Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [193]
“It’s a good sign, don’t you think?” I asked, with a cautious glance to be sure our companions were indeed fast asleep. “Louis giving the Duke permission to buy horses, I mean. If he’s making gestures toward the English, then he’s presumably not inclined to be sympathetic to James Stuart—at least not openly.”
Jamie shook his head. He declined absolutely to wear a wig, and the bold, clean shape of his polled head had occasioned no little excitement at Court. It had its advantages at the present moment; while a faint sheen of perspiration glowed on the bridge of his long, straight nose, he wasn’t nearly as wilted as I.
“No, I’m fairly sure now that Louis means to have nothing to do with the Stuarts—at least so far as any move toward restoration goes. Monsieur Duverney assures me that the Council is entirely opposed to any such thing; while Louis may eventually yield to the Pope’s urgings so far as to make Charles a small allowance, he isna disposed to bring the Stuarts into any kind of prominence in France, wi’ Geordie of England looking over his shoulder.” He wore his plaid today pinned with a brooch at the shoulder—a beautiful thing his sister had sent him from Scotland, made in the shape of two running stags, bodies bent so that they joined in a circle, heads and tails touching. He pulled up a fold of the plaid and wiped his face with it.
“I think I’ve spoken with every banker in Paris of any substance over the last months, and they’re united in basic disinterest.” He smiled wryly. “Money’s none so plentiful that anyone wants to back a dicey proposition like the Stuart restoration.”
“And that,” I said, stretching my back with a groan, “leaves Spain.”
Jamie nodded. “It does. And Dougal MacKenzie.” He looked smug, and I sat up, intrigued.
“Have you heard from him?” Despite an initial wariness, Dougal had accepted Jamie as a devoted fellow Jacobite, and the usual crop of coded letters had been augmented by a series of discreet communications sent by Dougal from Spain, meant to be read by Jamie and passed on to Charles Stuart.
“I have indeed.” I could tell from his expression that it was good news, and it was—though not for the Stuarts.
“Philip has declined to lend any assistance to the Stuarts,” Jamie said. “He’s had word from the papal office, ye ken; he’s to keep awa’ from the whole question of the Scottish throne.”
“Do we know why?” The latest interception from a papal messenger had contained several letters, but as these were all addressed to James or Charles Stuart, they might well contain no reference to His Holiness’s conversations with Spain.
“Dougal thinks he knows.” Jamie laughed. “He’s fair disgusted, is Dougal. Said he’d been kept cooling his heels in Toledo for nearly a month, and sent awa’ at last with no more than a vague promise of aid ‘in the fullness of time, Deo volente.’ ” His deep voice captured a pious intonation perfectly, and I laughed myself.
“Benedict wants to avoid friction between Spain and France; he doesna want Philip and Louis wasting money that he might have a use for, ye ken,” he added cynically. “It’s hardly fitting for a pope to say so, but Benedict has his doubts as to whether a Catholic king could hold England anymore. Scotland’s got its Catholic chiefs among the Highland clans, but it’s some time since England owned a Catholic king—likely to be the hell of a lot longer before they do again—Deo volente,” he added, grinning.
He scratched his head, ruffling the short red-gold hair above his temple. “It looks verra dim for the Stuarts, Sassenach, and that’s good news. No, there’ll be no aid from the Bourbon monarchs. The only thing that concerns me now is this investment Charles Stuart’s made with the Comte St. Germain.”
“You don’t think it’s just a business arrangement, then?”
“Well, it is,” he said, frowning, “and yet there’s more behind it. I’ve heard talk, aye?”
While the banking families of Paris were not inclined to take the Young Pretender to the throne of Scotland with any seriousness, that