The Scottish Prisoner

He’d come una

The sun was high by the time he arrived; Pardloe had invited him to make use of the Greys’ coach, but he didn’t want anyone knowing his destination and so had walked halfway across London. They weren’t bothering to follow him anymore; they were much too busy looking for the members of the Wild Hunt. How long might he have before one of those names led them to someone who would talk? He knocked at the door.

“Captain Fraser.” It was Lally himself who answered the door, to Jamie’s surprise. Lally was surprised, too, but cordial—he stepped back, gesturing Jamie inside.

“I am alone,” Jamie said, seeing Lally peer down the street before closing the door.

“So am I,” said Lally, casting a bleak look round the tiny front room. It was disordered, with smeared crockery and crumbs on the table, a cold, unswept hearth, and a general feel of neglect. “My servant has left, I’m afraid. Can I offer you …” He swung round, eyeing a shelf that held two or three bottles, picked one up and shook it, looking relieved when it sloshed. “A glass of ale?”

“Aye, thank ye.” He knew better than to refuse hospitality, particularly under such circumstances, and they sat down at the table—there was no place else to sit—pushing aside the dirty dishes, green cheese rinds, and a dead cockroach. Jamie wondered if the thing had died of starvation or poisoning.

“So,” said Lally, after a minimal exchange of commonplaces, “did you find your Wild Hunt?”

“The English think they have,” Jamie said. “Though it may be naught but a mare’s nest.”

Lally’s eyes widened in interest, but he was still reserved.

“I heard that you went to Ireland with Lord John Grey,” he remarked, and sighed a little. “I haven’t seen it in many years. Is it still green, then, and beautiful?”

“Wet as a bath sponge and mud to the knees, but, aye, it was green enough.”

That made Lally laugh; Jamie thought he didn’t laugh often. It didn’t come easily to him.

“It’s true that I was obliged to go wi’ his lordship,” Jamie said, “but I had another companion, as well—one less official. D’ye recall Tobias Qui

Indeed he did; Jamie saw the knowledge flicker deep in Lally’s eyes, though his face stayed calm, slightly quizzical.

“From the Rising. One of the Irish who came with O’Sullivan, was he not?”

“Aye, that’ll be the man. He met us in Ireland and traveled with us, in the guise of a traveler met by accident.”

“Indeed.” Lally sipped ale—it was flat and stale, and he made a face and threw it out the open window. “What was his purpose?”

“He told me he sought a thing—the Cupбn Druid riogh, he called it. Ye’ve heard of it?”

Lally was not a good natural liar.

“No,” he said, but his hands curled on the tabletop and he stiffened a little. “A Druid king’s cup? What on earth is that?”

“Ye’ve seen it, then,” Jamie said, friendly but firm. Lally stiffened further, torn between denial and answer. So he had seen it. Which in turn meant that he’d seen Qui

“I need to speak with him,” Jamie said, leaning forward to indicate sincerity and urgency—neither one feigned. “It is a matter of his own safety, as well as that of the men with whom he’s involved. Can ye get word to him? I shall meet him anywhere he likes.”

Lally sat back a bit, suspicion darkening his eyes.

“Meet him and betray him to the English?” he said.

“Ye believe that of me?” Oddly, the idea that Lally might believe it hurt him.

Lally grimaced and looked down.

“I don’t know,” he said, low-voiced, and Jamie saw how drawn he was, the muscles of his face hard under the skin. “So many men I thought I knew …” He gave a small, despairing shake of the head. “I don’t know whom to trust—or whether there is anyone who can be trusted, anymore.”

That, at least, held the ring of truth.

“Aye,” said Jamie quietly. “I, too.” He spread his hands out, flat on the table. “And yet I have come to you.”

And yet … He could almost hear Lally thinking. Furious things were going on behind that pale, twitching face.

Ye’re in it up to your eyebrows, poor wee fool, he thought, not unkindly. Add one more to the tally, then; one more man who might go to his doom if this harebrained scheme came to the point of action. One more who might be saved, if …

He pushed his chair back from the table and stood up.

“Hear me, a Tomбs MacGerealt,” he said formally. “Qui

“The Sassenach woman?” The ghost of a smile touched Lally’s mouth, sardonic.

“La Dame Blanche, they called her in Paris, and for good reason. She saw the end of the Cause—and its death. Believe me, Thomas. This venture, too, is doomed, and I ken that fine. I wouldna have it take ye down wi’ it. For the sake of our shared past, I beg ye—stand clear.”

He hesitated, waiting for an answer, but Lally kept his eyes on the table, one finger circling in a puddle of spilled ale. At last, he spoke.

“If the English do not send me back to France to clear my name, what is there for me here?”

There was no answer to that. Lally lived at the sufferance of his captors, as Jamie did. How would a true man not be tempted by the possibility of regaining his life? Jamie sighed, helpless, and Lally glanced up, his gaze sharpening as he perceived pity on Jamie’s face.

“Ah, don’t worry about me, old comrade,” he said, and there was as much affection as irony in his voice. “The Marquise of Pelham comes back from her country house next week. She has a tendressefor me, La Marquise—she will not let me starve.”

30

Particular Friends

HAROLD, DUKE OF PARDLOE, COLONEL OF THE 46TH FOOT, visited the Judge Advocate’s office, attended by both his regimental colonels and by his brother, Lieutenant Colonel Lord John Grey, to file the necessary documents to call a posthumous general court-martial of one Major Gerald Siverly, on a variety of charges ranging from theft and corruption, to failure to suppress mutiny, to willful murder—and treason.

After hours of discussion, they had decided to proceed with the court-martial at once and to add the charge of treason. It would cause talk—an immense amount of talk—and perhaps bring more of Siverly’s co

Even with the documents filed, it would be nearly a month before the court-martial was convened. Unable to bear the inactivity of waiting, Grey invited Jamie Fraser to go with him to a race meeting at Newmarket. Returning two days later, they stopped at the Beefsteak, where they took rooms, intending to dine and change before going on to a play in the evening.

By unspoken mutual consent, they had avoided any reference to Ireland, Siverly, Twelvetrees, court-martials, or poetry. Fraser was quiet, occasionally withdrawn—but he relaxed in the presence of horses, and Grey felt a small relaxation of his own tension in seeing it. He had arranged for Jamie’s parole at Helwater because of the horses and the relative degree of freedom, and while he could not deceive himself that Jamie was content as a prisoner, at least he had some hope that he was not completely unhappy.