The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [526]
“Maybe so.” He hadn’t meant the oncoming war, and he didn’t think Jamie had, either.
“As to bears, though . . .” Jamie stood still, eyes steady. “There’s a deal of difference, ye ken, between meeting a bear unawares—and hunting one.”
THE SUN STILL WASN’T VISIBLE, but it wasn’t necessary, either. Noon came as a rumbling in the belly, a soreness of the hands; a sudden awareness of the weariness of back and legs as timely as the chiming of a grandfather’s clock. The last large rock fell into place, and Jamie straightened up, gasping for breath.
By unspoken but mutual consent, they sat down with the packet of food, clean shirts draped across bare shoulders, against the chill of drying sweat.
Jamie chewed industriously, washing down a large bite with a gulp of ale. He made an involuntary face, pursed his lips to spit, then changed his mind and swallowed.
“Ach! Mrs. Lizzie’s been at the mash again.” He grimaced and took a remedial bite of biscuit, to erase the taste.
Roger grinned at his father-in-law’s face.
“What’s she put in it this time?” Lizzie had been trying her hand at flavored ales—with indifferent success.
Jamie sniffed warily at the mouth of the stone bottle.
“Anise?” he suggested, passing the bottle to Roger.
Roger smelt it, wrinkling up his nose involuntarily at the alcoholic whiff.
“Anise and ginger,” he said. Nevertheless, he took a cautious sip. He made the same face Jamie had, and emptied the bottle over a compliant blackberry vine.
“Waste not, want not, but . . .”
“It’s nay waste to keep from poisoning ourselves.” Jamie heaved himself up, took the emptied bottle, and set off toward the small stream on the far side of the field.
He came back, sat down, and handed Roger the bottle of water. “I’ve had word of Stephen Bonnet.”
It was said so casually that Roger didn’t register the meaning of the words at first.
“Have you?” he said at last. Piccalilli relish was oozing over his hand. Roger wiped the relish from his wrist with a finger, and put it into his mouth, but didn’t take another bite of sandwich; his appetite had vanished.
“Aye. I dinna ken where he is now—but I ken where he’ll be come next April—or rather, where I can cause him to be. Six months, and then we kill him. Do ye think that will give ye time?”
He was looking at Roger, calm as though he had suggested an appointment with a banker, rather than an appointment with death.
Roger could believe in netherworlds—and demons, too. He hadn’t dreamed last night, but the demon’s face floated always at the edge of his mind, just out of sight. Time to summon him, perhaps, and bring him into view. You had to call a demon up, didn’t you, before you could exorcise him?
There were preparations to make, though, before that could happen. He flexed his shoulders and his arms once more, this time in anticipation. The soreness had mostly gone.
“There’s mony an ane for him maks mane
but nane shall ken where he is gane.
O’er his white banes when they are bare,
The wind shall blaw forever mair, O—
The wind shall blaw forever mair.”
“Aye,” he said. “That’ll do.”
87
EN GARDE
FOR A MOMENT, he didn’t think he was going to be able to lift his hand to the latch-string. Both arms hung as though weighted with lead, and the small muscles of his forearm jumped and trembled with exhaustion. It took two tries, and even then, he could do no more than catch the string clumsily between two middle fingers; his thumb wouldn’t close.
Brianna heard him fumbling; the door opened suddenly and his hand fell nerveless from the latch. He had no more than a glimpse of tumbled hair and a beaming face with a smear of soot down one cheek, and then she had her arms around him, her mouth on his, and he was home.
“You’re back!” she said, letting go.
“I am.” And glad of it, too. The cabin smelt of hot food and lye soap, with a clean, faint tang of juniper overlaying the smoke of reed candles and the muskier scents of human occupation. He smiled at her, suddenly a little less tired.
“Dadee,