Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [334]
“She used witchcraft, according to the verdict of the court.” The court that condemned her to death, in accordance with your plan, I thought. “Or do you not believe in witchcraft?” I asked.
He laughed, a pure, carefree sound in the sunlit room. “A man who doesn’t believe in God can scarce credit power to Satan, can he?”
I still hesitated, but he was a man who judged others as shrewdly as he did himself. He had asked my pardon before asking my favor, and satisfied himself that I had a sense of justice—or of mercy. And it was, as he said, appropriate. I opened the box and took out the small vial of cyanide that I kept to kill rats.
“I thank ye, Mistress Claire,” he said, formal again, though the smile still lingered in his eyes. “Had my nephew not proved your innocence with such flamboyance at Cranesmuir, still I would never believe you a witch. I have no more notion now than I had at our first meeting, as to who you are, or why you are here, but a witch is not one of the possibilities I’ve ever considered.” He paused, one brow raised. “I don’t suppose you’d be inclined to tell me who—or what—you are?”
I hesitated for a moment. But a man with belief in neither God nor Devil was not likely to believe the truth of my presence here, either. I squeezed his fingers lightly and released them.
“Better call me a witch,” I said. “It’s as close as you’re likely to get.”
* * *
On my way out to the courtyard next morning, I met Lord Balmerino on the stairs.
“Oh, Mistress Fraser!” he greeted me jovially. “Just who I was looking for.”
I smiled at him; a chubby, cheerful man, he was one of the refreshing features of life in Holyrood.
“If it isn’t fever, flux, or French pox,” I said, “can it wait for a moment? My husband and his uncle are giving a demonstration of Highland sword-fighting for the benefit of Don Francisco de la Quintana.”
“Oh, really? I must say, I should like to see that myself.” Balmerino fell into step beside me, head bobbing cheerfully at the level of my shoulder. “I do like a pretty man with a sword,” he said. “And anything that will sweeten the Spaniards has my most devout approval.”
“Mine, too.” Deeming it too dangerous for Fergus to lift His Highness’s correspondence inside Holyrood, Jamie was dependent for information on what he learned from Charles himself. This seemed to be quite a lot, though; Charles considered Jamie one of his intimates—virtually the only Highland chief to be accorded such a mark of favor, small as was his contribution in men and money.
So far as money went, though, Charles had confided that he had high hopes of support from Philip of Spain, whose latest letter to James in Rome had been distinctly encouraging. Don Francisco, while not quite an envoy, was certainly a member of the Spanish Court, and might be relied upon to carry back his report of how matters stood with the Stuart rising. This was Charles’s opportunity to see how far his own belief in his destiny would carry him, in convincing Highland chiefs and foreign kings to join him.
“What did you want to see me for?” I asked as we came out onto the walkway that edged the courtyard of Holyrood. A small crowd of spectators was assembling, but neither Don Francisco nor the two combatants were yet in sight.
“Oh!” Reminded, Lord Balmerino groped inside his coat. “Nothing of great importance, my dear lady. I received these from one of my messengers, who obtained them from a kinsman to the South. I thought you might find them amusing.”
He handed me a thin sheaf of crudely printed papers. I recognized them as broadsheets, the popular circulars distributed in taverns or that fluttered from doorposts and hedges through towns and villages.
* * *
“Charles Edward Stuart, known to all as The Younge Pretender” read one. “Be it Known to all Present that this Depraved and Dangerous Person, having landed Unlawfully upon the shores of Scotland, hath Incited to Riot the Population