Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [498]
I wouldn’t have thought it was possible for Roger to go any whiter, but he did. He swayed briefly, and the old lady, alarmed, reached out a hand to steady the cradleboard.
He caught himself, though, and nodded to the young woman with the water, to come closer.
“Parlez-vous francais?” he asked, and heads nodded, some with certainty, some with less.
“C’est bien,” he said, and taking a deep breath, lifted the cradleboard, showing the child to the congregation. The baby, a round-faced charmer with soft brown curls and a golden skin, blinked sleepily at the change of perspective.
“Hear the words of our Lord Jesus Christ,” he said clearly in French. “Obeying the word of our Lord Jesus, and sure of his presence with us, we baptize those whom he has called to be his own.”
Of course, I thought, watching him. He was the son of a priest, so to speak; he would often enough have seen the Reverend administer the sacrament of baptism. If he didn’t recall the entire service, he seemed to know the general form of it.
He had the baby passed from hand to hand among the congregation—for so his agreement had made them—following and asking questions of each person there, in a low voice.
“Qui est votre Seigneur, votre Sauveur?” Who is your Lord and Savior?
“Voulez-vous placer votre foi en Lui?” Do you have faith in Him?
“Do you promise to tell this child the good news of the gospel, and all that Christ commands, and by your fellowship, to strength his family ties with the household of God?”
Head after head bobbed in reply.
“Oui, certainement. Je le promets. Nous le ferons.” Yes, of course. I promise. We will.
At last Roger turned and gave the child to Jamie.
“Who is your Lord and Savior?”
“Jesus Christ,” he answered without hesitation, and the baby was handed on to me.
“Do you trust in him?”
I looked down into the face of innocence, and answered for it. “I do.”
He took the cradleboard, gave it to the grandmother, then dipping a sprig of juniper into the bowl of water, sprinkled water on the baby’s head.
“I baptize you—” he began, and stopped, with a sudden panicked glance at me.
“It’s a girl,” I murmured, and he nodded, lifting the sprig of juniper again.
“I baptize you, Alexandra, in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, Amen.”
After the small band of Christians had left, there were no more visitors. A warrior brought us wood for the fire, and some food, but he ignored Jamie’s questions and left, saying nothing.
“Do you think they’ll kill us?” Roger asked suddenly, after a period of silence. His mouth twitched in an attempted smile. “Kill me, I suppose I mean. Presumably the two of you are safe.”
He didn’t sound worried. Looking at the deep shadows and lines in his face, I thought that he was simply too exhausted to be afraid anymore.
“They won’t kill us,” I said, and pushed a hand through the tangle of my hair. I dimly realized that I, too, was exhausted; I had been without sleep for more than thirty-six hours.
“I started out to tell you. I spent last night in Tewaktenyonh’s house. The Council of Mothers met there.”
They hadn’t told me everything; they never would. But at the end of the long hours of ceremony and discussion, the girl who spoke English had told me as much as they wanted me to know, before they sent me back to Jamie.
“Some of the young men found the whisky cache,” I said. “They brought it back to the village yesterday, and started to drink. The women thought they didn’t mean anything dishonest, that they thought the bargain was already made. But then some argument started among them, just before they lit the fire to—to execute the priest. A fight broke out, and some of the men ran into the crowd, and—one thing led to another.” I rubbed a hand hard over my face, trying to keep my thoughts clear enough to speak.
“A man was killed in the fighting.” I glanced at Roger. “They think you killed him; did you?”
He shook his head, shoulders slumping with tiredness.
“I don’t know. I—probably. What will they do about it?”
“Well, it took them a long time to decide,