Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [372]
I sat down quietly in a corner with my glass of port, and kept quiet while Simon questioned Jamie once again about Charles Stuart’s situation and prospects.
For the twentieth time in a week, Jamie patiently rehearsed the number of troops available, the structure of command—insofar as one existed—the armament on hand and its condition—mostly poor—the prospects of Charles being joined by Lord Lewis Gordon or the Farquharsons, what Glengarry had said following Prestonpans, what Cameron knew or deduced of the movement of English troops, why Charles had decided to march south, and so on and so forth. I found myself nodding over the cup in my hand, and jerked myself into wakefulness, just in time to keep the ruby liquid from tipping onto my skirt.
“…and Lord George Murray and Kilmarnock both think His Highness would be best advised to pull back into the Highlands for the winter,” Jamie concluded, yawning widely. Cramped on the narrow-backed chair he had been given, he rose and stretched, his shadow flickering on the pale hangings that covered the stone walls.
“And what d’ye think, yourself?” Old Simon’s eyes glittered under half-fallen lids as he leaned back in his chair. The fire burned high and bright on the hearth; Frances had smoored the fire in the main hall, covering it with peats, but this one had been rekindled at Lovat’s order, and with wood, not peat. The smell of pine resin from the burning wood was sharp, mingled with the thicker smell of smoke.
The light cast Jamie’s shadow high on the wall as he turned restlessly, not wanting to sit down again. It was close and dark in the small study, with the window draped against the night—very different from the open, sunny kirkyard in which Column had asked him the same question. And the situation now had shifted; no longer the popular darling to whom clan chieftains deferred, Charles now was sending to the chiefs, grimly calling in his obligations. But the shape of the problem was the same—a dark, amorphous shape, hanging like a shadow over us.
“I’ve told ye what I think—a dozen times or more.” Jamie spoke abruptly. He moved his shoulders impatiently, shrugging as though the fit of his coat was too tight.
“Oh, aye. You’ve told me. But this time I think we shall have the truth.” The old man settled more comfortably into his padded chair, hands linked across his belly.
“Will ye, then?” Jamie uttered a short laugh, and turned to face his grandfather. He leaned back against the table, hands braced behind him. Despite the differences in posture and figure, there was a tension between the two men that brought out a fugitive resemblance between them. The one tall and the other squat, but both of them strong, stubborn, and determined to win this encounter.
“Am I not your kinsman? And your chief? I command your loyalty, do I not?”
So that was the point. Colum, so accustomed to physical weakness, had known the secret of turning another man’s weakness to his own purposes. Simon Fraser, strong and vigorous even in old age, was accustomed to getting his own way by more direct means. I could see from the sour smile on Jamie’s face that he, too, was contrasting Colum’s appeal with his grandfather’s demand.
“Can ye? I dinna recall that I’ve sworn ye an oath.”
Several long stiff hairs grew out of Simon’s eyebrows, in the way of old men. These quivered in the firelight, though I couldn’t tell whether with indignation or amusement.
“Oath, is it? And is it not Fraser blood in your veins?”
Jamie’s mouth twisted wryly as he answered. “They do say that it’s a wise child as kens his own father, no? My mother was a MacKenzie; I know that much.”
Simon’s face grew dark with blood, and his brows drew together. Then his mouth fell open, and he shouted with laughter. He laughed until he was forced to pull himself up in the chair and bend