The Scottish Prisoner - Diana Gabaldon [154]
Jamie winced, hearing Twelvetrees’s hoarse cry and feeling that blow go home. He had a curving scar across his own ribs, inflicted by an English saber at Prestonpans.
Grey pressed his advantage as Twelvetrees staggered back, but the ferret was wily and ducked under Grey’s lunge, collapsing onto one hand and thrusting upward, straight into Grey’s unprotected chest.
Fuck!
There was a gasp from all the watchers. Grey pulled loose, reeled backward, coughing, his shirt reddening. Twelvetrees got his legs under him, but it took him two tries to stand, his legs shaking visibly.
Grey collapsed slowly to his knees, swaying to and fro, the saber hanging from his hand.
Fuck …
“Get up, me lord. Get up, please get up,” Tom was whispering in anguish, his hand clutching Quarry’s coat sleeve. Quarry was breathing like a boiling kettle.
“He’s got to ask him to yield,” Quarry was muttering. “Got to. Infamous not to—oh, God.”
Twelvetrees took a step toward Grey, unsteady, face set in a rictus that showed his sharp teeth. His mouth moved, but no words came out. He drew one step closer, drawing back his bloodied sword. One more step.
One … more …
And Grey’s saber rose fast and smooth, Grey rising after it, driving it home, hard into the ferret’s belly. There was an inhuman noise, but Jamie couldn’t tell which of them had made it. Grey let go of his sword and sat down suddenly on the grass, looking surprised. He looked up and smiled vaguely at Tom, then his eyes rolled up into his head and he fell backward, sprawled on the wet grass, welling blood.
Oh … Jesus …
Twelvetrees was still standing, hands closed around the blade in his belly, looking bemused. Dr. Hunter and Captain Honey were running across the grass and reached him just as he fell, catching him between them.
Jamie wondered briefly whether Twelvetrees had given Captain Honey instructions regarding his body, but dismissed the thought as he ran across the grass to his friend.
Take me … ho
33
Billets-Doux
“IF THE BLOW HAD GONE BETWEEN YOUR RIBS, YOU’D BE dead, you know.”
It wasn’t the first time Grey had heard this—it wasn’t even the first time he’d heard it from Hal—but it was the first time he’d had the strength to reply to it.
“I know.” The thrust had in fact—he’d been told, first by Dr. Hunter, and then by Dr. Maguire, the Greys’ family physician, and finally by Dr. Latham, the regimental surgeon—struck him in the third rib, then sliced sideways for two or three inches before the tip of the saber had stuck in the bone of his sternum. It hadn’t hurt at the time; he’d just been conscious of the jolting force of the blow.
“Hurt much?” Hal sat on his bed, peering closely at him.
“Yes. Get off.”
Hal didn’t move.
“In your right mind, are you?”
“Certainly. Are you?” Grey felt extremely cross. It did hurt, his bum had lost all feeling from sitting in bed, and now that the fever had passed, he was very hungry.
“Twelvetrees died this morning.”
“Oh.” He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again, feeling an apologetic gratitude for hunger and pain. “God rest his soul.”
He’d known Twelvetrees was almost certain to die; it was rare to recover from a serious wound to the abdomen, and he’d felt his sword strike bone somewhere deep inside Twelvetrees; he’d gone through the man’s guts, entire. If blood loss and shock didn’t do for a man, infection would. Still, there was a somber finality to the news that jarred him.
“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “Has Reginald Twelvetrees sent round an official demand for my head yet? Or at least my arrest?”
Hal shook his head, unamused.
“He can’t say a word, not with everyone thinking—and saying—that Edward was a traitor. You’re more or less being hailed