with bowed head, and the rain had left spangles in his damp-darkened hair.

“Will ye make me beg?” he said.

“It was a girl,” I said after a moment. My voice sounded funny; hoarse and husky. “Mother Hildegarde baptized her. Faith. Faith Fraser. Mother Hildegarde has a very odd sense of humor.”

The bowed head didn’t move. After a moment, he said quietly, “Did you see the child?”

My eyes were open all the way now. I stared at my knees, where blown drops of water from the vines behind me were making wet spots on the silk.

“Yes. The mâitresse sage-femme said I ought, so they made me.” I could hear in memory the low, matter-of-fact tones of Madame Bonheur, most senior and respected of the midwives who gave of their time at L’Hôpital des Anges.

“Give her the child; it’s always better if they see. Then they don’t imagine things.”

So I didn’t imagine. I remembered.

“She was perfect,” I said softly, as though to myself. “So small. I could cup her head in the palm of my hand. Her ears stuck out just a little – I could see the light shine through them.

The light had shone through her skin as well, glowing in the roundness of cheek and buttock with the light that pearls have; still and cool, with the strange touch of the water world still on them.

“Mother Hildegarde wrapped her in a length of white satin,” I said, looking down at my fists, clenched in my lap. “Her eyes were closed. She hadn’t any lashes yet, but her eyes were slanted. I said they were like yours, but they said all babies’ eyes are like that.”

Ten fingers, and ten toes. No nails, but the gleam of tiny joints, kneecaps and fingerbones like opals, like the jeweled bones of the earth itself. Remember man, that thou art dust…

I remembered the far-off clatter of the Hôpital, where life still went on, and the subdued murmur of Mother Hildegarde and Madame Bonheur, closer by, talking of the priest who would say a special Mass at Mother Hildegarde’s request. I remembered the look of calm appraisal in Madame Bonheur’s eyes as she turned to look me over, seeing my weakness. Perhaps she saw also the telltale brightness of the approaching fever; she had turned again to Mother Hildegarde and her voice had dropped further – perhaps suggesting that they wait; two funerals might be needed.

And unto dust thou shalt return.

But I had come back from the dead. Only Jamie’s hold on my body had been strong enough to pull me back from that final barrier, and Master Raymond had known it. I knew that only Jamie himself could pull me back the rest of the way, into the land of the living. That was why I had run from him, done all I could to keep him away, to make sure he would never come near me again. I had no wish to come back, no desire to feel again. I didn’t want to know love, only to have it ripped away once more.

But it was too late. I knew that, even as I fought to hold the gray shroud around me. Fighting only hastened its dissolution; it was like grasping shreds of cloud, that vanished in cold mist between my fingers. I could feel the light coming, blinding and searing.

He had risen, was standing over me. His shadow fell across my knees; surely that meant the cloud had broken; a shadow doesn’t fall without light.

“Claire,” he whispered. “Please. Let me give ye comfort.”

“Comfort?” I said. “And how will you do that? Can you give me back my child?”

He sank to his knees before me, but I kept my head down, staring into my upturned hands, laid empty on my lap. I felt his movement as he reached to touch me, hesitated, drew back, reached again.

“No,” he said, his voice scarcely audible. “No, I canna do that. But… with the grace of God… I might give ye another?”

His hand hovered over mine, close enough that I felt the warmth of his skin. I felt other things as well: the grief that he held tight under rein, the anger and the fear that choked him, and the courage that made him speak in spite of it. I gathered my own courage around me, a flimsy substitute for the thick gray shroud. Then I took his hand and lifted my head, and looked full into the face of the sun.

We sat, hands clasped and pressed together on the bench, unmoving, unspeaking, for what seemed like hours, with the cool rain-breeze whispering our thoughts in the grape leaves above. Water drops scattered over us with the passing of the wind, weeping for loss and separation.

“You’re cold,” Jamie murmured at last, and pulled a fold of his cloak around me, bringing with it the warmth of his skin. I came slowly against him under its shelter, shivering more at the startling solidness, the sudden heat of him, than from the cold.

I laid my hand on his chest, tentative as though the touch of him might burn me in truth, and so we sat for a good while longer, letting the grape leaves talk for us.

“Jamie,” I said softly, at last. “Oh, Jamie. Where were you?”

His arm tightened about me, but it was some time before he answered.

“I thought ye were dead, mo duinne,” he said, so softly I could hardly hear him above the rustling of the arbor.

“I saw ye there – on the ground, at the last. God! Ye were so white, and your skirts all soaked wi’ blood… I tried to go to ye, Claire, so soon as I saw – I ran to ye, but it was then the Guard took me.”

He swallowed hard; I could feel the tremor pass down him, through the long curve of his backbone.

“I fought them… I fought, and aye I pleaded… but they wouldna stay, and they carried me awa’ wi’ them. And they put me in a cell, and left me there… thinking ye were dead, Claire; knowing that I’d killed you.”

The fine tremor went on, and I knew he was weeping, though I could not see his face above me. How long had he sat alone in the dark of the Bastille, alone but for the scent of blood and the empty husk of vengeance?

“It’s all right,” I said, and pressed my hand harder against his chest, as though to still the hasty beating of his heart. “Jamie, it’s all right. It… it wasn’t your fault.”

“I tried to bash my head against the wall – only to stop thinking,” he said, nearly in a whisper. “So they tied me, hand and foot. And next day, de Rohan found me, and told me that ye lived, though likely not for long.”

He was silent then, but I could feel the pain inside him, sharp as crystal spears of ice.

“Claire,” he murmured at last. “I am sorry.”

I am sorry. The words were those of the note he had left me, before the world shattered. But now I understood them.

“I know,” I said. “Jamie, I know. Fergus told me. I know why you went.”

He drew a deep, shuddering breath.

“Aye, well…” he said, and stopped.

I let my hand fall to his thigh; chilled and damp from the rain, his riding breeches were rough under my palm.

“Did they tell you – when they let you go – why you were released?” I tried to keep my own breathing steady, but failed.

His thigh tensed under my hand, but his voice was under better control now.

“No,” he said. “Only that it was… His Majesty’s pleasure.” The word “pleasure” was ever so faintly underlined, spoken with a delicate ferocity that made it abundantly clear that he did indeed know the means of his release, whether the warders had told him or not.

I bit my lower lip hard, trying to make up my mind what to tell him now.

“It was Mother Hildegarde,” he went on, voice steady. “I went at once to L’Hôpital des Anges, in search of you. And found Mother Hildegarde, and the wee note ye’d left for me. She… told me.”

“Yes,” I said, swallowing. “I went to see the King…”

“I know!” His hand tightened on mine, and from the sound of his breathing, I could tell that his teeth were clenched together.

“But Jamie… when I went…”

“Christ!” he said, and sat up suddenly, turning to face me. “Do ye not know what I… Claire.” He closed his eyes briefly, and took a deep breath. “I rode all the way to Orvieto, seeing it; seeing his hands on the white of your skin, his lips on your neck, his – his cock – I saw it at the lever – I saw the damn filthy, stubby thing sliding up… God, Claire! I sat in prison thinking ye dead, and then I rode to Spain, wishing to Christ ye were!”

The knuckles of the hand holding mine were white, and I could feel the small bones of my fingers crackle in his grip.

I jerked my hand free.

“Jamie, listen to me!”

“No!” he said. “No, I dinna want to hear…”

“Listen, damn you!”

There was enough force in my voice to shut him up for an instant, and while he was mute, I began rapidly to tell him the story of the King’s chamber; the hooded men, and the shadowed room, the sorcerers’ duel, and the death of the Comte St. Germain.

As I talked, the high color faded from his wind-brisked cheeks, and his expression softened from anguish and fury to bewilderment, and gradually, to astonished belief.

“Jesus,” he breathed at last. “Oh, holy God.”

“Didn’t know what you were starting with that silly story, did you?” I felt exhausted, but managed a smile. “So… so the Comte… it’s all right, Jamie. He’s… gone.”

He didn’t say anything in reply, but drew me gently to him, so my forehead rested on his shoulder, and my tears soaked into the fabric of his shirt. After a minute, though, I sat up, and stared at him, wiping my nose.

“I just thought, Jamie! The port – Charles Stuart’s investment! If the Comte is dead…”

He shook his head, smiling faintly.

“No, mo duinne. It’s safe.”

I felt a flood of relief.

“Oh, thank God. You managed, then? Did the medicines work on Murtagh?”

“Well, no,” he said, the smile broadening, “but they did on me.”

Relieved at once of fear and anger, I felt light-headed, and half-giddy. The smell of the rain-swept grapes was strong and sweet, and it was a blessed relief to lean against him, feeling his warmth as comfort, not as threat, as I listened to the story of the port-wine piracy.

“There are men that are born to the sea, Sassenach,” he began, “but I’m afraid I’m no one of them.”

“I know,” I said. “Were you sick?”

“I have seldom been sicker,” he assured me wryly.

The seas off Orvieto had been rough, and within an hour it became clear that Jamie was not going to be able to carry out his original part in the plan.

“I couldna do anything but lie in my hammock and groan, in any case,” he said, shrugging, “so it seemed I might as well have pox, too.”

He and Murtagh had hastily changed roles, and twenty-four hours off the coast of Spain, the master of the Scalamandre had discovered to his horror that plague had broken out below.

Jamie scratched his neck reflectively, as though still feeling the effects of the nettle juice.

“They thought of throwing me overboard when they found out,” he said, “and I must say it seemed a verra fine idea to me.” He gave me a lopsided grin. “Have ye ever had seasickness while covered wi’ nettle rash, Sassenach?”

“No, thank God.” I shuddered at the thought. “Did Murtagh stop them?”

“Oh, aye. He’s verra fierce, is Murtagh. He slept across the threshold wi’ his hand on his dirk, until we came safe to port at Bilbao.”

True to forecast, the Scalamandre’s captain, faced with the unprofitable choice of proceeding to Le Havre and forfeiting his cargo, or returning to Spain and cooling his heels while word was sent to Paris, had leaped at the opportunity to dispose of his hold’s worth of port to the new purchaser chance had thrown in his way.

“Not that he didna drive a hard bargain,” Jamie observed, scratching his forearm. “He haggled for half a day – and me dying in my hammock, pissing blood and puking my guts out!”

But the bargain had been concluded, both port and smallpox patient unloaded with dispatch at Bilbao, and – aside from a lingering tendency to urinate vermilion – Jamie’s recovery had been rapid.

“We sold the port to a broker there in Bilbao,” he said. “I sent Murtagh at once to Paris, to repay Monsieur Duverney’s loan – and then… I came here.”

He looked down at his hands, lying quiet in his lap. “I couldna decide,” he said softly. “To come or no. I walked, ye ken, to give myself time to think. I walked all the way from Paris to Fontainebleau. And nearly all the way back. I turned back half a dozen times, thinking myself a murderer and a fool, not knowing if I would rather kill myself or you…”

He sighed then, and looked up at me, eyes dark with reflections of the fluttering leaves.

“I had to come,” he said simply.

I didn’t say anything, but laid my hand over his and sat beside him. Fallen grapes littered the ground under the arbor, the pungent scent of their fermentation promising the forgetfulness of wine.

The cloud-streaked sun was setting, and a blur of gold silhouetted the respectful form of Hugo, looming black in the entrance to the arbor.

“Your pardon, Madame,” he said. “My mistress wishes to know – will le seigneur be staying for supper?”

I looked at Jamie. He sat still, waiting, the sun through the grape leaves streaking his hair with a tiger’s blaze, shadows falling across his face.

“I think you’d better,” I said. “You’re awfully thin.”

He looked me over with a half-smile. “So are you, Sassenach.”

He rose and offered me his arm. I took it and we went in together to supper, leaving the grape leaves to their muted conversation.

I lay next to Jamie, close against him, his hand resting on my thigh as he slept. I stared upward into the darkness of the bedroom, listening to the peaceful sigh of his sleeping breath, breathing myself the fresh-washed scent of the damp night air, tinged with the smell of wisteria.

The collapse of the Comte St. Germain had been the end of the evening, so far as all were concerned save Louis. As the company made to depart, murmuring excitedly among themselves, he took my arm, and led me out through the same small door by which I had entered. Good with words when required, he had no need of them here.

I was led to the green silk chaise, laid on my back and my skirts gently lifted before I could speak. He did not kiss me; he did not desire me. This was the ritual claiming of the payment agreed upon. Louis was a shrewd bargainer, and not one to forgive a debt he thought owed to him, whether the payment had value to him or not. And perhaps it did, after all; there was more than a hint of half-fearful excitement in his preparations – who but a king would dare to take La Dame Blanche in his embrace?

I was closed and dry, unready. Impatient, he seized a flagon of rose-scented oil from the table, and massaged it briefly between my legs. I lay unmoving, soundless, as the hastily probing finger withdrew, replaced at once by a member little larger, and – “suffered” is the wrong word, there was neither pain nor humiliation involved; it was a transaction – I waited, then, through the quick thrusting, and then he was on his feet, face flushed with excitement, hands fumbling to refasten his breeches over the small swelling within. He would not risk the possibility of a half-Royal, half-magic bastard; not with Madame de La Tourelle ready – a good deal readier than I, I hoped – and waiting in her own chambers down the hall.

I had given what was implicitly promised; now he could with honor accede to my request, feeling no virtu had gone forth from him. As for me, I met his courteous bow with my own, took my elbow from the grip with which he had gallantly escorted me to the door, and left the audience chamber only a few minutes after entering it, with the King’s assurance that the order for Jamie’s freedom would be given in the morning.

The Gentleman of the Bedchamber was standing in the hall, waiting. He bowed to me, and I bowed back, then followed him down the Hall of Mirrors, feeling the slipperiness of my oily thighs as they brushed each other, and smelling the strong scent of roses between my legs.

Hearing the gate of the palace shut behind me, I had closed my eyes and thought that I would never see Jamie again. And if by chance I did, I would rub his nose in the scent of roses, until his soul sickened and died.

But now instead I held his hand on my thigh, listening to his breathing, deep and even in the dark beside me. And I let the door close forever on His Majesty’s audience.

29 TO GRASP THE NETTLE

“Scotland.” I sighed, thinking of the cool brown streams and dark pines of Lallybroch, Jamie’s estate. “Can we really go home?”

“I expect we’ll have to,” he answered wryly. “The King’s pardon says I leave France by mid-September, or I’m back in the Bastille. Presumably, His Majesty has arranged a pardon as well from the English Crown, so I willna be hanged directly I get off the ship in Inverness.”

“I suppose we could go to Rome, or to Germany,” I suggested, tentatively. I wanted nothing more than to go home to Lallybroch, and heal in the quiet peace of the Scottish Highlands. My heart sank at the thought of royal courts and intrigue, the constant press of danger and insecurity. But if Jamie felt we must…

He shook his head, red hair falling over his face as he stooped to pull on his stockings.

“Nay, it’s Scotland or the Bastille,” he said. “Our passage is already booked, just to make sure.” He straightened and brushed the hair out of his eyes with a wry smile. “I imagine the Duke of Sandringham – and possibly King George – want me safe at home, where they can keep an eye on me. Not spying in Rome, or raising money in Germany. The three weeks’ grace, I gather, is a courtesy to Jared, giving him time to come home before I leave.”

I was sitting in the window seat of my bedroom, looking out over the tumbled green sea of the Fontainebleau woods. The hot, languid air of summer seemed to press down, sapping all energy.

“I can’t say I’m not glad.” I sighed, pressing my cheek against the glass in search of a moment’s coolness. The legacy of yesterday’s chill rain was a blanketing humidity that made hair and clothes cling to my skin, itching and damp. “Do you think it’s safe, though? I mean, will Charles give up, now that the Comte is dead, and the money from Manzetti lost?”

Jamie frowned, rubbing his hand along the edge of his jaw to judge the growth of the stubble.

“I wish I knew whether he’d had a letter from Rome in the last two weeks,” he said, “and if so, what was in it. But aye, I think we’ve managed. No banker in Europe will advance anyone of the name of Stuart a brass centime, that’s for sure. Philip of Spain has other fish to fry, and Louis-” He shrugged, his mouth twisting wryly. “Between Monsieur Duverney and the Duke of Sandringham, I’d say Charles’s expectations in that direction are somewhat less than poor. Shall I shave, d’ye think?”

“Not on my account,” I said. The casual intimacy of the question made me suddenly shy. We had shared a bed the night before, but we had both been exhausted, and the delicate web woven between us in the arbor had seemed too fragile to support the stress of attempting to make love. I had spent the night in a terrible consciousness of his warm proximity, but thought I must, under the circumstances, leave the first move to him.

Now I caught the play of light across his shoulders as he turned to find his shirt, and was seized with the desire to touch him; to feel him, smooth and hard and eager against me once more.

His head popped through the neck of his shirt, and his eyes met mine, suddenly and unguarded. He paused for a moment, looking at me, but not speaking. The morning sounds of the château were clearly audible, outside the bubble of silence that surrounded us; the bustling of servants, the high thin sound of Louise’s voice, raised in some sort of altercation.

Not here, Jamie’s eyes said. Not in the midst of so many people.

He looked down, carefully fastening his shirt buttons. “Does Louise keep horses for riding?” he asked, eyes on his task. “There are some cliffs a few miles away; I thought perhaps we might ride there – the air may be cooler.”

“I think she does,” I said. “I’ll ask.”

We reached the cliffs just before noon. Not cliffs so much as jutting pillars and ridges of limestone that sat among the yellowing grass of the surrounding hills like the ruins of an ancient city. The pale ridges were split and fissured from time and weather, spattered with thousands of strange, tiny plants that had found a foothold in the merest scrape of eroded soil.

We left the horses hobbled in the grass, and climbed on foot to a wide, flat shelf of limestone covered with tufts of rough grass, just below the highest tumble of stone. There was little shade from the scruffy bushes, but up this high, there was a small breeze.

“God, it’s hot!” Jamie said. He flipped loose the buckle of his kilt, so it fell around his feet, and started to wriggle out of his shirt.

“What are you doing, Jamie?” I said, half-laughing.

“Stripping,” he replied, matter-of-factly. “Why don’t ye do the same, Sassenach? You’re more soaked than I am, and there’s none here to see.”

After a moment’s hesitation, I did as he suggested. It was entirely isolated here; too craggy and rocky for sheep, the chance of even a stray shepherd coming upon us was remote. And alone, naked together, away from Louise and her throngs of intrusive servants… Jamie spread his plaid on the rough ground as I peeled out of my sweat-clinging garments.

He stretched lazily and settled back, arms behind his head, completely oblivious to curious ants, stray bits of gravel and the stubs of prickly vegetation.

“You must have the hide of a goat,” I remarked. “How can you lie on the bare ground like that?” As bare as he, I reposed more comfortably on a thick fold of the plaid he had thoughtfully spread out for me.

He shrugged, eyes closed against the warm afternoon sun. The light gilded him in the hollow where he lay, making him glow red-gold against the dark of the rough grass beneath him.

“I’ll do,” he said comfortably, and lapsed into silence, the sound of his breathing near enough to reach me over the faint whine of the wind that crossed the ridges above us.

I rolled onto my belly and laid my chin on my crossed forearms, watching him. He was wide at the shoulder and narrow at the hip, with long, powerful haunches slightly dented by muscles held taut even as he relaxed. The small, warm breeze stirred the drying tufts of soft cinnamon hair beneath his arms, and ruffled the copper and gold that waved gently over his wrists, where they braced his head. The slight breeze was welcome, for the early autumn sun was still hot on my shoulders and calves.

“I love you,” I said softly, not meaning him to hear me, but only for the pleasure of saying it.

He did hear, though, for the hint of a smile curved the wide mouth. After a moment, he rolled over onto his belly on the plaid beside me. A few blades of grass clung to his back and buttocks. I brushed one lightly away, and his skin shivered briefly at my touch.

I leaned to kiss his shoulder, enjoying the warm scent of his skin and the faint salty taste of him.

Instead of kissing me back, though, he pulled away a bit, and lay propped on one elbow, looking at me. There was something in his expression that I didn’t understand, and it made me faintly uneasy.

“Penny for your thoughts,” I said, running a finger down the deep groove of his backbone. He moved just far enough to avoid my touch, and took a deep breath.

“Well, I was wondering-” he began, and then stopped. He was looking down, fiddling with a tiny flower that sprang out of the grass.

“You were wondering what?”

“What it was like… with Louis.”

I thought my heart had stopped for a moment. I knew all the blood had left my face, because I could feel the numbness of my lips as I forced the words out.

“What… it… was like?”

He looked up then, making only a passing-fair attempt at a lopsided smile.

“Well,” he said. “He is a king. You’d think it would be… different, somehow. You know… special, maybe?”

The smile was slipping, and his face had gone as white as my own. He looked down again, avoiding my stricken gaze.

“I suppose all I was wondering,” he murmured, “was… was he… was he different from me?” I saw him bite his lip as though wishing the words unsaid, but it was far too late for that.

“How in hell did you know?” I said. I felt dizzy and exposed, and rolled onto my stomach, pressing myself hard to the short turf.

He shook his head, teeth still clenched in his lower lip. When he finally released it, a deep red mark showed where he had bitten it.

“Claire,” he said softly. “Oh, Claire. You gave me all yourself from the first time, and held nothing back from me. You never did. When I asked ye for honesty, I told ye then that it isna in you to lie. When I touched ye so-” His hand moved, cupping my buttock, and I flinched, not expecting it.

“How long have I loved you?” he asked, very quietly. “A year? Since the moment I saw you. And loved your body how often – half a thousand times or more?” One finger touched me then, gently as a moth’s foot, tracing the line of arm and shoulder, gliding down my rib cage ’til I shivered at the touch and rolled away, facing him now.

“You never shrank from my touch,” he said, eyes intent on the path his finger took, dipping down to follow the curve of my breast. “Not even at the first, when ye might have done so, and no surprise to me if ye had. But you didn’t. You gave me everything from the very first time; held nothing back, denied me no part of you.”

“But now…” he said, drawing back his hand. “I thought at first it was only that you’d lost the child, and maybe were shy of me, or feeling strange after so long apart. But then I knew that wasn’t it.”

There was a very long silence, then. I could feel the steady, painful thudding of my heart against the cold ground, and hear the conversation of the wind in the pines down below. Small birds called, far away. I wished I were one. Or far away, at any rate.

“Why?” he asked softly. “Why lie to me? When I had come to you thinking I knew, anyway?”

I stared down at my hands, linked beneath my chin, and swallowed.

“If…” I began, and swallowed again. “If I told you that I had let Louis… you would have asked about it. I thought you couldn’t forget… maybe you could forgive me, but you’d never forget, and it would always be there between us.” I swallowed once more, hard. My hands were cold despite the heat, and I felt a ball of ice in my stomach. But if I was telling him the truth now, I must tell him all of it.

“If you’d asked – and you did, Jamie, you did! I would have had to talk about it, live it over, and I was afraid…” I trailed off, unable to speak, but he wasn’t going to let me off.

“Afraid of what?” he prodded.

I turned my head slightly, not meeting his eye, but enough to see his outline dark against the sun, looming through the sun-sparked curtain of my hair.

“Afraid I’d tell you why I did it,” I said softly. “Jamie… I had to, to get you freed from the Bastille – I would have done worse, if I’d had to. But then… and afterward… I half-hoped someone would tell you, that you’d find out. I was so angry, Jamie – for the duel, and the baby. And because you’d forced me to do it… to go to Louis. I wanted to do something to drive you away, to make sure I never saw you again. I did it… partly… because I wanted to hurt you,” I whispered.

A muscle contracted near the corner of his mouth, but he went on staring downward at his clasped hands. The chasm between us, so perilously bridged, gaped yawning and impassable once more.

“Aye. Well, you did.”

His mouth clamped shut in a tight line, and he didn’t speak for some time. Finally he turned his head and looked directly at me. I would have liked to avoid his eyes, but couldn’t.

“Claire,” he said softly. “What did ye feel – when I gave my body to Jack Randall? When I let him take me, at Wentworth?”

A tiny shock ran through me, from scalp to toenails. It was the last question I had expected to hear. I opened and closed my mouth several times before finding an answer.

“I… don’t know,” I said weakly. “I hadn’t thought. Angry, of course. I was furious – outraged. And sick. And frightened for you. And… sorry for you.”

“Were ye jealous? When I told you about it later – that he’d roused me, though I didna want it?”

I drew a deep breath, feeling the grass tickle my breasts.

“No. At least I don’t think so; I didn’t think so then. After all, it wasn’t as though you’d… wanted to do it.” I bit my lip, looking down. His voice was quiet and matter-of-fact at my shoulder.

“I dinna think you wanted to bed Louis – did you?”

“No!”

“Aye, well,” he said. He put his thumbs together on either side of a blade of grass, and concentrated on pulling it up slowly by the roots. “I was angry, too. And sick and sorry.” The grass blade came free of its sheath with a tiny squeaking sound.

“When it was me,” he went on, almost whispering, “I thought you could not bear the thought of it, and I would not have blamed you. I knew ye must turn from me, and I tried to send you away, so I wouldna have to see the disgust and the hurt in your face.” He closed his eyes and raised the grass blade between his thumbs, barely brushing his lips.

“But you wouldna go. You took me to your breast and cherished me. You healed me, instead. You loved me, in spite of it.” He took a deep, unsteady breath and turned his head to me again. His eyes were bright with tears, but no wetness escaped to slide down his cheeks.

“I thought, maybe, that I could bring myself to do that for you, as you did it for me. And that is why I came to Fontainebleau, at last.”

He blinked once, hard, and his eyes cleared.

“Then when ye told me that nothing had happened – for a bit, I believed you, because I wanted to so much. But then… I could tell, Claire. I couldna hide it from myself, and I knew you had lied to me. I thought you wouldna trust me to love you, or… that you had wanted him, and were afraid to let me see it.”

He dropped the grass, and his head sank forward to rest on his knuckles.

“Ye said you wanted to hurt me. Well, the thought of you lying with the King hurt worse than the brand on my breast, or the cut of the lash on my naked back. But the knowledge that ye thought ye couldna trust me to love you is like waking from the hangman’s noose to feel the gutting knife sunk in my belly. Claire-” His mouth opened soundlessly, then closed tight for a moment, until he found the strength to go on.

“I do not know if the wound is mortal, but Claire – I do feel my heart’s blood leave me, when I look at you.”

The silence between us grew and deepened. The small buzz of an insect calling in the rocks vibrated in the air.

Jamie was still as a rock, his face blank as he stared down at the ground below him. I couldn’t bear that blank face, and the thought of what must lie concealed behind it. I had seen a hint of his despairing fury in the arbor, and my heart felt hollow at the thought of that rage, mastered at such fearful cost, now held under an iron control that kept in not only rage, but trust and joy.

I wished desperately for some way to break the silence that parted us; some act that could restore the lost truth between us. Jamie sat up then, arms folded tight about his thighs, and turned away as he gazed out over the peaceful valley.

Better violence, I thought, than silence. I reached across the chasm between us and laid a hand on his arm. It was warm from the sun, live to my touch.

“Jamie,” I whispered. “Please.”

His head turned slowly toward me. His face seemed still calm, though the cat-eyes narrowed further as he looked at me in silence. He reached out, finally, and one hand gripped me by the wrist.

“Do ye wish me to beat you, then?” he said softly. His grasp tightened hard, so that I jerked unconsciously, trying to pull away from him. He pulled back, yanking me across the rough grass, bringing my body against him.

I felt myself trembling, and gooseflesh lifted the hairs on my forearms, but I managed to speak.

“Yes,” I said.

His expression was unfathomable. Still holding my eyes with his own, he reached out his free hand, fumbling over the rocks until he touched a bunch of nettles. He drew in his breath as his fingers touched the prickly stems, but his jaw clenched; he closed his fist and ripped the plants up by the roots.

“The peasants of Gascony beat a faithless wife wi’ nettles,” he said. He lowered the spiky bunch of leaves and brushed the flower heads lightly across one breast. I gasped from the sudden sting, and a faint red blotch appeared as though by magic on my skin.

“Will ye have me do so?” he asked. “Shall I punish you that way?”

“If you… if you like.” My lips were trembling so hard I could barely get out the words. A few crumbs of earth from the nettles’ roots had fallen between my breasts; one rolled down the slope of my ribs, dislodged by my pounding heart, I imagined. The welt on my breast burned like fire. I closed my eyes, imagining in vivid detail exactly what being thrashed with a bunch of nettles would feel like.

Suddenly the viselike grip on my wrist relaxed. I opened my eyes to find Jamie sitting cross-legged by me, the plants thrown aside and scattered on the ground. He had a faint, rueful smile on his lips.

“I beat you once in justice, Sassenach, and ye threatened to disembowel me with my own dirk. Now you’ll ask me to whip ye wi’ nettles?” He shook his head slowly, wondering, and his hand reached as though by its own volition to cup my cheek. “Is my pride worth so much to you, then?”

“Yes! Yes, it bloody is!” I sat up myself, and grasped him by the shoulders, taking both of us by surprise as I kissed him hard and awkwardly.

I felt his first involuntary start, and then he pulled me to him, arm tight around my back, mouth answering mine. Then he had me pressed flat to the earth, his weight holding me immobile beneath him. His shoulders darkened the bright sky above, and his hands held my arms against my sides, keeping me prisoner.

“All right,” he whispered. His eyes bored into mine, daring me to close them, forcing me to hold his gaze. “All right. And ye wish it, I shall punish you.” He moved his hips against me in imperious command, and I felt my legs open for him, my gates thrown wide to welcome ravishment.

“Never,” he whispered to me. “Never. Never another but me! Look at me! Tell me! Look at me, Claire!” He moved in me, strongly, and I moaned and would have turned my head, but he held my face between his hands, forcing me to meet his eyes, to see his wide, sweet mouth, twisted in pain.

“Never,” he said, more softly. “For you are mine. My wife, my heart, my soul.” The weight of him held me still, like a boulder on my chest, but the friction of our flesh made me thrust against him, wanting more. And more.

“My body,” he said, gasping for breath as he gave me what I sought. I bucked beneath him as though I wanted to escape, my back arching like a bow, pressing me into him. He lay then at full length on me, scarcely moving, so that our most intimate connection seemed barely closer than the marriage of our skins.

The grass was harsh and prickly under me, the pungence of crushed stems sharp as the smell of the man who took me. My breasts were flattened under him, and I felt the small tickle of the hairs on his chest as we rubbed together, back and forth. I squirmed, urging him to violence, feeling the swell of his thighs as he pressed me down.

“Never,” he whispered to me, face only inches from mine.

“Never,” I said, and turned my head, closing my eyes to escape the intensity of his gaze.

A gentle, inexorable pressure turned me back to face him, as the small, rhythmic movements went on.

“No, my Sassenach,” he said softly. “Open your eyes. Look at me. For that is your punishment, as it is mine. See what you have done to me, as I know what I have done to you. Look at me.”

And I looked, held prisoner, bound to him. Looked, as he dropped the last of his masks, and showed me the depths of himself, and the wounds of his soul. I would have wept for his hurt, and for mine, had I been able. But his eyes held mine, tearless and open, boundless as the salt sea. His body held mine captive, driving me before his strength, like the west wind in the sails of a bark.

And I voyaged into him, as he into me, so that when the last small storms of love began to shake me, he cried out, and we rode the waves together as one flesh, and saw ourselves in each other’s eyes.

The afternoon sun was hot on the white limestone rocks, casting deep shadows into the clefts and hollows. I found what I was looking for at last, growing from a narrow crack in a giant boulder, in gay defiance of the lack of soil. I broke a stalk of aloe from its clump, split the fleshy leaf, and spread the cool green gel inside across the welts on Jamie’s palm.

“Better?” I said.

“Much.” Jamie flexed his hand, grimacing. “Christ, those nettles sting!”

“They do.” I pulled down the neck of my bodice and spread a little aloe juice on my breast with a gingerly touch. The coolness brought relief at once.

“I’m rather glad you didn’t take me up on my offer,” I said wryly, with a glance at a nearby bunch of blooming nettle.

He grinned and patted me on the bottom with his good hand.

“Well, it was a near thing, Sassenach. Ye shouldna tempt me like that.” Then, sobering, he bent and kissed me gently.

“No, mo duinne. I swore to ye the once, and I was meaning it. I shallna raise a hand to you in anger, ever. After all,” he added softly, turning away, “I have done enough to hurt you.”

I shrank from the pain of memory, but I owed him justice as well.

“Jamie,” I said, lips trembling a bit. “The… baby. It wasn’t your fault. I felt as though it was, but it wasn’t. I think… I think it would have happened anyway, whether you’d fought Jack Randall or not.”

“Aye? Ah… well.” His arm was warm and comforting about me, and he pressed my head into the curve of his shoulder. “It eases me a bit to hear ye say so. It wasna the child so much as Frank that I meant, though. D’ye think you can forgive me for that?” The blue eyes were troubled as he looked down at me.

“Frank?” I felt a shock of surprise. “But… there’s nothing to forgive.” Then a thought struck me; perhaps he really didn’t know that Jack Randall was still alive – after all, he had been arrested immediately after the duel. But if he didn’t know… I took a deep breath. He would have to find it out in any case; perhaps better from me.

“You didn’t kill Jack Randall, Jamie,” I said.

To my puzzlement, he didn’t seem shocked or surprised. He shook his head, the afternoon sun striking sparks from his hair. Not yet long enough to lace back again, it had grown considerably in prison, and he had to brush it out of his eyes continuously.

“I know that, Sassenach,” he said.

“You do? But… what…” I was at a loss.

“You… dinna know about it?” he said hesitantly.

A cold feeling crept up my arms, despite the heat of the sun.

“Know what?”

He chewed his lower lip, eyeing me reluctantly. At last he took a deep breath and let it out with a sigh.

“No, I didna kill him. But I wounded him.”

“Yes, Louise said you wounded him badly. But she said he was recovering.” Suddenly, I saw again in memory that last scene in the Bois de Boulogne; the last thing I had seen before the blackness took me. The sharp tip of Jamie’s sword, slicing through the rain-spattered doeskin. The sudden red stain that darkened the fabric… and the angle of the blade, glinting with the force that drove it downward.

“Jamie!” I said, eyes widening with horror. “You didn’t… Jamie, what have you done!”

He looked down, rubbing his welted palm against the side of his kilt. He shook his head, wondering at himself.

“I was such a fool, Sassenach. I couldna think myself a man and let him go unpunished for what he’d done to the wee lad, and yet… all the time, I kept thinking to myself, ‘Ye canna kill the bastard outright, you’ve promised. Ye canna kill him.’ ” He smiled faintly, without humor, looking down at the marks on his palm.

“My mind was boiling over like a pot of parritch on the flame, yet I held to that thought. ‘Ye canna kill him.’ And I didn’t. But I was half-mad wi’ the fury of the fighting, and the blood singing in my ears – and I didna stop a moment to remember why it was I must not kill him, beyond that I had promised you. And when I had him there on the ground before me, and the memory of Wentworth and Fergus, and the blade live in my hand-” He broke off suddenly.

I felt the blood draining from my head and sat down heavily on a rock outcropping.

“Jamie,” I said. He shrugged helplessly.

“Well, Sassenach,” he said, still avoiding my gaze, “all I can say is, it’s a hell of a place to be wounded.”

“Jesus.” I sat still, stunned by this revelation. Jamie sat quiet beside me, studying the broad backs of his hands. There was still a small pink mark on the back of the right one. Jack Randall had driven a nail through it, in Wentworth.

“D’ye hate me for it, Claire?” His voice was soft, almost tentative.

I shook my head, eyes closed.

“No.” I opened them, and saw his face close by, wearing a troubled frown. “I don’t know what I think now, Jamie. I really don’t. But I don’t hate you.” I put a hand on his, and squeezed it gently. “Just… let me be by myself for a minute, all right?”

Clad once more in my now-dry gown, I spread my hands flat on my thighs. One silver, one gold. Both my wedding rings were still there, and I had no idea what that meant.

Jack Randall would never father a child. Jamie seemed sure of it, and I wasn’t inclined to question him. And yet I still wore Frank’s ring, I still remembered the man who had been my first husband, could summon at will thoughts and memories of who he had been, what he would do. How was it possible, then, that he would not exist?

I shook my head, thrusting back the wind-dried curls behind my ears. I didn’t know. Chances were, I never would know. But whether one could change the future or not – and it seemed we had – I was certain that I couldn’t change the immediate past. What had been done had been done, and nothing I could do now would alter it. Jack Randall would sire no children.

A stone rolled down the slope behind me, bouncing and setting off small slides of gravel. I turned and glanced up, to where Jamie, dressed once more, was exploring.

The rockfall above was recent. Fresh white surfaces showed where the stained brown of the weathered limestone had fractured, and only the smallest of plants had yet gained a foothold in this tumbled pile of rock, unlike the thick growth of shrubs that blanketed the rest of the hillside.

Jamie inched to one side, absorbed in finding handholds through the intricacies of the fall. I saw him edge around a giant boulder, hugging the rock, and the faint scrape of his dirk against the stone came to me through the still afternoon air.

Then he disappeared. Expecting him to reappear round the other side of the rock, I waited, enjoying the sun on my shoulders. But he didn’t come back into sight, and after a few moments, I grew worried. He might have slipped and fallen or banged his head on a rock.

I took what seemed forever to undo the fastenings of my heeled boots again, and still he had not come back. I rucked up my skirts, and started up the hill, bare toes cautious on the rough warm rocks.

“Jamie!”

“Here, Sassenach.” He spoke behind me, startling me, and I nearly lost my balance. He caught me by the arm and lifted me down to a small clear space between the jagged fallen stones.

He turned me toward the limestone wall, stained with water rust, and smoke. And something more.

“Look,” he said softly.

I looked where he pointed, up across the smooth expanse of the cave wall, and gasped at the sight.

Painted beasts galloped across the rock face above me, hooves spurning the air as they leaped toward the light above. There were bison, and deer, grouped together in tail-raised flight, and at the end of the rock shelf, a tracing of delicate birds, wings spread as they hovered above the charge of the earthbound beasts.

Done in red and black and ochre with a delicate grace that used the lines of the rock itself for emphasis, they thundered soundlessly, haunches rounded with effort, wings taking flight through the crevices of stone. They had lived once in the dark of a cave, lit only by the flames of those who made them. Exposed to the sun by the fall of their sheltering roof, they seemed alive as anything that walked upon the earth.

Lost in contemplation of the massive shoulders that thrust their way from the rock, I didn’t miss Jamie until he called me.

“Sassenach! Come here, will ye?” There was something odd about his voice, and I hurried toward him. He stood at the entrance of a small side-cave, looking down.

They lay behind an outcrop of the rock, as though they had sought shelter from the wind that chased the bison.

There were two of them, lying together on the packed earth of the cave floor. Sealed in the dry air of the cave, the bones had endured, though flesh had long since dried to dust. A tiny remnant of brown-parchment skin clung to the round curve of one skull, a strand of hair gone red with age stirring softly in the draft of our presence.

“My God,” I said, softly, as though I might disturb them. I moved closer to Jamie, and his hand slid around my waist.

“Do you think… were they… killed here? A sacrifice, perhaps?”

Jamie shook his head, staring pensively down at the small heap of delicate, friable bones.

“No,” he said. He, too, spoke softly, as though in the sanctuary of a church. He turned and lifted a hand to the wall behind us, where the deer leaped and the cranes soared into space beyond the stone.

“No,” he said again. “The folk that made such beasts… they couldna do such things.” He turned again then to the two skeletons, entwined at our feet. He crouched over them, tracing the line of the bones with a gentle finger, careful not to touch the ivory surface.

“See how they lie,” he said. “They didna fall here, and no one laid out their bodies. They lay down themselves.” His hand glided above the long armbones of the larger skeleton, a dark shadow fluttering like a large moth as it crossed the jackstraw pile of ribs.

“He had his arms around her,” he said. “He cupped his thighs behind her own, and held her tight to him, and his head is resting on her shoulder.”

His hand made passes over the bones, illuminating, indicating, clothing them once more with the flesh of imagination, so I could see them as they had been, embraced for the last time, for always. The small bones of the fingers had fallen apart, but a vestige of gristle still joined the metacarpals of the hands. The tiny phalanges overlay each other; they had linked hands in their last waiting.

Jamie had risen and was surveying the interior of the cavern, the late afternoon sun painting the walls with splashes of crimson and ochre.

“There.” He pointed to a spot near the cavern entrance. The rocks there were brown with dust and age, but not rusty with water and erosion, like those deeper in the cave.

“That was the entrance, once,” he said. “The rocks fell once before, and sealed this place.” He turned back and rested a hand on the rocky outcrop that shielded the lovers from the light.

“They must have felt their way around the cave, hand in hand,” I said. “Looking for a way out, in the dust and the dark.”

“Aye.” He rested his forehead against the stone, eyes closed. “And the light was gone, and the air failed them. And so they lay down in the dark to die.” The tears made wet tracks through the dust on his cheeks. I brushed a hand beneath my own eyes, and took his free hand, carefully weaving my fingers with his.

He turned to me, wordless, and the breath rushed from him as he pulled me hard against him. Our hands groped in the dying light of the setting sun, urgent in the touch of warmth, the reassurance of flesh, reminded by the hardness of the invisible bone beneath the skin, how short life is.