Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [300]
“You haven’t any evidence whatever that he’s a spy,” I said. “He says he stumbled on you by accident. Who wouldn’t be curious if they saw a fire out in the woods?”
Jamie nodded, following the argument. “Aye, and what about attempted murder? Spy or no, he tried to kill me, and admits as much.” He tenderly fingered the raw scratch at the side of his throat.
“Well, of course he did,” I said hotly. “He says he knew you were an outlaw. There’s a bloody price on your head, for heaven’s sake!”
Jamie rubbed his chin dubiously, at last turning to the prisoner. “Well, it’s a point,” he said. “William Grey, your advocate makes a good case for ye. It’s no the policy either of His Highness Prince Charles or myself to execute persons unlawfully, enemy or no.” He summoned Kincaid with a wave of the hand.
“Kincaid, you and Ross take this man in the direction he says his camp lies. If the information he gave us proves to be true, tie him to a tree a mile from the camp in the line of march. His friends will find him there tomorrow. If what he told us is not true…”—he paused, cold eyes bent on the prisoner—“cut his throat.”
He looked the boy in the face and said, without a shadow of mockery, “I give you your life. I hope ye’ll use it well.”
Moving behind me, he cut the cloth binding my wrists. As I turned furiously, he motioned toward the boy, who had sat down suddenly on the ground beneath the oak. “Perhaps ye’d be good enough to tend the boy’s arm before he goes?” The scowl of pretended ferocity had left his face, leaving it blank as a wall. His eyelids were lowered, preventing me from meeting his gaze.
Without a word, I went to the boy and sank to my knees beside him. He seemed dazed, and didn’t protest my examination, or the subsequent manipulations, though the handling must have been painful.
The split bodice of my gown kept sliding off my shoulders, and I muttered beneath my breath as I irritably hitched up one side or the other for the dozenth time. The bones of the boy’s forearm were light and angular under the skin, hardly thicker than my own. I splinted the arm and slung it, using my own kerchief. “It’s a clean break,” I told him, keeping my voice impersonal. “Try to keep it still for two weeks, at least.” He nodded, not looking at me.
Jamie had been sitting quietly on a log watching my ministrations. My breath coming unevenly, I walked up to him and slapped him as hard as I could. The blow left a white patch on one cheek and made his eyes water, but he didn’t move or change expression.
Kincaid pulled the boy to his feet and propelled him to the edge of the clearing with a hand at his back. At the edge of the shadows he halted and turned back. Avoiding looking at me, he spoke only to Jamie.
“I owe you my life,” he said formally. “I should greatly prefer not to, but since you have forced the gift upon me, I must regard it as a debt of honor. I shall hope to discharge that debt in the future, and once it is discharged…” The boy’s voice shook slightly with suppressed hatred, losing all its assumed formality in the utter sincerity of his feelings. “…I’ll kill you!”
Jamie rose from the log to his full height. His face was calm, free of any taint of amusement. He inclined his head gravely to his departing prisoner. “In that case, sir, I must hope that we do not meet again.”
The boy straightened his shoulders and returned the bow stiffly. “A Grey does not forget an obligation, sir,” he said, and vanished into the darkness, Kincaid at his elbow.
There was a discreet interval of breathless waiting, as the leaf-shuffling sounds of feet moved off through the darkness. Then the laughter started, first with a soft, fizzing noise through the nostrils of one man, then a tentative chuckle from another. Never raucous, still it gathered volume, spiraling round the circle of men.
Jamie took one step into the circle, face turned toward his men. The laughter stopped abruptly. Glancing down at me, he said briefly, “Go to the tent.