A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [377]
“I remember,” I said.
He nodded at the letter, his eyes still fixed on it.
“He is the same. Not all Englishmen are—but he is.” He looked down at me, ruefulness tinged with begrudging respect. “He is the King’s man. It wouldna matter if the Angel Gabriel appeared before him and told him what will pass; he wouldna abandon his oath.”
“Do you think so?” I said, emboldened. “I’m not so sure.”
His brows went up in surprise, and I went on, hesitating as I groped for words.
“It’s—I do know what you mean; he’s an honorable man. But that’s just it. I don’t think he is sworn to the King—not in the same way Colum’s men swore to him, nor the way your men from Lallybroch swore to you. What matters to him—what he’d sell his life for—it’s honor.”
“Well, aye—it is,” he said slowly, brows knit in concentration. “But for a soldier, such as he is, honor lies in his duty, no? And that comes from his fealty to the King, surely?”
I straightened and rubbed a finger beneath my nose, trying to put into words what I thought.
“Yes, but that’s not quite what I mean. It’s the idea that matters to him. He follows an ideal, not a man. Of all the people you know, he may be the only one who would understand—this will be a war fought about ideals; maybe the first.”
He closed one eye and regarded me quizzically out of the other.
“Ye’ve been talking to Roger Mac. Ye’ll never have thought that on your own, Sassenach.”
“I gather you have, too,” I said, not bothering to refute the implied insult. Besides, he was right. “So you understand?”
He made a small Scottish noise, indicating dubious agreement.
“I did ask him what about the Crusades, did he not think that was fought for an ideal? And he was obliged to admit that ideals were involved, at least—though even there he said it was money and politics, and I said it always was, and surely it would be now, as well. But, aye, I understand,” he added hastily, seeing my nostrils flare. “But with regard to John Grey—”
“With regard to John Grey,” I said, “you do have a chance of convincing him, because he’s both rational and idealistic. You’d have to convince him that honor doesn’t lie in following the King—but in the ideal of freedom. But it’s possible.”
He made another Scottish noise, this one deep-chested and filled with uneasy doubt. And finally, I realized.
“You aren’t doing it for the sake of ideals, are you? Not for the sake of—of liberty. Freedom, self-determination, all that.”
He shook his head.
“No,” he said softly. “Nor yet for the sake of being on the winning side—for once. Though I expect that will be a novel experience.” He gave me a sudden rueful smile, and, caught by surprise, I laughed.
“Why, then?” I asked, more gently.
“For you,” he said without hesitation. “For Brianna and the wee lad. For my family. For the future. And if that is not an ideal, I’ve never heard of one.”
JAMIE DID HIS BEST in the office of ambassador, but the effect of Bobby’s brand proved insuperable. While admitting that Bobby was a nice young man, Mr. Wemyss was unable to countenance the notion of marrying his daughter to a murderer, no matter what the circumstances that had led to his conviction.
“Folk would take against him, sir, ye ken that fine,” he said, shaking his head in response to Jamie’s arguments. “They dinna stop to ask the why and wherefore, if a man’s condemned. His eye—he did nothing, I am sure, to provoke such a savage attack. How could I expose my dear Elizabeth to the possibility of such reprisals? Even if she should escape herself, what of her fate—and that of her children—if he is knocked over in the street one day?” He wrung his hands at the thought.
“And if he should one day lose his Lordship’s patronage, he could not look for decent employment elsewhere, not with yon mark of shame upon his face. They would be beggared. I have been left in such straits myself, sir—and would not for the world risk my daughter’s sharing such a fate again.”
Jamie rubbed a hand over his face.
“Aye. I understand,