The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [111]
“Seas ri mo làmh, Roger an t’òranaiche, mac Jeremiah MacChoinneich!” Stand by my hand, Roger the singer, son of Jeremiah MacKenzie. Roger stood stock-still for a moment, eyes dark on Jamie, then moved toward him, like one sleepwalking. The crowd was still excited, but the shouting had died down, and people craned to hear what was said.
“Stand by me in battle,” he said in Gaelic, his eyes fixed on Roger, left hand extended. He spoke slowly and clearly, to be sure of understanding. “Be a shield for my family—and for yours, son of my house.”
Roger’s expression seemed suddenly to dissolve, like a face seen in water when a stone is tossed into it. Then it solidified once more, and he clasped Jamie’s hand, squeezing hard.
Jamie turned to the crowd then, and began the calling. This was something I had seen him do before, many years before, in Scotland. A formal invitation and identification of tenants by a laird, it was a small ceremony often done on a quarter-day or after the harvest. Faces lighted here and there with recognition; many of the Highland Scots knew the custom, though they would not have seen it in this land before tonight.
“Come to me, Geordie Chisholm, son of Walter, son of Connaught the Red!”
“Stand with me, a Choinneich, Evan, Murdo, you sons of Alexander Lindsay of the Glen!”
“Come to my side, Joseph Wemyss, son of Donald, son of Robert!” I smiled to see Mr. Wemyss, flustered but terribly pleased at this public inclusion, make his way toward us, head proudly raised, fair hair flying wild in the wind of the great fire.
“Stand by me, Josiah the hunter!”
Was Josiah Beardsley here? Yes, he was; a slight, dark form slid out of the shadows, to take up a shy place in the group near Jamie. I caught his eye and smiled at him; he looked hastily away, but a small, embarrassed smile clung to his lips, as though he had forgotten it was there.
It was an impressive group by the time he had finished—nearly forty men, gathered shoulder-close and flushed as much with pride as with whisky. I saw Roger exchange a long look with Brianna, who was beaming across the fire at him. She bent her head to whisper something to Jemmy, who was submerged in his blankets, half-asleep in her arms. She picked up one of his wee paws and waved it limply toward Roger, who laughed.
“. . . Air mo mhionnan . . .” Distracted, I had missed Jamie’s final statement, catching only the last few words. Whatever he had said met with approval, though; there was a low rumble of solemn assent from the men around us, and a moment’s silence.
Then he let go my hand, stooped, and picked up a branch from the ground. Lighting this, he held it aloft, then threw the blazing brand high into the air. It tumbled end over end as it fell straight down, into the heart of the fire.
“The Frasers of the Ridge are here!” he bellowed, and the clearing erupted in a massive cheer.
As we made our way back up the slope to resume the interrupted festivities, I found myself next to Roger, who was humming something cheerful under his breath. I put a hand on his sleeve, and he looked down at me, smiling.
“Congratulations,” I said, smiling back. “Welcome to the family—son of the house.”
He grinned enormously.
“Thanks,” he said. “Mum.”
We came to a level spot, and walked side by side for a moment, not speaking. Then he said, in a quite different tone, “That was . . . something quite special, wasn’t it?”
I didn’t know whether he meant historically special, or special in personal terms. In either case, he was right, and I nodded.
“I didn’t catch all of the last bit, though,” I said. “And I don’t know what earbsachd means—do you?”
“Oh . . . aye. I know.” It was quite dark here between the fires; I could see no more of him than a darker smudge against the black of shrub and tree. There was an odd note in his voice, though. He cleared his throat.
“It’s an oath—of a sort. He—Jamie—he swore an oath to us, to his family and tenants. Support, protection, that kind of thing.”
“Oh, yes?” I said, mildly puzzled. “What do you mean,