Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [342]
“Go home to Leoch, Uncle,” he said. “And keep your men there.”
Colum sat motionless for a long minute, looking straight at me. Finally, his mouth curled upward, but the expression was not quite a smile.
“I nearly stopped Ned Gowan, when he went to keep you from burning,” he said to me. “I suppose I’m glad I didn’t.”
“Thanks,” I said, my tone matching his.
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck with a calloused hand, as though it ached under the weight of leadership.
“Well, then. I shall see His Highness in the morning, and tell him my decision.” The hand descended, lying inert on the stone bench, halfway between him and his nephew. “I thank ye, Jamie, for your advice.” He hesitated, then added, “And may God go with you.”
Jamie leaned forward and laid his hand over Colum’s. He smiled his mother’s wide, sweet smile and said, “And with you, too, mo caraidh.”
* * *
The Royal Mile was busy, thronged with people taking advantage of the brief hours of warmth. We walked in silence through the crowd, my hand tucked deep into the crook of Jamie’s elbow. Finally he shook his head, muttering something to himself in Gaelic.
“You did right,” I said to him, answering the thought rather than the words. “I would have done the same. Whatever happens, at least the MacKenzies will be safe.”
“Aye, perhaps.” He nodded to a greeting from a passing officer, jostling through the crowd that surrounded the World’s End. “But what of the rest—the MacDonalds and MacGillivrays, and the others that have come? Will they be destroyed now, where maybe they wouldn’t, had I had the nerve to tell Colum to join them?” He shook his head, face clouded. “There’s no knowing, is there, Sassenach?”
“No,” I said softly, squeezing his arm. “Never enough. Or maybe too much. But we can’t do nothing on that account, surely?”
He gave me a half-smile back, and pressed my hand against his side.
“No, Sassenach. I dinna suppose we can. And it’s done now, and naught can change it, so it’s no good worrying. The MacKenzies will stay out of it.”
The sentry at the gate of Holyrood was a MacDonald, one of Glengarry’s men. He recognized Jamie and nodded us into the courtyard, barely looking up from his louse-searching. The warm weather made the vermin active, and as they left their cozy nests in crotch and armpit, often they could be surprised while crossing the perilous terrain of shirt or tartan and removed from the body of their host.
Jamie said something to him in Gaelic, smiling. The man laughed, picked something from his shirt, and flicked it at Jamie, who pretended to catch it, eyed the imaginary beastie critically, then, with a wink at me, popped it into his mouth.
* * *
“Er, how is your son’s head, Lord Kilmarnock?” I inquired politely as we stepped out together onto the floor of Holyrood’s Great Gallery. I didn’t care greatly, but I thought as the topic couldn’t be avoided altogether, it was perhaps better to air it in a place where hostility was unlikely to be openly exhibited.
The Gallery met that criterion, I thought. The long, high-ceiled room with its two vast fireplaces and towering windows had been the scene of frequent balls and parties since Charles’s triumphant entry into Edinburgh in September. Now, crowded with the luminaries of Edinburgh’s upper class, all anxious to do honor to their Prince—once it appeared that he might actually win—the room positively glittered. Don Francisco, the guest of honor, stood at the far end of the room with Charles, dressed in the depressing Spanish style, with baggy dark pantaloons, shapeless coat, and even a small ruff, which seemed to provoke considerable suppressed amusement among the younger and more fashionable element.
“Oh, well enough, Mistress Fraser,” replied Kilmarnock imperturbably. “A dunt on the skull will not discommode a lad of that age for long; though his pride may take a bit more mending,” he added, with