“So it is.” The silence fell again. The sound of the rain had rekindled my thoughts, though. Would it keep them inside the Meeting House?
Nonsense, Beauchamp, my mind replied. When has rain stopped a Highlander from doing anything whatever? Nor yet a naval office, I suppose …
“I’m sorry.” Elspeth spoke abruptly and I glanced at her, startled. Her hands were folded tight in her lap. Her face was pale and her lips pressed together, as though sorry she’d spoken.
“It’s not your fault,” I said automatically, and then more consciously, “Nor mine.”
Her lips relaxed a little at that.
“No,” she said, softly. She was silent for a bit, but I could see her throat working faintly, as though she was arguing with herself about something.
“What is it?” I said at last, very quietly. She looked at me, and I saw her stringy throat bob as she swallowed.
“Five years,” she blurted.
“What?”
She looked away, but then back, dark eyes fixed on mine with an odd look, apology mingled with something else—relief? Triumph?
“When Simon died—my grandson … two years ago …”
“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ!” I said, and a lance of real fear stabbed me in the heart. Like everyone else present at the time, I’d been deeply moved by Charles Cunningham’s maiden sermon, and the story of his son’s death—and his last words. “I’ll see you again. In seven years.”
“What did you say?” Elspeth asked, incredulous. I flapped a hand at her in dismissal. If the captain believed his son’s word—and very plainly he did—then he must conclude that he was essentially immortal for the intervening years. Five years now.
“Holy Lord,” I said, finding a more acceptable interjection. There was an inch of buttermilk left in my cup, and I tossed it back as though it were bad whisky.
“That—I mean … it doesn’t mean that he will kill your husband,” Elspeth said, leaning forward anxiously. “Only that your husband will not kill him.”
“That must be a comfort to you.”
She flushed, embarrassed. Of course it was. She cleared her throat and tried to offer comfort, saying that Charles didn’t mean to kill Jamie, only to take him prisoner, and …
“And take him off to Patrick Ferguson to be hanged,” I finished, nastily. “For the sake of his own bloody advancement!”
“For the sake of his King and his honor as an officer of that King!” she snapped, glaring at me. “Your husband is a pardoned traitor and now he has forfeited the grace of that pardon! He has earned his own—” She realized what she was saying—what she plainly had been thinking for quite some time—and her mouth snapped shut like a trap.
The rain turned suddenly to hail, and hailstones beat upon the shutters with a sound like gunfire. We glanced at each other, but didn’t speak; we couldn’t have heard each other if we had.
We sat for some time by the fire, our chairs side by side, not speaking. Two old witches, I thought. Divided by loyalties and love; united in our fear.
But even fear becomes exhausting after a time, and I found myself nodding, the fire making white shadows flicker through my closing eyelids. Elspeth’s breathing roused me from my doze, a hoarse, rough sound, and she shifted suddenly, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, her face buried in her hands. I reached across and touched her and she took my hand, holding tight. Neither of us spoke.
The hail had passed, the wind had dropped, the thunder and lightning had stopped and the storm settled down to a heavy, soaking, endless rain.
We waited, holding hands.
110
… Confused Noise and Garments Rolled in Blood …
SOMETIME LATER—TIME HAD CEASED to have meaning by then—we heard them. The sounds of a body of men and horses. Trampling and the sounds of urgency.
The noise had roused Fanny and Agnes; I heard their bare feet pattering down the stairs.
I was at the door with no memory of getting there, fumbling with the mortise bolt—I hadn’t barred the door when Elspeth came. I yanked the heavy door in as though it weighed nothing, and in the dark and flickering candlelight I saw Jamie, among a many-headed mass of black confusion, a head taller than his companions and his eyes searching for me.
“Help me, Sassenach,” he said, and stumbled into the hall, lurching to one side and striking the wall. He didn’t fall, but I saw the blood on his wet shirt, soaked and spreading.
“Where?” I said urgently, seizing his arm and looking for the source of the blood. It was running down his arm beneath the sleeve of his jacket; his hand was wet with it. “Where are you hurt?”