The Scottish Prisoner - Diana Gabaldon [165]
“Ye killed him as an enemy, did ye not? The fact that he wasna one in fact is not your fault.”
“That is a very specious argument.”
“Doesna mean it’s not true.”
“Do you think you can argue me out of guilt? Out of horror and melancholy?” Grey demanded, annoyed.
“I do, aye. It isna possible to feel urgent emotion and engage in rational discourse at the same time.”
“Oh, yes, it is,” Grey began, with some warmth, but as it was that unfortunate conversation in the stable at Helwater that would have formed his prime example, he abandoned this tack. “Do you truly consider all impassioned speech to be illogical? What about the bloody Declaration of Arbroath?”
“A speech may be conceived in passion,” Fraser conceded, “but it’s executed in cold blood, for the most part. The declaration was written—or at least subscribed—by a number of men. They canna all have been in the grip of passion when they did it.”
Grey actually laughed, though shortly, then shook his head.
“You are trying to distract me from the point at issue.”
“No,” said Fraser thoughtfully. “I think I am trying to lead ye to the point at issue—which is that no matter how much a man may try to do what is right, the outcome may not be one that he either foresees or desires. And that’s grounds for regret—sometimes verra great regret,” he added more softly, “but not for everlasting guilt. For it is there we must throw ourselves on God’s mercy and hope to receive it.”
“And you speak from experience.” Grey had not meant this statement to sound challenging, but it did, and Fraser exhaled strongly through his long Scottish nose.
“I do,” he said, after a moment’s silence. He sighed. “When I was laird of Lallybroch, one of my tenants came to ask my help. She was an auld woman, concerned for one of her grandsons. His father beat him, she said, and she was feart that he would kill the lad. Would I not take him to be a stable-lad at my house?
“I said that I would. But when I spoke to the father, he’d have none of it and reproached me for tryin’ to take his son away from him.” He sighed again.
“I was young, and a fool. I struck him. In fact … I beat him, and he yielded to me. I took the lad. Rabbie, his name was; Rabbie MacNab.”
Grey gave a small start, but said nothing.
“Well. Ronnie—that was the father’s name; he was Ronald MacNab, and his son, Rabbie—betrayed me to the Watch, out of his fury and bereavement, and I was arrested and taken to an English prison. I … escaped …” He hesitated, as though wondering whether to say more, but decided against it and went on. “But later, when I came back to Lallybroch in the early days of the Rising, I found MacNab’s croft burnt out, and him gone up in smoke and ashes on his own hearthstone.”
“I take it this was no accident?”
Fraser shook his head, the movement barely perceptible, as they were passing under the great row of elms along the east side of the park.
“No,” he said softly. “My other tenants did it, for they kent well who had betrayed me. They did what seemed right—their duty to me—as I had done what seemed right and my duty as laird. And yet the end of it was death, and nothing I intended.”
Their steps were soft, nearly shuffling as they walked more slowly.
“I take your point,” Grey said at last, quietly. “What became of the boy? Rabbie?”
One large shoulder moved slightly.
“He lived in my house—he and his mother—during the Rising. Afterward … my sister said he had made up his mind to go south, to see if he might find work, for there was nothing left in the Highlands for a young man, save the army, and that he wouldna do.”
Greatly daring, Grey touched Jamie’s arm, very gently.
“You said that a man cannot foresee the outcome of his actions, and that’s true. But in this case, I can tell you one of yours.”
“What?” Fraser spoke sharply, whether from the touch or from Grey’s words, but did not jerk away.
“Rabbie MacNab. I know what became of him. He is—or was, when last I saw him—a London chairman and contemplating marriage.