The Scottish Prisoner - Diana Gabaldon [117]
“Aye, well, they’re like dogs whose master’s died,” Jamie said, not unkindly. “They dinna ken what to do, so they howl and snap at one another. What did his lordship tell ye, wee Byrd?”
Tom was pale and excited but had control of himself. He rubbed his sleeve across his face to wipe away the rain and settled himself to recite Lord John’s message.
“Right, sir. To begin with, the constable—that was the constable, the loud fat man—is taking his lordship to Castle Athlone.”
“Aye? Well, that’s good—it’s not?” Jamie asked, seeing Tom shake his head.
“No, sir. He says the justiciar has gone to France, and whoever’s in charge will either keep him locked up or make him give his parole, and that won’t do.”
“It won’t? Did he say why not?”
“No, sir, there wasn’t time. He says you must come and get him out, quick as ever you can.”
Jamie rubbed a hand over his face, brushing water out of his eyebrows.
“Does he, then,” he said dryly. “Did he suggest how I was to do that?”
Tom half-smiled, despite his worry.
“No, sir. He says to tell you that he trusts in your native wit and ferocity to accomplish this. I’m to help you,” he added modestly, with a sideways look up at Jamie. He put a hand to his middle, looking portentous. “His lordship gave me his dagger to keep for him.”
“That will be a great help,” Jamie assured him gravely. “Dinna stick anyone with it unless I tell ye, though, aye? I dinna want to have to save ye both from the hangman.”
The rain was coming down harder now, but as they were already wet through, there was little point in hurry, and they strode along without talking, the rain pattering on their heads and shoulders.
25
Escape from Athlone
QUINN HAD NOT GONE BACK TO GLASTUIG WITH THEM; they found him crouched by the fire with a glass of arrack in his hands, still shivering. He got up when he saw Jamie, though, and came outside at the jerk of Jamie’s head.
The rain had stopped, at least for a bit, and Jamie led the way down the road so they might talk unheard. In a few words, he acquainted Quinn with the news of John Grey’s arrest, which caused Quinn to cross himself piously—though Jamie could see from his face that he did not regard this as particularly unwelcome news.
He’d known pretty much what Quinn’s reaction was likely to be and had decided what to do about it.
“Ye still want that cup, aye?” Jamie asked Quinn abruptly. “The Cupán Druid riogh?”
Quinn looked at him, wide-eyed, and grasped him by the arm.
“Ye’ll never mean ye’ve got it, man?”
“No, I have not.” Jamie detached his arm, though without violence.
“But ye know where it is.” Quinn’s restless eyes had stilled, fixed intently on his, and it wasn’t a question.
“Aye, I know. It’s well beyond anyone’s reach, is where it is. I told the abbot to put it back where it came from, and to the best of my knowledge”—which is considerable, he added silently to himself—“he did.”
Quinn’s lips pursed in thought. “Someone will know,” he said. “All the monks had to know when they dug the poor fella up—they’ll remember where he was planted, too.”
“Aye. Well, ye want to go and ask them, do that—but ye’re no going until we get John Grey out of Athlone.”
Quinn’s strange light eyes bulged a bit.
“Out of Athlone Castle? Man, are ye demented?”
“Aye, I am,” Jamie said crossly. “But I mean to do it, anyway.”
“Why? The man’s not only English, not only your captor—he’s a fecking murderer!”
“No, that he’s not,” Jamie said, with decision. “He may be a good many disagreeable things, but not that.”
“But they found him standin’ over Siverly’s body, and the blood fresh on his boots!”
“I saw, aye?”
Quinn fumed visibly. “Why the devil d’ye think he didn’t do the man in, then? Ye heard what he had to say about him and all his talk about bringin’ the fellow to justice. Ye don’t get more justice than a bullet through the head!”
There was no point in telling Quinn that Siverly’s death