A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [81]
“Aye. First things first, though, hm?” Roger had appeared behind Jamie, his voice so hoarse that it was barely audible in the general uproar. He swallowed, grimacing.
“Oh, aye.” Jamie shot a quick look at Roger, assessing, then shrugged and strode out into the center of the yard.
“Eìsd ris! Eìsd ris!” bellowed Kenny Lindsay, seeing him. Evan and Murdo joined him, clapping their hands and shouting “Hear him!” loudly enough that the crowd began to subside and pay attention.
“I say the prayer from my mouth,
I say the prayer from my heart,
I say the prayer to Thee Thyself,
O, Healing Hand, O Son of the God of salvation.”
He didn’t raise his voice much above its normal speaking level, but everyone quieted at once, so the words rang clear.
“Thou Lord God of the angels,
Spread over me Thy linen robe;
Shield me from every famine,
Free me from every spectral shape.
Strengthen me in every good,
Encompass me in every strait,
Safeguard me in every ill,
And from every enmity restrain me.”
There was a stirring of faint approval in the crowd; I saw a few of the fisher-folk bow their heads, though their eyes stayed fixed on him.
“Be Thou between me and all things grisly,
Be Thou between me and all things mean,
Be Thou between me and all things gruesome
Coming darkly toward me.
“O God of the weak,
O God of the lowly,
O God of the righteous,
O shield of homesteads:
“Thou art calling upon us
In the voice of glory,
With the mouth of mercy
Of Thy beloved Son.”
I glanced at Roger, who was nodding slightly with approval, as well. Evidently, they’d agreed on it together. Sensible; it would be a prayer familiar in form to the fisher-folk, and nothing specifically Catholic about it.
Jamie spread his arms, quite unconsciously, and the breeze caught the worn damp linen of his shirt as he tilted back his head and raised his face to the sky, open with joy.
“O may I find rest everlasting
In the home of Thy Trinity,
In the Paradise of the godly,
In the Sun-garden of Thy love!”
“Amen!” said Roger, as loudly as he could, and there were gratified murmurs of “amen” round the yard. Then Major MacDonald raised the tankard of cider he was holding, called “Slàinte!” and drained it.
Festivity became general after that. I found myself sitting on a cask, Jamie on the grass at my feet, with a platter of food and a constantly refilled mug of cider.
“Bobby Higgins is here,” I told him, catching sight of Bobby in the midst of a small group of admiring young ladies. “Do you see Lizzie anywhere?”
“No,” he said, stifling a yawn. “Why?”
“He asked for her particularly.”
“Then I’m sure he’ll find her. Will ye have a bit o’ meat, Sassenach?” He held up a large rib bone, brow cocked inquiringly.
“I’ve had some,” I assured him, and he at once tore into it, addressing himself to the vinegar-spiced barbecue as though he hadn’t eaten for a week.
“Has Major MacDonald spoken to you?”
“No,” he said, mouth full, and swallowed. “He’ll keep. There’s Lizzie—wi’ the McGillivrays.”
I felt reassured by that. The McGillivrays—particularly Frau Ute—would certainly discourage any inappropriate attentions to their new intended daughter-in-law. Lizzie was chatting and laughing with Robin McGillivray, who was smiling at her in fatherly fashion, while his son Manfred ate and drank with single-minded appetite. Frau Ute, I saw, was keeping a sharp and interested eye on Lizzie’s father, who was sitting on the porch nearby, cozily side by side with a tall, rather plain-faced German lady.
“Who’s that with Joseph Wemyss?” I asked, nudging Jamie with my knee to direct his attention.
He narrowed his eyes against the sun’s glare, looking, then shrugged.
“I dinna ken. She’s German; she must ha’ come with Ute McGillivray. Matchmaking, aye?” He tilted up his mug and drank, sighing with bliss.
“Do you think so?” I looked