Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [337]
Fergus most definitely fell into the latter group. Taking umbrage at a disparaging remark of Johnny’s about “bonnet lairds,” which he had—quite accurately—interpreted as an insult to Jamie, Fergus had been forcibly prevented from assaulting Johnny in the rock garden a few days before. Jamie had administered swift justice on a physical level, and then pointed out to Fergus that while loyalty was an admirable virtue, and highly prized by its recipient, stupidity was not.
“That lad is two years older than you, and two stone heavier,” he had said, shaking Fergus gently by the shoulder. “D’ye think you’ll help me by getting your own head knocked in? There’s times to fight wi’out counting the cost, but there’s times ye bite your tongue and bide your time. “Ne pétez plus haut que votre cul, eh?”
Fergus had nodded, wiping his tear-stained cheeks with the tail of his shirt, but I had my doubts as to whether Jamie’s words had made much impression on him. I didn’t like the speculative look I saw now in those wide black eyes, and thought that had Johnny been a trifle brighter, he would have been standing between me and his father.
Jamie dropped halfway to one knee, with a murderous jab upward that brought his blade whizzing past Dougal’s ear. The MacKenzie jerked back, looking startled for a moment, then grinned with a flash of white teeth, and banged his blade flat on top of Jamie’s head, with a resounding clong.
I heard the sound of applause from across the square. The fight was degenerating from elegant French duel into Highland brawl, and the spectators were thoroughly enjoying the joke of it.
Lord Kilmarnock, also hearing the sound, looked across the square and grimaced sourly.
“His Highness’s advisers are summoned to meet the Spaniard,” he observed sarcastically. “O’Sullivan, and that ancient fop Tullibardine. Does he take advice of Lord Elcho? Balmerino, Lochiel, or even my humble self?”
This was plainly a rhetorical question, and I contented myself with a faint murmur of sympathy, keeping my eyes on the fighters. The clash of steel rang off the stones, nearly drowning out Kilmarnock’s words. Once having started, though, he seemed unable to contain his bitterness.
“No, indeed!” he said. “O’Sullivan and O’Brien and the rest of the Irish; they risk nothing! If the worst should ever happen, they can plead immunity from prosecution by reason of their nationality. But we—we who are risking property, honor—life itself! We are ignored and treated like common dragoons. I said good morning to His Highness yesterday, and he swept by me, nose in the air, as though I had committed a breach in etiquette by so addressing him!”
Kilmarnock was plainly furious, and with good reason. Ignoring the men whom he had charmed and courted into providing the men and money for his adventure, Charles then had rejected them, turning to the comfort of his old advisers from the Continent—most of whom regarded Scotland as a howling wilderness, and its inhabitants as little more than savages.
There was a whoop of surprise from Dougal, and a wild laugh from Jamie. Dougal’s left sleeve hung free from the shoulder, the flesh beneath brown and smooth, unmarred by a scratch or a drop of blood.
“I’ll pay ye for that, wee Jamie,” Dougal said, grinning. Droplets of sweat ran down his face.
“Will ye, Uncle?” Jamie panted. “With what?” A flash of metal, judged to a nicety, and Dougal’s sporran flew jingling across the stones, clipped free from the belt.
I caught a movement from the corner of my eye, and turned my head sharply.
“Fergus!” I said.
Kilmarnock turned in the direction I was looking, and saw Fergus. The boy carried a large stick in one hand, with a casualness so assumed as to be laughable, if it weren’t for the implicit threat.
“Don’t trouble yourself, my lady Broch Tuarach,” said Lord Kilmarnock, after a brief glance. “You may depend upon my son to defend himself honorably, if the occasion demands it.” He beamed indulgently at Johnny, then turned back to the swordsmen. I turned back, too, but kept an ear cocked