The Scottish Prisoner - Diana Gabaldon [31]
He remembered Murdo Lindsay, bug-eyed at the description of boozing kens, where the poor clustered in dark cellars, drowning the misery of life in Holland gin.
“Whole families!” Murdo exclaimed. “All of them, dead drunk! If even the poor folk can afford to stay drunk for days at a time, what must the rich ones be like?”
He’d smiled then, amused. He smiled now, bitter.
As the campaign had turned, withering in the cold, when the army camped at Derby, shivering while the commanders argued whether to push on or not, the soldiers had still talked of London. But they talked in whispers then, and not of gold plates and Holland gin. They talked of the gallows, of the famous Bridge, where the heads of traitors were displayed. Of the Tower.
That thought sent a qualm through him. Christ, could they be taking him there? He was a convicted traitor, though paroled these past four years. And he was the grandson of Lord Lovat, who had met his death on the block at that same Tower. He hadn’t been fond of his grandfather, but crossed himself and murmured “Fois air Anam …” under his breath. Peace on his soul.
He wondered what the devil the Tower of London looked like. He’d imagined it, of course, but God only knew what the reality was. It was big, though; it had to be big. So he’d have a bit of warning, seeing it. He’d be prepared.
Aye, prepared for prison? he thought. The idea of it, of cold stone and small spaces, endless days, months, and years in a cage as life and body dwindled inexorably away, shriveled his heart. And William. He would never see William again. But they might kill him instead. At the moment, that was his only hope.
But why? Had his parole been revoked? That last, disastrous conversation with John Grey … His fists curled up without thought, and one of the soldiers started, looking at him hard. With an effort, he unclenched his hands and pulled them inside his cloak, gripping his thighs under its cover hard enough to leave bruises.
He hadn’t seen—or heard from—Grey since that day. Had the man been nursing a grudge all this time and finally decided to put paid to Jamie Fraser’s account, once and for all? It was the most likely explanation—and unforgivable things had been said on both sides. Worse, both of them had meant the things they said, and both of them knew it. No excuse of hot blood speaking—though, in all justice, his own blood had boiled, and …
There it was. He gasped, couldn’t help it, though it made all the soldiers look at him, conversation interrupted.
It had to be. He knew the look of a prison well enough. Huge round towers set in a grim high wall, and the filthy brown water of a broad river flowing past, flowing under an iron-barred gate. The Traitors’ Gate? He’d heard of it.
All of them were grinning at him, maliciously enjoying his shock. He swallowed hard and tensed his belly muscles. They wouldn’t see him cower. His pride was all he had left—but he had enough of that.
But the carriage didn’t leave the road. They bowled past the grim bulk of the moated tower, the horses’ hooves ringing on cobbles, and he blessed the sound because it drowned the wrenching gasp when he realized he’d stopped breathing and started again.
It wasn’t a warm day, but he was drenched in sudden sweat and saw the private behind him wrinkle his nose and glance sideways at him. He reeked of fear, could smell himself.
Could ha’ been worse, a bhalaich, he thought, coldly meeting the man’s eye and staring ’til he looked away. I might have shit myself and ye’d have to ride into London smelling that.
WHAT WITH THE TANGLE of foot traffic, barrows, carriages, and horses that thronged the narrow streets, it was more than an hour before the coach finally pulled up outside a massive house that stood in its own walled grounds at the edge of a huge open park. He stared at it in astonishment. If not the tower, he’d certainly expected to be taken to a gaol of some kind. Who the devil lived here, and what did whoever it was want