Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [169]
Jamie drew himself slowly upright, and I felt him push away his own tiredness as he brought his gaze to bear on his retainer. He was quite still for a moment, hands resting on his knees. Then he reached out and placed one hand gently over the purple knot on Murtagh’s head.
“There’s nay shame to ha’ fallen in battle, mo caraidh,” he said softly. “The greatest of warriors may be overcome.”
But the little man shook his head stubbornly, black eye unwinking.
“Nay,” he said. “I didna fall in battle. Ye gave me your trust; your own lady and your child unborn to guard, and the wee English lassie as well. And I gave the task sae little heed that I had nay chance to strike a blow when the danger came. Truth to tell, I didna even see the hand that struck me down.” He did blink then, once.
“Treachery—” Jamie began.
“And now see what’s come of it,” Murtagh interrupted. I had never heard him speak so many words in a row in all the time I had known him. “Your good name smirched, your wife attacked, and the wee lass…” The thin line of his mouth clamped tight for a moment, and his stringy throat bobbed once as he swallowed. “For that alone, the bitter sorrow chokes me.”
“Aye.” Jamie spoke softly, nodding. “Aye, I do see, man. I feel it, too.” He touched his chest briefly, over his heart. The two men might have been alone together, their heads inches apart as Jamie bent toward the older man. Hands folded in my lap, I neither moved nor spoke; it was not my affair.
“But I’m no your chief, man,” Jamie went on, in a firmer tone. “Ye’ve sworn me no vow, and I hold nay power ower ye.”
“Aye, that ye do.” Murtagh’s voice was firm as well, and the haft of the dirk never trembled.
“But—”
“I swore ye my oath, Jamie Fraser, when ye were no more than a week old, and a bonny lad at your mother’s breast.”
I could feel the tiny start of astonishment as Jamie’s eyes opened wide.
“I knelt at Ellen’s feet, as I kneel now by yours,” the little clansman went on, narrow chin held high. “And I swore to her by the name o’ the threefold God, that I would follow ye always, to do your bidding, and guard your back, when ye became a man grown, and needing such service.” The harsh voice softened then, and the eyelid drooped over the one tired eye.
“Aye, lad. I do cherish ye as the son of my own loins. But I have betrayed your service.”
“That ye havena and never could.” Jamie’s hands rested on Murtagh’s shoulders, squeezing firmly. “Nay, I wilna have your life from ye, for I’ve need of ye still. But I will lay an oath on ye, and you’ll take it.”
There was a long moment’s hesitation, then the spiky black head nodded imperceptibly.
Jamie’s voice dropped still further, but it was not a whisper. Holding the middle three fingers of his right hand stiff, he laid them together over the hilt of the dirk, at the juncture of haft and tang.
“I charge ye, then, by your oath to me and your word to my mother—find the men. Hunt them, and when they be found, I do charge ye wi’ the vengeance due my wife’s honor—and the blood of Mary Hawkins’s innocence.”
He paused a moment, then took his hand from the knife. The clansman raised it, holding it upright by the blade. Acknowledging my presence for the first time, he bowed his head toward me and said, “As the laird has spoken, lady, so I will do. I will lay vengeance at your feet.”
I licked dry lips, not knowing what to say. No response seemed necessary, though; he brought the dirk to his lips and kissed it, then straightened with decision and thrust it home in its sheath.
20
LA DAME BLANCHE
The dawn had broadened into day by the time we had changed our clothes, and breakfast was on its way up the stairs from the kitchen.
“What I want to know,” I said, pouring out the chocolate, “is who in bloody hell is La Dame Blanche?”
“La Dame Blanche?” Magnus, leaning over my shoulder with a basket of hot bread, started so abruptly that one of the rolls fell out of the basket. I fielded it neatly and turned round to look up at the butler,