The Scottish Prisoner - Diana Gabaldon [118]
“He didn’t,” Jamie repeated stubbornly.
There was also no way to explain to Quinn what he knew to be true of John Grey. That being that the only circumstance in which Grey might possibly have killed Siverly was if he was in fear of his own life—and had that been the case, he would have said so. To Jamie, at least, via Tom Byrd.
He wasn’t going to argue the point, though, and not only because it would be futile. There was also the consideration that if Grey hadn’t killed Siverly, someone else had. And there were relatively few persons known to have been nearby, one of whom was Quinn. He couldn’t think why Quinn might have done such a thing, but thought it wiser not to point that out, given that he proposed to continue in company with Quinn for the next wee while.
“I’m going to Athlone, and ye’re goin’ with me.”
“What? Why?” Quinn cried, indignant. “Where d’ye get off, dragging me into it?”
“Where did you get off, dragging me into your bloody crack-brained scheme? You go with me, and I’ll take ye to Abbot Michael—ye can make your own case to him about the Cupán.”
“Crackbrained?!” Quinn went pale with indignation; his curls stood on end, nearly crackling with it.
“Aye, crackbrained. And ye’re goin’ with me to Athlone because ye can sail a boat, and I can’t.”
“A boat?” Quinn said, momentarily distracted from his affront. “What boat?”
“How do I know what boat?” Jamie said, very irritated. “We’ll find one when we get there.”
“But—”
“If ye think I’m going to abscond from an English prison with his lordship and try to escape through a countryside that’s nay more than a monstrous bog with the occasional pig to stumble over—think again,” he advised Quinn briefly.
“But—”
“Athlone Castle is nearby the River Shannon, and the justiciar said the Shannon’s navigable. So we’ll bloody navigate it. Come on!”
HE’D GIVEN HIS INSTRUCTIONS to Tom Byrd on the way back from Glastuig, and the valet had managed accordingly, not packing up all their belongings, as Jamie wished to cause no more stir than there was already, but acquiring what he could for an instant journey.
They found Tom Byrd waiting impatiently by the road with horses, a little way from the ordinary. Tom gave both men a narrow look, glancing from face to face, but said nothing. He had procured a cabbage, and a few potatoes, which he modestly displayed.
“That’ll do us fine for a supper,” Quinn said, patting Tom approvingly on the shoulder. He looked to the sky. “It’s going to rain again,” he said in resigned tones. “We’d best find a spot and cook it while we can.”
Peat fires burned hot but gave little light. The fire at their feet was not much more than a sullen glow, as though the earth itself was burning from within, but it had cooked their food and warmed their feet. Some of their food—lacking a pot, they ate the cabbage raw, despite Quinn’s dire predictions of unparalleled flatulence.
“It’s nay as though there’s anyone to hear, is there?” Jamie said, nibbling gingerly at a thick, waxy leaf. It squeaked between his teeth like a live mouse and was bitter as he imagined wormwood and gall to be, but it helped to kill his hunger. He’d eaten worse than raw cabbage, often.
Tom scrabbled a half dozen blackened knobs out of the embers and speared one with Lord John’s dagger. It hadn’t left his person since his employer had entrusted him with the knife upon his arrest.
“It’s a bit hard in the middle,” he said, gingerly poking at the potato. “But I don’t know as more roasting would help it any.”
“Nay bother,” Jamie assured him. “I’ve got all my teeth, and none of them loose.” Lacking a dirk, he stabbed two of the measly things neatly with his rapier and waved them gently in the air to cool.
“Show-away,” said Quinn, but without rancor. The Irishman had sulked on their way back to collect Tom but seemed to have recovered his spirits since, despite the fact that the rain he had predicted was now falling. He’d been for finding supper and refuge for the night