Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [521]
“Ferreolus,” I went on with some enjoyment, “is the patron saint of sick poultry. Christian martyr. He was a Roman tribune and a secret Christian. Having been found out, he was chained up in the prison cesspool to await trial—I suppose the cells must have been full. Sounds rather a daredevil; he slipped his chains and escaped through the sewer. They caught up with him, though, dragged him back and beheaded him.”
Jamie looked blank.
“What has that got to do wi’ chickens?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea. Take it up with the Vatican,” I advised him.
“Mmphm. Aye, well, I’ve always been fond of Saint Guignole, myself.” I could see the glint in his eye, but couldn’t resist.
“And what’s he the patron of?”
“He’s invoked against impotence.” The glint got stronger. “I saw a statue of him in Brest once; they did say it had been there for a thousand years. ’Twas a miraculous statue—it had a cock like a gun muzzle, and—”
“A what?”
“Well, the size wasna the miraculous bit,” he said, waving me to silence. “Or not quite. The townsfolk say that for a thousand years, folk have whittled away bits of it as holy relics, and yet the cock is still as big as ever.” He grinned at me. “They do say that a man wi’ a bit of St. Guignole in his pocket can last a night and a day without tiring.”
“Not with the same woman, I don’t imagine,” I said dryly. “It does rather make you wonder what he did to merit sainthood, though, doesn’t it?”
He laughed.
“Any man who’s had his prayer answered could tell ye that, Sassenach.” He swiveled on his stool, looking out the open door. Brianna and Lizzie sat on the grass, skirts blooming around them, watching the baby, who lay naked on an old shawl on his stomach, red-arsed as a baboon.
Brianna Ellen, I wrote neatly, then paused.
“Brianna Ellen Randall, do you think?” I asked. “Or Fraser? Or both?”
He didn’t turn around, but his shoulder moved in the faintest of shrugs.
“Does it matter?”
“It might.” I blew across the page, watching the shiny black letters go dull as the ink dried. “If Roger comes back—whether he stays or not—if he chooses to acknowledge little Anonymous, I suppose his name will be MacKenzie. If he doesn’t or won’t, then I imagine the baby takes his mother’s name.”
He was silent for a moment, watching the two girls. They had washed their hair in the creek that morning; Lizzie was combing out Brianna’s mane, the long strands shimmering like red silk in the summer sun.
“She calls herself Fraser,” he said softly. “Or she did.”
I put down my quill and reached across the table to lay a hand on his arm.
“She’s forgiven you,” I said. “You know she has.”
His shoulders moved; not quite a shrug, but the unconscious attempt to ease some inner tightness.
“For now,” he said. “But if the man doesna come?”
I hesitated. He was quite right; Brianna had forgiven him for his original mistake. Still, if Roger did not appear soon, she would be bound to blame Jamie for it—not without reason, I was forced to admit.
“Use both,” he said abruptly. “Let her choose.” I didn’t think he meant last names.
“He’ll come,” I said firmly, “and it will be all right.”
I picked up the quill, and added, not quite under my breath. “I hope.”
He stooped to drink, the water splashing over dark green rock. It was a warm day; spring now, not autumn, but the moss was still emerald-green underfoot.
The memory of a razor was far behind him; his beard was thick and his hair hung past his shoulders. He’d bathed in a creek the night before, and done his best to wash himself and his clothes, but he had no illusions about his appearance. Neither did he care, he told himself. What he looked like didn’t matter.
He turned toward the path where he had left his horse, limping. His foot ached, but that didn’t matter either.
He rode slowly through the clearing where he had first met Jamie Fraser. The leaves were new and green, and in the distance he could hear the raucous calling of