The Scottish Prisoner - Diana Gabaldon [142]
“Indeed.” Lally sipped ale—it was flat and stale, and he made a face and threw it out the open window. “What was his purpose?”
“He told me he sought a thing—the Cupán Druid riogh, he called it. Ye’ve heard of it?”
Lally was not a good natural liar.
“No,” he said, but his hands curled on the tabletop and he stiffened a little. “A Druid king’s cup? What on earth is that?”
“Ye’ve seen it, then,” Jamie said, friendly but firm. Lally stiffened further, torn between denial and answer. So he had seen it. Which in turn meant that he’d seen Quinn, for surely Quinn would surrender it to no man save Charles Stuart.
“I need to speak with him,” Jamie said, leaning forward to indicate sincerity and urgency—neither one feigned. “It is a matter of his own safety, as well as that of the men with whom he’s involved. Can ye get word to him? I shall meet him anywhere he likes.”
Lally sat back a bit, suspicion darkening his eyes.
“Meet him and betray him to the English?” he said.
“Ye believe that of me?” Oddly, the idea that Lally might believe it hurt him.
Lally grimaced and looked down.
“I don’t know,” he said, low-voiced, and Jamie saw how drawn he was, the muscles of his face hard under the skin. “So many men I thought I knew …” He gave a small, despairing shake of the head. “I don’t know whom to trust—or whether there is anyone who can be trusted, anymore.”
That, at least, held the ring of truth.
“Aye,” said Jamie quietly. “I, too.” He spread his hands out, flat on the table. “And yet I have come to you.”
And yet … He could almost hear Lally thinking. Furious things were going on behind that pale, twitching face.
Ye’re in it up to your eyebrows, poor wee fool, he thought, not unkindly. Add one more to the tally, then; one more man who might go to his doom if this harebrained scheme came to the point of action. One more who might be saved, if …
He pushed his chair back from the table and stood up.
“Hear me, a Tomás MacGerealt,” he said formally. “Quinn will maybe have told ye what he said to me, and I to him. If not, ask him. I said it not from cowardice, not from treachery, nor unwillingness to stand wi’ friends and comrades. I said it from sure knowledge. Ye kent my wife?”
“The Sassenach woman?” The ghost of a smile touched Lally’s mouth, sardonic.
“La Dame Blanche, they called her in Paris, and for good reason. She saw the end of the Cause—and its death. Believe me, Thomas. This venture, too, is doomed, and I ken that fine. I wouldna have it take ye down wi’ it. For the sake of our shared past, I beg ye—stand clear.”
He hesitated, waiting for an answer, but Lally kept his eyes on the table, one finger circling in a puddle of spilled ale. At last, he spoke.
“If the English do not send me back to France to clear my name, what is there for me here?”
There was no answer to that. Lally lived at the sufferance of his captors, as Jamie did. How would a true man not be tempted by the possibility of regaining his life? Jamie sighed, helpless, and Lally glanced up, his gaze sharpening as he perceived pity on Jamie’s face.
“Ah, don’t worry about me, old comrade,” he said, and there was as much affection as irony in his voice. “The Marquise of Pelham comes back from her country house next week. She has a tendresse for me, La Marquise—she will not let me starve.”
30
Particular Friends
HAROLD, DUKE OF PARDLOE, COLONEL OF THE 46TH FOOT, visited the Judge Advocate’s office, attended by both his regimental colonels and by his brother, Lieutenant Colonel Lord John Grey, to file the necessary documents to call a posthumous general court-martial of one Major Gerald Siverly, on a variety of charges ranging from theft and corruption, to failure to suppress mutiny, to willful murder—and treason.
After hours of discussion, they had decided to proceed with the court-martial at once and to add the charge of treason. It would cause talk—an immense amount of talk—and perhaps bring more of Siverly’s connections to the surface.