Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [339]
His face lightened as he saw me, and he came across the grass to where I knelt in the rockery.
“There you are,” he said. “Can ye come with me for a bit? And bring your wee basket along, if ye will.”
I scrambled to my feet, dusting the dried grass from the knees of my gown, and dropped my scraping knife into the basket.
“All right. Where are we going?”
“Colum’s sent word he wishes to speak with us. Both of us.”
“Where?” I asked, stretching my steps to keep up with his long stride down the path.
“The kirk in the Canongate.”
This was interesting. Whatever Colum wished to see us about, he clearly didn’t want the fact that he had spoken with us privately to be known in Holyrood.
Neither did Jamie; hence the basket. Passing arm in arm through the gate, my basket gave an apparent excuse for our venturing up the Royal Mile, whether it were to convey purchases home or distribute medicines to the men and their families quartered in the wynds and closes of Edinburgh.
Edinburgh sloped upward steeply along its one main street. Holyrood sat in dignity at the foot, the creaking Abbey vault alongside conferring a spurious air of gracious security. It loftily ignored the glowering presence of Edinburgh Castle, perched high on the crest of the rocky hill above. In between the two castles, the Royal Mile rose at a rough angle of forty-five degrees. Puffing redfaced at Jamie’s side, I wondered how in hell Colum MacKenzie had ever negotiated the quarter-mile of cobbled slope from the palace to the kirk.
We found Colum in the kirkyard, sitting on a stone bench where the late afternoon sun could warm his back. His blackthorn stick lay on the bench beside him, and his short, bowed legs dangled a few inches above the ground. Shoulders hunched and head bowed in thought, at a distance he looked like a gnome, a natural inhabitant of this man-made rock garden, with its tilted stones and creeping lichens. I eyed a prime specimen on a weathered vault, but supposed we had better not stop.
The grass was soundless under our feet, but Colum raised his head while we were still some distance away. There was nothing wrong with his senses, at least.
The shadow under a nearby lime tree moved slightly at our approach. There was nothing wrong with Angus Mhor’s senses, either. Satisfied of our identity, the big servant resumed his silent guardianship, becoming again part of the landscape.
Colum nodded in greeting and motioned to the seat beside him. Near at hand, there was no suggestion of the gnomish, despite his twisted body. Face-to-face, you saw nothing but the man within.
Jamie found me a seat on a nearby stone, before taking up the place indicated next to Colum. The marble was surprisingly cold, even through my thick skirts, and I shifted a bit, the carved skull and crossbones atop the memorial lumpy and uncomfortable under me. I saw the epitaph carved below it and grinned:
Here lies Martin Elginbrod,
Have mercie on my soul, Lord God,
As I would do were I Lord God,
And thou wert Martin Elginbrod.
Jamie raised one brow at me in warning, then turned back to Colum. “You asked to see us, Uncle?”
“I’ve a question for ye, Jamie Fraser,” Colum said, without preamble. “D’ye hold me as your kinsman?”
Jamie was silent for a moment, studying his uncle’s face. Then he smiled faintly.
“You’ve my mother’s eyes,” he said. “Shall I deny that?”
Colum looked startled for a moment. His eyes were the clear, soft gray of a dove’s wing, fringed thick with black lashes. For all their beauty, they could gleam cold as steel, and I wondered, not for the first time, just what Jamie’s mother had been like.
“You remember your mother? You were no more than a wee laddie when she died.”
Jamie’s mouth twisted slightly at this, but he answered calmly.
“Old enough. For that matter, my father’s house had a looking glass; I’m told I favor her a bit.”
Colum laughed shortly. “More than a bit.” He peered closely at Jamie, eyes squinting slightly in the bright sun. “Oh, aye, lad; you’re Ellen’s son, not a doubt of it.