The Scottish Prisoner - Diana Gabaldon [12]
“Oh, aye?”
“But that’s what I wanted to speak with ye about, conveniently enough,” Quinn went on, waving an airy hand in dismissal of the erstwhile Tess.
“About Leeds? Or taverns?” Jamie prayed that the man didn’t mean wives. He’d not mentioned Claire to anyone in several years and would rather have his toenails pulled out with horse-nail pliers than be forced to talk about her.
“Culloden,” Quinn said, causing equal amounts of relief and dismay in the bosom of his hearer. Culloden came about fourth on Jamie’s list of things he didn’t want to talk about, preceded only by his wife, Claire; his son, William; and Jack Randall.
Jamie got off the rock, feeling obscurely that he’d rather be on his feet just now, though not knowing whether it was needing to feel ready to meet whatever was coming or an incipient urge to flee. Either way, he felt better standing.
“Or rather,” Quinn amended, “not Culloden so much as the Cause, if ye take my meaning.”
“I should think the two are much the same,” Jamie said, not trying to keep the edge out of his voice. “Dead.”
“Ah, well, now there ye’re wrong,” Quinn said, waggling a bony finger at him. “Though of course ye’ll have been out of touch.”
“I have, aye.”
Quinn continued to ignore the edge.
“The Cause may have suffered some reverses in Scotland—”
“Reverses!” Jamie exclaimed. “Ye call what happened at Drumossie reverses?”
“—but it’s alive and thrivin’ in Ireland.”
Jamie stared at him for a moment of blank incomprehension, then realized what he was saying.
“Jesus!”
“Ah, thought that would gladden yer heart, lad,” said Quinn, choosing to interpret Jamie’s cry as one of hallelujah rather than horror. He smiled, the tip of his tongue poking briefly through the hole left by his missing eyetooth.
“There’s a group of us, see. Did Betty not pass on what I said about the green branch?”
“She did, aye, but I didna ken what she meant by it.”
Quinn waved a hand, dismissing this.
“Well, it took some time to pull things together after Culloden, but it’s all moving a treat now. I’ll not give the details just yet, if ye don’t mind—”
“I dinna mind a bit.”
“—but I will say that there’s an invasion planned, maybe as soon as next year—ha-ha! Would ye look at your face now? Flabbergasted, aye? Well, I was, too, first I heard of it. But there’s more!”
“Oh, God.”
Quinn leaned forward conspiratorially, lowering his voice—though there was no one near enough to hear save a soaring peregrine overhead.
“And this is where you come into it.”
“Me?!” Jamie had begun to sink back onto his rock, but this brought him up all standing at once. “Are ye mad?”
He hadn’t meant it as a rhetorical question, but neither did he expect an affirmative answer, and it was just as well, because he didn’t get one.
“Have ye ever heard”—and here Quinn paused to dart his eyes one way and then the other, looking out for invisible watchers—“of the Cupán Druid riogh?”
“I have not. A cup …?”
“The cup o’ the Druid king, the very thing!”
Jamie rubbed a hand over his face, feeling very tired. “Quinn, I’m pleased to see ye well, but I’ve work to do and—”
“Oh, indeed ye have, lad!” Quinn reached out and fastened an earnest hand to Jamie’s forearm. “Let me explain.”
He didn’t wait for permission.
“It’s the ancient possession o’ the kings of Ireland, the Cupán is. Given to the king of kings by the chief Druid himself, so far back folk have forgotten the time of it.”
“Oh, aye?”
“But the people know it still; it’s spoken of in the legends, and ’tis a powerful symbol of kingship.” The hand on Jamie’s forearm tightened. “Think, now. How would it be, Prince Tearlach riding into Dublin, standin’ in the courtyard o’ Dublin Castle, between the Gates of Fortitude and Justice, with the Cupán raised high as he claims all of Ireland for his father?”
“Well, since ye ask …”
“Why, man, the people would rise from the bailes and the bogs in their thousands! We should take England with scarce a shot fired, there’d be so many!