Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [329]
“What is it?” I asked, opening the door. The messenger was a young boy, scarcely older than Fergus. He was trying to look grave and deferential, but couldn’t suppress his natural curiosity. I saw his eyes dart around the room, resting on the large medicine chest in the corner with fascination. Clearly the rumors concerning me had spread through the palace of Holyrood.
“His Highness has asked for ye, Mistress Fraser,” he answered. Bright brown eyes scanned me closely, no doubt looking for signs of supernatural possession. He seemed slightly disappointed at my depressingly normal appearance.
“Oh, has he?” I said. “Well, all right. Where is he, then?”
“In the morning drawing room, Mistress. I’m to take ye. Oh…” The thought struck him as he turned, and he swung back before I could close the door. “You’re to bring your box of medicines, if ye’d be so kind.”
My escort brimmed with self-importance at his mission as he escorted me down the long hallway to the Royal wing of the palace. Plainly someone had been schooling him in the behavior appropriate to a Royal page, but an occasional exuberant skip in his step betrayed his newness to the job.
What on earth did Charles want with me? I wondered. While he tolerated me on Jamie’s account, the story of La Dame Blanche had plainly disconcerted him and made him uneasy. More than once, I had surprised him crossing himself surreptitiously in my presence, or making the quick two-fingered “horns” sign against evil. The idea that he would ask me to treat him medically was unlikely in the extreme.
When the heavy cross-timbered door swung open into the small morning drawing room, it seemed still more unlikely. The Prince, plainly in good health, was leaning on the painted harpsichord, picking out a hesitant tune with one finger. His delicate skin was mildly flushed, but with excitement, not fever, and his eyes were clear and attentive when he looked up at me.
“Mistress Fraser! How kind of you to attend me so shortly!” He was dressed this morning with even more lavishness than usual, bewigged and wearing a new cream-colored silk waistcoat, embroidered with flowers. He must be excited about something, I thought; his English went to pot whenever he became agitated.
“My pleasure, Your Highness,” I said demurely, dropping a brief curtsy. He was alone, an unusual state of affairs. Could he want my medical services for himself after all?
He made a quick, nervous gesture toward one of the gold damask chairs, urging me to be seated. A second chair was pulled up, facing it, but he walked up and down in front of me, too restless to sit.
“I need your help,” he said abruptly.
“Um?” I made a politely inquiring noise. Gonorrhea? I wondered, scanning him covertly. I hadn’t heard of any women since Louise de La Tour, but then, it only took once. He worked his lips in and out, as though searching for some alternative to telling me, but finally gave it up.
“I have a capo—a chief, you understand?—here. He thinks of joining my Father’s cause, but has still some doubt.”
“A clan chieftain, you mean?” He nodded, brow furrowed beneath the careful curls of his wig.
“Oui, Madame. He is of course in support of my Father’s claims…”
“Oh, of course,” I murmured.
“…but he is wishing to speak to you, Madame, before he will commit his men to follow me.”
He sounded incredulous, hearing his own words, and I realized that the flush on his cheeks came from a combination of bafflement and suppressed fury.
I was more than a little baffled myself. My imagination promptly visualized a clan chieftain with some dread disease, whose adherence to the cause depended on my performing a miraculous cure.
“You’re sure he wants to speak to me?” I said. Surely my reputation hadn’t gone that far.
Charles inclined his head coldly in my direction. “So he says, Madame.”
“But I don’t know any clan chieftains,” I said. “Bar Glengarry and Lochiel, of