The Scottish Prisoner - Diana Gabaldon [61]
It gave him an odd feeling. He hadn’t heard or spoken the Gàidhlig in many years, save in the privacy of his own mind, and hearing words with such a homely, familiar sound made him momentarily feel that he might weep. He swallowed, though, and the moment passed.
“Herr Graf tells me that you’ve done a translation of this,” Lally said, putting down the paper and looking sharply at Jamie. “An bhfuil Gaeilge agat?” Do you have the Irish, then?
Jamie shook his head. “Chan-eil. Ach tuigidh mi gu leor dha na faclan. Bheil thu g’am thuigsinn sa?” he said in Gàidhlig. No, though I could make out many of the words. Do you understand me?
Lally smiled, his harsh expression softening wonderfully, and Jamie thought that it was long since that Lally had heard anything like the language of his birth.
“Your tongue blooms with flowers,” Lally said—or Jamie thought that was what he said, and smiled back.
“You understand each the other’s tongue?” von Namtzen said, interested. “It sounds very much the same to me.”
“It’s … rather like an Italian speaking wi’ a Spaniard,” Jamie said, still smiling at Lally. “But we might make shift.”
“I should be very grateful for your assistance in this matter, Monsieur le Comte,” Grey said formally. “As would my brother.”
Oh, so that’s it, Jamie thought. Pardloe would put his not inconsiderable influence to work on Lally’s behalf, in return for this. The English might get an accurate translation after all. Or maybe not, he thought, seeing Lally’s polite smile in return.
Ink, paper, and quill were brought, and the graf and Grey retired to the far side of the room, talking commonplaces in German, in order to leave Lally to his work. He read the poem through two or three times, asking Jamie brief questions, and then took up his quill.
They spoke mostly in English but dropped more and more into their respective forms of Gaelic, heads together—and eyes on the sheet, conscious of the presence of John Grey watching them.
“Did you leave out anything machnaigh?” Lally asked casually.
Jamie struggled with machnaigh but thought it meant “deliberately.”
“Se an fhirinn a bh-agam. Ach a’ seo—” I spoke faithfully. But here … He put his finger on the line about the white roses. “Bha e … goirid.” I spoke … short.
Lally’s eyes flicked to his, then back to the sheet, but the comte didn’t change expression.
“Yes, I think you were right about that one,” he said casually in English. He took a fresh sheet of paper, pulled another quill from the jar, and handed it to Jamie. “Here. Write down your translation. That will make it easier.”
It took some time; they conferred over the sheets, Lally stabbing at Jamie’s translation with his quill and leaving ink blots on the page as he asked questions—sometimes in Irish, sometimes in French or English—then scribbling on his own sheet, crossing things out and adding notes in the margin. No mention of white roses.
At last, though, he made a clean copy, writing slowly—he had rheumatism badly in his hands; his knuckles were knobbed and his fingers twisted with it—and gave this to Lord John.
“There you are, my lord,” he said, and leaned back, groaning a little. “I hope it may be of help in whatever your venture may be.”
“I thank you,” Grey said, scanning the sheet. He looked up at Lally, one brow raised. “If you would be so kind, Monsieur—have you ever seen a thing like this before?”
“Oh—often, my lord.” Lally looked surprised. “Though not written down. It is a common thing in Ireland, though—tales like that.”
“You have not seen it in any other context?”
Lally shook his head, definite.
“No, my lord.”
Grey sighed and folded the sheet carefully into his pocket, thanking Lally once again, and, with a brief glance at Jamie, rose to leave.
The day was fine, and they walked back to Argus House. Grey had decided, upon reflection, to make