The Scottish Prisoner

All Heads Turn as the Hunt Goes By

HUBERT BOWLES WAS A SPYMASTER. GREY HAD MET HIM some years previously, in co

Still, the boys’ visit and the meal had restored him to such an extent that when Tom appeared—as he did with the regularity of a cuckoo clock—to ensure that Grey had not managed to die since last inspected, he let Tom shave him and brush out and plait his hair. Then, greatly daring, he stood up, clinging to Tom’s arm.

“Easy, me lord, easy does it now …” The room wavered slightly, but he steadied himself and, after a moment, the dizziness passed. He limped slowly about, hanging on to Tom, until he was reasonably sure that he would neither fall down nor rip the stitching out of his leg—it pulled a bit, but so long as he was careful, it would likely do.

“All right. I’m going downstairs.”

“No, you’re no—er … yes, me lord,” Tom replied meekly, his initial response quelled by a glare from Grey. “I’ll just, ah, go down in front of you, shall I?”

“So that I can fall on you, if necessary? That’s truly noble, Tom, but I think not. You can follow me and pick up the pieces, if you like.”

He made his way slowly down the main stair, Tom behind him muttering something about all the king’s horses and all the king’s men, and then along the main hallway to the library, nodding cordially to Nasonby and inquiring after his bad ankle.

Fraser was indeed sitting in a wing chair near the window, a plate of biscuits and a decanter of sherry at his side, reading Robinson Crusoe. He glanced up at the sound of Grey’s footsteps, and his eyebrows went up—perhaps in surprise at seeing him up and about, or perhaps only in astonishment at his banyan, which was silk, with green and purple stripes.

“Are you not going to tell me that had the sword gone between my ribs, I’d be dead? Everyone else does,” Grey remarked, lowering himself gingerly into the matching wing chair.

Fraser looked faintly puzzled.

“I kent it hadna done that. Ye weren’t dead when I picked ye up.”

“You picked me up?”

“You asked me to, did ye not?” Fraser gave him a look of mild exasperation. “Ye were bleeding like a stuck hog, but it wasna spurting out, and I could feel ye breathing and your heart beating all right while I carried ye back to the coach.”

“Oh. Thank you.” Dammit, couldn’t he have waited a few moments longer to pass out?

To distract himself from pointless regret, he took a biscuit and asked, “Have you spoken with my brother lately?”

“I have. Nay more than an hour ago.” He hesitated, a thumb stuck inside the book to keep his place. “He offered me a sum of money. In reward of my assistance, as he was pleased to put it.”

“Well deserved,” Grey said heartily, hoping that Hal hadn’t been an ass about it.

“I told him it had the stink of blood money and I wouldna touch it … but he pointed out that I hadna done what I’d done for money—and that’s true enough. In fact, he said, he’d forced me to do it—which is not entirely true, but I wasna disposed to argue the fine points—and that he wished to recompense me for the inconvenience to which he had put me.” He gave Grey a wry look. “I said I thought this a jesuitical piece o’ reasoning, but he replied that as I’m a Papist, he supposed I could have no reasonable objection on those grounds.

“He also pointed out,” Fraser went on, “that I was under no obligation to keep the money myself; he would be pleased to pay it out to anyone I specified. And, after all, there were still folk who were under my protection, were there not?”

Grey sent up a silent prayer of thanksgiving. Hal hadn’t been an ass.

“Indeed there are,” Grey said. “Who do you propose to help?”

Fraser narrowed his eyes a bit but had plainly been thinking about it.

“Well, there’s my sister and her husband. They’ve the six bairns—and there are my tenants—” He caught himself, lips compressed for a moment “Families who weremy tenants,” he corrected.

“How many?” Grey asked, curious.

“Maybe forty families—maybe not so many now. But still …”

Hal must have come well up to scratch on the reward, Grey thought.

Grey didn’t wish to dwell on the matter. He coughed and rang the bell for a footman to bring him a drink. His chances of getting anything stronger than barley water in his bedroom were slim, and he wasn’t fond of sherry.

“Returning to my brother,” he said, having given his order for brandy, “I wondered whether he has said anything to you regarding the court-martial or the progress of … er … the, um, military operation.” The arrest of the incriminated officers of the Irish Brigades, he meant.

The frown returned, this time troubled and somewhat fierce.

“He has,” Fraser replied shortly. “The court-martial is set for Friday. He wished me to remain, in case my testimony is required.”

Grey was shaken; he hadn’t thought Hal would have Fraser testify. If Jamie did, he would be a marked man. The testimony of a general court-martial became by law part of the public record of the Judge Advocate’s court; it would be impossible to hide Fraser’s part in the investigation of Siverly’s affairs or the revelation of Twelvetrees’s treachery. Even if there were no direct linkage made to the quashing of the Irish Brigades’ plot, Jacobite sympathizers—and there were still many, even in London—would draw conclusions. The Irish as a race were known to be vengeful.

A lesser emotion was one of dismay at the thought that Hal might send Fraser back to Helwater so quickly—though in justice there was no reason to keep him in London. He’d done what Hal required of him, however unwillingly.

Was that what Hal was thinking? That if Fraser testified, he could then be quickly sent back to the remote countryside to resume a hidden life as Alexander MacKenzie, safe from retribution?

“As to the … military operation …” The broad mouth compressed in a brief grimace. “I believe it is satisfactory. I am naturally not in His Grace’s entire confidence, but I heard Colonel Quarry telling him that there had been several significant arrests made yesterday.”

“Ah,” Grey said, trying to sound neutral. The arrests couldn’t help but cause Fraser pain, even though he had agreed with the necessity. “Was … er … was Mr. Qui

“No.” Fraser looked disturbed at this. “Are they hunting Qui

Grey shrugged a little and took a sip of his brandy. It burned agreeably going down.

“They know his name, his involvement,” he said, a little hoarsely, and cleared his throat. “And he is a loose ca

“He would, aye.” Fraser rose suddenly and went to look out the window, leaning on the frame, his face turned away.

“Do you know where he is?” Grey asked quietly, and Fraser shook his head.

“I wouldna tell ye if I did,” he said, just as quietly. “But I don’t.”

“Would you warn him—if you could?” Grey asked. He oughtn’t, but was possessed by curiosity.

“I would,” Fraser replied without hesitation. He turned round now and looked down at Grey, expressionless. “He was once my friend.”

So was I, Grey thought, and took more brandy. Am I now again?But not even the most exigent curiosity would make him ask.

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