The Outlandish Companion - Diana Gabaldon [24]
Going to the palace to keep her rendezvous with the King, Claire is torn between revulsion at the prospect—and a bone-deep rage against Jamie, who has inadvertently forced her to prostitute herself. The only minor consolation is that he has not, in fact, killed Jack Randall—at least Frank is safe, somewhere in the future.
But it is the present that concerns Claire, as the equerry opens the door of the King’s boudoir. Much to Claire’s astonishment, though, she finds that the King requires a different service from her. Two men stand trial before the King’s secret council, accused as sorcerers. They accuse each other; only one can judge between them—La Dame Blanche.
One man is Raymond the apothecary; the other, the Comte St. Germain. Claire stands helpless in the midst of the sorcerors’ duel, unsure what to do or say, as each man defends himself against the charge of magic—until the Comte turns the accusation of sorcery against her.
“You see?” he said triumphantly. “The woman shrinks away in fear! She is a witch!”
Actually, compared to one judge, who was huddling against the far wall, I was a monument of fortitude, but I must admit that I had taken an involuntary step backward when the snake appeared. Now I stepped forward again, intending to take it away from him. The bloody thing wasn’t poisonous, after all. Maybe we’d see how harmless it was if I wrapped it around his neck.
Before I could reach him, Master Raymond spoke behind him. What with all the commotion, I’d rather forgotten him.
“That is not all the Bible says, Monsieur le Comte,” Raymond observed. He didn’t raise his voice, and the wide amphibian face was bland as pudding. Still, the buzz of voices stopped, and the King turned to listen.
“Yes, Monsieur?” he said.
Raymond nodded in polite acknowledgment of having the floor, and reached into his robe with both hands. From one pocket, he produced a flask, from the other a small cup.
“‘They shall handle serpents unharmed,’” he quoted, “‘and if they drink any deadly poison, they shall not die.’”
Raymond gives the cup to Claire, who drinks from it, trusting him. He then takes the cup and drinks himself—then gives the cup to Claire, to hand to the Count. In the process of drinking, though, Raymond has poisoned the contents by sleight of hand.
I did know that the cup I held in my hands was death. The white crystal hung around my neck, its weight a reminder of poison. I hadn’t seen Raymond add anything to it; no one had, I was sure. But I didn’t need to dip the crystal into the blood-red liquid to know what it now contained.
The Comte saw the knowledge in my face; La Dame Blanche cannot lie. He hesitated, looking at the bubbling cup.
“Drink, Monsieur, ”said the King. The dark eyes were hooded once more, showing nothing. “Or are you afraid?”
The Comte might have a number of things to his discredit, but cowardice wasn’t one of them. His face was pale and set, but he met the King’s eyes squarely, with a slight smile.
“No, Majesty,” he said.
He took the cup from my hand and drained it, his eyes fixed on mine. They stayed fixed, staring into my face, even as they glazed with the knowledge of death. The White Lady may turn a man’s nature to good, or to destruction.
Claire returns to Fontainebleau, leaving—she thinks—everything behind her. Everything is gone: both love and danger. The fog creeps in again, and she embraces the grayness, living only from day to day, afraid even to think of the future. Jamie is free—she has bought his freedom, at a price she does not care to contemplate. Presumably he has gone to Orvieto, to carry out their plan. When he succeeds—if he succeeds … Claire doesn’t want to think that far.
But the future reaches out to us, as does the past, and all times are the present. One rain-streaked afternoon, the footman announces the Lord Broch Tuarach, and Claire’s fog is rent by panic. Jamie pursues her through the gardens, and at last confronts her in the grape arbor, where