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“The Williamites assaulted Athlone on the west, the Co
“The Jacobites were crushed at Aughrim then, of course—but the survivors made it to Limerick, and there took ship to Spain. The flight of the Wild Geese, they called it.” Sir Melchior took a meditative mouthful of wine and held it for a moment before swallowing; it was good wine.
“So Major Siverly’s father left for Spain, did he?” said Grey, taking up his own glass casually. “When did he come back?”
“Oh, he never did. Died in Spain, some years later. The son came back about six years ago, bought Glastuig, which had fallen into disrepair, and began to build it back up. I hear he’s come into quite a bit of money lately,” Sir Melchior added. “Inheritance from some distant relative, I heard.”
“Has he? How fortunate,” Grey murmured, and met Jamie’s eye across the table.
Jamie gave the shadow of a nod and put his hand into his coat.
“I wonder, sir—as ye seem to know so much regarding the history of these parts—might ye ever have seen a poem such as this?” He handed across a folded copy of the fragment of the Wild Hunt, translated into English.
Sir Melchior looked interested and sat up, fumbling for his spectacles. Placing these on his nose, he read the lines slowly out loud, following the words with a blunt fingertip.
Listen, you men of the three lands.
Listen for the sound of the horns that wail in the wind,
that come out of the night.
She is coming. The Queen is coming
and they come following, her great train, her retinue
wild of hair and eye,
the volunteers who follow the Queen.
They search out blood, they seek its heat. They echo the voice of the king under the hill.
“Deuced odd thing, that,” he said, looking up from the page and blinking owlishly through his spectacles at them. “I’ve heard of the Wild Hunt but can’t say I’ve ever seen an account quite like this one. Where’d you get it?”
“From a soldier,” Jamie said, with perfect truth. “As ye see, it’s not complete. I should like to find out the rest of it, and maybe who wrote it.” He gave Sir Melchior a look of convincingly scholarly earnestness, quite surprising Grey. He hadn’t known Fraser capable of acting. “I have it in mind to publish a wee book one day, with some of the auld tales. This would be a fine addition, if it were complete. Might ye be acquainted with anyone familiar wi’ such things?”
“Why … yes. Yes, I think perhaps I do know someone.” Sir Melchior beckoned to his steward to fetch a fresh decanter of port. “Do you know Inchcleraun?”
Both Grey and Fraser shook their heads, but Grey felt his heart pick up its pace a bit.
“It’s a Catholic monastery,” Sir Melchior said. “A glass with you, Lord John? Yes, yes.” He drank deep and set down the glass to be refilled, belching contentedly. “It’s on an island—the island’s called Inchcleraun, too—up toward the north end of Lough Ree. Only about ten miles from here by water. The abbot—Michael FitzGibbons, he’s called—is quite a collector of old things: parchments, oddments, all-sorts. I met him once; decent sort, for a priest. I think if anyone could tell you where to find the rest of your poem, it might be him.”
Grey saw Jamie’s face change suddenly. The change was transient, like the ripple of wine in the glass the steward set down before him, but definitely there. Perhaps he took exception to that “decent for a priest” remark? Surely not; such remarks were commonplace, and it hadn’t been said with any particular tone of derogation.
“I thank ye,” Jamie said, and smiled, nodding over his lifted glass. “A glass with ye, sir? It’s a verra nice make of wine, to be sure.”
18
Fireside Tales
GREY HAD HOPED TO BE RID OF QUINN ONCE THEY REACHED Athlone, but the Irishman clung like a burr, popping up wherever he and Jamie went in the city, cheerful as a grig, and giving no indication that he viewed John as anything but an esteemed acquaintance.
“Can’t you get rid of him?” he’d snapped at Jamie finally, discovering Qui
“D’ye want me to shoot him?” Fraser inquired. “You’ve got the pistols, aye?”
“What does he bloody want?” Grey demanded in exasperation, but Fraser merely shrugged and looked stubborn—or, rather, more stubborn than usual, if such a thing were possible.
“He says he has business near Inchcleraun, and I’ve nay grounds to call him a liar. Have you? Or do ye ken the way, for that matter?”
Grey had given up, having no choice, and suffered Qui
Qui
It was roughly twenty miles from Athlone to the far end of Lough Ree, but a torrential downpour that turned the road to liquid mud, bogged the horses, and sank the cart to its axles marooned them four miles short of their goal.
At this point, Grey was not precisely grateful but at least not displeased that Qui
Grey admitted to a reluctant admiration for Qui
“And what of you, lad?” Qui
Tom blushed visibly, despite the darkness.
“I’m no hand with a tale, sir,” he said, deprecating. “I, um, could maybe read a bit, though?”
Tom had, for reasons best known to himself, brought along as light recreational reading for the journey a shabby volume borrowed from Hal’s library, entitled The Gentleman Instructed. This was a treatise on deportment, etiquette, and general behavior, dating roughly from the year of Grey’s birth, and, while extremely entertaining in spots, was perhaps a trifle obsolete in its advice.
“Oh, by all means, Tom,” Grey said. “I’m sure all profit from a bit of elevating discourse.”