The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [95]
Father Kenneth put down his cup and straightened up, his working eye bright in the lamplight.
“They wish me to sign an oath, sir,” he said to Jamie, with a gesture at the paper and quill on the table before him. “To the effect that I do not subscribe to a belief in transubstantiation.”
“Do they, indeed.” Jamie’s voice betrayed no more than polite interest, but I understood at once what the priest had meant by his remark regarding conscience.
“Well, he can’t do that, can he?” I said, looking round the circle of men. “Catholics—I mean—we”—I spoke with some emphasis, looking at Mr. Goodwin—“do believe in transubstantiation. Don’t we?” I asked, turning to the priest, who smiled slightly in response, and nodded.
Mr. Goodwin looked unhappy, but resigned, his alcoholic joviality substantially reduced by the social awkwardness.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Fraser, but that is the law. The only circumstance under which a clergyman who does not belong to the established Church may remain in the colony—legally—is upon the signing of such an oath. Many do sign it. You know the Reverend Urmstone, the Methodist circuit rider? He has signed the oath, as has Mr. Calvert, the New Light minister who lives near Wadesboro.”
The Sheriff looked smug. Repressing an urge to stamp on his foot, I turned to Mr. Lillywhite.
“Well, but Father Donahue can’t sign it. So what do you propose to do with him? Throw the poor man in gaol? You can’t do that—he’s ill!” On cue, Father Kenneth coughed obligingly.
Mr. Lillywhite eyed me dubiously, but chose instead to address Jamie.
“I could by rights imprison the man, but out of regard for you, Mr. Fraser, and for your aunt, I shall not do so. He must, however, leave the colony tomorrow. I shall have him escorted into Virginia, where he will be released from custody. You may rest assured that all care will be taken to assure his welfare on the journey.” He turned a cold gray eye on the Sheriff, who straightened up and tried to look reliable, with indifferent results.
“I see.” Jamie spoke lightly, looking from one man to another, his eyes coming to rest on the Sheriff. “I trust that is true, sir—for if I should hear of any harm coming to the good Father, I should be . . . most distressed.”
The Sheriff met his gaze, stone-faced, and held it until Mr. Lillywhite cleared his throat, frowning at the Sheriff.
“You have my word upon it, Mr. Fraser.”
Jamie turned to him, bowing slightly.
“I could ask no more, sir. And yet if I may presume—might the Father not spend tonight in comfort among his friends, that they might take their leave of him? And that my wife might attend his injuries? I would stand surety for his safe delivery into your hand come morning.”
Mr. Lillywhite pursed his lips and affected to consider this suggestion, but the magistrate was a poor actor. I realized with some interest that he had foreseen this request, and had his mind made up already to deny it.
“No, sir,” he said, trying for a tone of reluctance. “I regret that I cannot grant your request. Though if the priest wishes to write letters to various of his acquaintance”—he gestured at the sheaf of papers—“I will undertake to see them promptly delivered.”
Jamie cleared his own throat and drew himself up a bit.
“Well, then,” he said. “I wonder whether I might make so bold as to ask . . .” He paused, seeming slightly embarrassed.
“Yes, sir?” Lillywhite looked at him curiously.
“I wonder whether the good Father might be allowed to hear my confession.” Jamie’s eyes were fixed on the tent pole, sedulously avoiding mine.
“Your confession?”
Lillywhite looked astonished at this, though the Sheriff made a noise that might charitably be called a snigger.
“Got something pressing on your conscience?” Anstruther asked rudely. “Or p’r’aps you have some premonition of impending death, eh?” He gave an evil smile at this, and Mr. Goodwin, looking shocked, rumbled a protest at him. Jamie ignored both of them, focusing his regard on Mr. Lillywhite.
“Yes, sir. It has