Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [463]
The man’s despair was so plain, Roger laid a hand on the priest’s forearm, wanting urgently to assuage it.
“Are you sure? You said that in time of need—”
“It is not that.” He laid his hand on top of Roger’s, squeezing tight, as though he might draw strength from the other’s grip.
Roger said nothing. After a moment, Alexandre’s head rose and the priest looked him in the face. The light outside had changed; there was a faint glow, a brightness in the air just short of light. His own breath rose white from his mouth, like smoke rising toward the hole above.
“Even though I confess, I will not be forgiven. There must be true repentance in order to obtain absolution; I must reject my sin. And that I cannot do.”
He fell silent. Roger didn’t know whether to speak, or what to say. A priest, he supposed, would have said something like “Yes, my son?” but he couldn’t. Instead, he took Alexandre’s other hand in his, and held it tightly.
“My sin was to love her,” Alexandre said, very softly, “and that I cannot stop.”
57
A SHATTERED SMILE
“Two Spears is agreeable. The matter must be spoken of before the Council, and accepted, but I think it will be done.” Jamie slouched against a pine tree, slumping a little in exhaustion. We had been in the village for a week; he had been with the sachem of the village for the greater part of the last three days. I had barely seen him or Ian, but had been entertained by the women, who were polite but distant. I kept my amulet carefully out of sight.
“Then they do have him?” I asked, and felt the knot of anxiety that had traveled with me for so long begin to loosen. “Roger’s really here?” So far, the Mohawks had been unwilling to admit either to Roger’s continued existence—or the alternative.
“Aye, well, as to that, the auld bugger’s no admitting it—for fear I should try to steal him away, I suppose—but either he’s here or he’s not far off. If the Council approves the bargain, we’ll exchange the whisky for the man in three days time—and be off.” He glanced at the heavy-laden clouds that hid the distant mountains. “God, I hope that’s rain coming, and not snow.”
“Do you think there’s any chance the Council won’t agree?”
He sighed deeply and ran a hand through his hair. It was unbound and fell rumpled over his shoulders; evidently the negotiations had been difficult.
“Aye, there’s a chance. They want the whisky, but they’re wary of it. Some of the older men will be against the bargain, for fear of the damage liquor might do to the folk; the younger men are all for it. Some in the middle say aye, take it; they can use the liquor in trade if they’re fearful of using it.”
“Wakatihsnore told you all that?” I was surprised. The sachem, Acts Fast, seemed much too cool and wily a customer for such openness.
“Not him: wee Ian.” Jamie smiled briefly. “The lad shows great promise as a spy, I will say. He’s eaten at every hearth in the village, and he’s found a lassie who’s taken a great liking to him. She tells Ian what the Council of Mothers is thinking.”
I hunched my shoulders and pulled my cloak tight around them; our perch on the rocks outside the village made us safe from interruption, but the price of visibility was exposure to the bitter wind.
“And what does the Council of Mothers say?” A week spent in a longhouse had given me some idea of the importance of the women’s opinions in the scheme of things; though they didn’t make direct decisions about general affairs, very little would be done without their approval.
“They could wish I offered some ransom other than whisky, and they’re none so sure about giving up the man; more than one lady has a small fancy for him. They wouldna mind adopting him into the tribe.” Jamie’s mouth twisted at that, and I laughed despite my worry.
“Roger’s a nice-looking lad,” I said.
“I’ve seen him,” Jamie said shortly. “Most of the men think he’s an ugly, hairy bastard. Of course, they think that of me, too.” One side of his mouth lifted reluctantly, as he brushed a hand over his jaw; knowing the Indians’ dislike of facial