Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [346]
My mouth felt dry with too much wine. I licked my lips before answering, to moisten them.
“I suppose so. Damn! Why couldn’t Colum have waited a little longer? Just ’til the morning, when he could have seen Charles?”
Jamie smiled lopsidedly.
“I dinna suppose he had so much to say about it, Sassenach. Few men get to choose the hour of their death.”
“Colum meant to.” I had been of two minds whether to tell Jamie what had passed between me and Colum at our first meeting in Holyrood, but now there was no point in keeping Colum’s secrets.
Jamie shook his head in disbelief and sighed, his shoulders slumping under the revelation that Colum had meant to take his own life.
“I wonder then,” he murmured, half to himself. “Was it a sign, do ye think, Claire?”
“A sign?”
“Colum’s death now, before he could do as he meant to and refuse Charles’s plea for help. Is it a sign that Charles is destined to win his fight?”
I remembered my last sight of Colum. Death had come for him as he sat in bed, a glass of brandy untouched near his hand. He had met it as he wished, then, clearheaded and alert; his head had fallen back, but his eyes were wide open, dulled to the sights he had left behind. His mouth was pressed tight, the habitual lines carved deep from nose to chin. The pain that was his constant companion had accompanied him as far as it could.
“God knows,” I said at last.
“Aye?” he said, voice once more muffled in his arms. “Aye, well. I hope somebody does.”
38
A BARGAIN WITH THE DEVIL
Catarrh settled on Edinburgh like the cloud of cold rain that masked the Castle from sight on its hill. Water ran day and night in the streets, and if the cobbles were temporarily clean of sewage, the relief from stench was more than made up for by the splatter of expectorations that slimed every close and wynd, and the choking cloud of fireplace smoke that filled every room from waist-height to ceiling.
Cold and miserable as the weather was outside, I found myself spending a good deal of time walking the grounds of Holyrood and the Canongate. A faceful of rain seemed preferable to lungfuls of woodsmoke and germ-filled air indoors. The sounds of coughing and sneezing rang through the Palace, though the constraint of His Highness’s genteel presence caused most hawking sufferers to spit into filthy handerchiefs or the Delft-lined fireplaces, rather than on the polished Scotch oak floors.
The light failed early at this time of year, and I turned back, halfway up the High Street, in order to reach Holyrood before dark. I had no fear at all of assault in the darkness; even had I not been known by now to all the Jacobite troops occupying the city, the prevailing horror of fresh air kept everyone indoors.
Men still well enough to leave their homes on business completed their errands with dispatch before diving thankfully into the smoke-filled sanctuary of Jenny Ha’s tavern, and stayed there, nestled cozily into warm airlessness, where the smell of damp wool, unwashed bodies, whisky, and ale nearly succeeded in overcoming the reek of the stove.
My only fear was of losing my footing in the dark and breaking an ankle on the slippery cobbles. The city was lit only by the feeble lanterns of the town watchmen, and these had a disconcerting habit of ducking from doorway to doorway, appearing and disappearing like fireflies. And sometimes disappearing altogether for half an hour at a time, as the lantern-bearer darted into The World’s End at the bottom of the Canongate for a life-saving draught of hot ale.
I eyed the faint glow over the Canongate kirk, estimating how much time remained ’til dark. With luck, I might have time to stop at Mr. Haugh’s apothecary’s shop. While boasting nothing of the variety to be found in Raymond’s Paris emporium, Mr. Haugh did a sound trade in horse chestnuts and slippery-elm bark, and usually was able to provide me with peppermint and barberry, as well. At this time of year, his chief income was derived from the sale of camphor balls, considered a sovereign