“Eejit,” Ian said. “What did ye tell her that for? Now she thinks ye’re a Jew.”
Jamie’s mouth fell open in shock. “What, me? How, then?” he demanded, looking down at himself. He’d meant his Highland dress, but Ian looked critically at him and shook his head.
“Ye’ve got the lang neb and the red hair,” he pointed out. “Half the Spanish Jews I’ve seen look like that, and some of them are a good size, too. For all yon lass kens, ye stole the plaid off somebody ye killed.”
Jamie felt more nonplussed than affronted. Rather hurt, too.
“Well, what if I was a Jew?” he demanded. “Why should it matter? I wasna askin’ for her hand in marriage, was I? I was only talkin’ to her, for God’s sake!”
Ian gave him that annoyingly tolerant look. He shouldn’t mind, he knew; he’d lorded it over Ian often enough about things he kent and Ian didn’t. He did mind, though; the borrowed shirt was too small and chafed him under the arms, and his wrists stuck out, bony and raw-looking. He didn’t look like a Jew, but he looked like a gowk and he knew it. It made him cross-grained.
“Most o’ the Frenchwomen—the Christian ones, I mean—dinna like to go wi’ Jews. Not because they’re Christ-killers, but because of their…um…” He glanced down, with a discreet gesture at Jamie’s crotch. “They think it looks funny.”
“It doesna look that different.”
“It does.”
“Well, aye, when it’s…but when it’s—I mean, if it’s in a state that a lassie would be lookin’ at it, it isna…” He saw Ian opening his mouth to ask just how he happened to know what an erect circumcised cock looked like. “Forget it,” he said brusquely, and pushed past his friend. “Let’s be goin’ down the street.”
—
At dawn, the band gathered at the inn where D’Eglise and the wagon waited, ready to escort it through the streets to its destination—a warehouse on the banks of the Garonne. Jamie saw that the captain had changed into his finest clothes, plumed hat and all, and so had the four men—among the biggest in the band—who had guarded the wagon during the night. They were all armed to the teeth, and Jamie wondered whether this was only to make a good show or whether D’Eglise intended to have them stand behind him while he explained why the shipment was one rug short, to discourage complaint from the merchant receiving the shipment.
Jamie was enjoying the walk through the city, though keeping a sharp eye out, as he’d been instructed, against the possibility of ambush from alleys or thieves dropping from a roof or balcony onto the wagon. He thought the latter possibility remote but dutifully looked up now and then. Upon lowering his eyes from one of these inspections, he found that the captain had dropped back and was now pacing beside him on his big gray gelding.
“Juanito says you speak Hebrew,” D’Eglise said, looking down at him as though he’d suddenly sprouted horns. “Is this true?”
“Aye,” he said cautiously. “Though it’s more I can read the Bible in Hebrew—a bit—there not bein’ so many Jews in the Highlands to converse with.” There had been a few in Paris, but he knew better than to talk about the Université and the study of philosophers like Maimonides. They’d scrag him before supper.
The captain grunted but didn’t look displeased. He rode for a time in silence but kept his horse to a walk, pacing at Jamie’s side. This made Jamie nervous, and after a few moments, impulse made him jerk his head to the rear and say, “Ian can, too. Read Hebrew, I mean.”
D’Eglise looked down at him, startled, and glanced back. Ian was clearly visible, as he stood a head taller than the three men with whom he was conversing as he walked.
“Will wonders never cease?” the captain said, as though to himself. But he nudged his horse into a trot and left Jamie in the dust.
—
It wasn’t until the next afternoon that this conversation returned to bite Jamie in the arse. They’d delivered the rugs and the gold and silver to the warehouse on the river, D’Eglise had received his payment, and consequently the men were scattered down the length of an allée that boasted cheap eating and drinking establishments, many of these with a room above or behind where a man could spend his money in other ways.
Neither Jamie nor Ian said anything further regarding the subject of brothels, but Jamie found his mind returning to the pretty barmaid. He had his own shirt on now and had half a mind to find his way back and tell her he wasn’t a Jew.
He had no idea what she might do with that information, though, and the tavern was clear on the other side of the city.
“Think we’ll have another job soon?” he asked idly, as much to break Ian’s silence as to escape from his own thoughts. There had been talk around the fire about the prospects; evidently there were no good wars at the moment, though it was rumored that the King of Prussia was beginning to gather men in Silesia.
“I hope so,” Ian muttered. “Canna bear hangin’ about.” He drummed long fingers on the tabletop. “I need to be movin’。”
“That why ye left Scotland, is it?” He was only making conversation and was surprised to see Ian dart him a wary glance.
“Didna want to farm, wasna much else to do. I make good money here. And I mostly send it home.”
“Still, I dinna imagine your da was pleased.” Ian was the only son; Auld John was probably still livid, though he hadn’t said much in Jamie’s hearing during the brief time he’d been home, before the redcoats—
“My sister’s marrit. Her husband can manage, if…” Ian lapsed into a moody silence.
Before Jamie could decide whether to prod Ian or not, the captain appeared beside their table, surprising them both.
D’Eglise stood for a moment, considering them. Finally he sighed and said, “All right. The two of you, come with me.”
Ian shoved the rest of his bread and cheese into his mouth and rose, chewing. Jamie was about to do likewise when the captain frowned at him.
“Is your shirt clean?”
He felt the blood rise in his cheeks. It was the closest anyone had come to mentioning his back, and it was too close. Most of the wounds had crusted over long since, but the worst ones were still infected; they broke open with the chafing of the bandages or if he bent too suddenly. He’d had to rinse his shirt almost every night—it was constantly damp, and that didn’t help—and he knew fine that the whole band knew but nobody’d spoken of it.
“It is,” he replied shortly, and drew himself up to his full height, staring down at D’Eglise, who merely said, “Good, then. Come on.”
—
The new potential client was a physician named Dr. Hasdi, reputed to be a person of great influence among the Jews of Bordeaux. The last client had made the introduction, so apparently D’Eglise had managed to smooth over the matter of the missing rug.
Dr. Hasdi’s house was discreetly tucked away in a decent but modest side street, behind a stuccoed wall and locked gates. Ian rang the bell, and a man dressed like a gardener promptly appeared to let them in, gesturing them up the walk to the front door. Evidently, they were expected.