The Scottish Prisoner - Diana Gabaldon [78]
They’d passed two or three of these ruined tower houses on the journey from Dublin, tall bleak remnants of the Middle Ages. No more than shells now, crumbling, roofless, and black with damp, the tenacious dark ivy that crawled up their walls the only sign of life. This tower was much the same—though it had a well, this being Quinn’s chief reason for recommending it, they having finished the ale Tom had packed for them.
They found the well, marked by a rough circle of stones, just within the tower’s walls. Jamie Fraser had tied a string to his canteen and dropped it down to the dark water six feet below, then brought it up and sniffed at it with a long, suspicious nose before taking a cautious sip.
“I think nothing’s died in it lately.”
“Well and good,” said Quinn. “We’ll say a prayer, then, and slake our thirst, shall we?”
To Grey’s surprise, both his companions promptly bowed their heads over the crude well coping and murmured something. The words weren’t the same—they appeared each to be speaking his own language—but the rhythm was similar. Grey was unsure whether this was a prayer of thanksgiving for the provision of water or some ceremonial invocation against being poisoned by it, but he obligingly fixed his eyes on the ground and waited in silence until it was done.
They’d hobbled the horses and set them to graze on the lush grass, then supped themselves, decently if not luxuriously, on bread and cheese and dried apples. There hadn’t been much talk over the food; it had been a long day in the saddle, and they sought their beds soon after.
He’d fallen promptly asleep; the ability to sleep anywhere, instantly, was a soldier’s talent, and one he’d acquired very early in his career. And then had wakened some unknown time later, heart thumping and hairs erect, clutching for the dagger in his belt.
He had no idea what had wakened him and lay quite still, listening for all he was worth. Then there was a rustling of the grass nearby, quite loud, and he tensed himself to roll away and spring to his feet. Before he could move, though, there came the swish of moving feet and the hiss of a Scottish whisper.
“Are ye mad? Drop it, or I break your arm.”
There was a startled huff of air and the faint thump of something hitting the ground. Grey lay frozen, waiting.
“Hush, man.” Quinn’s voice came to him, barely louder than the sigh of the wind. “Ye don’t want to wake him.”
“Oh, that I do, if ye were doing what I think ye were.”
“Not here. Come away, for God’s sake!”
The sound of breathing, hesitance, then the quiet sough of feet through thick grass as they moved off.
Very quietly, Grey rolled onto his knees, shucking off his cloak. He took the pistol from the bag he’d been using for a pillow, rose, and followed, matching the rhythm of his movements to theirs. The moon had set, but he could see them by starlight, twenty yards ahead: Fraser a looming mass against the paler ground, Quinn so close beside him that he thought Fraser might be grasping the Irishman by the arm, pulling him along.
They went around the ruined tower and essentially disappeared, no longer visible against the dark bulk of its stone. He stood still, not breathing, until he heard them again.
“Now, then.” Fraser’s voice came clearly to him, soft but with the anger clear in it. “What the devil d’ye mean by this?”
“We don’t need him.” Grey noted with interest that Quinn didn’t sound frightened—merely persuasive. “You don’t need him, Mo chara.”
“There are a good many folk in the world I don’t need, including you, ye wee gomerel. If I thought it right to kill them on that account, I’d have done awa’ wi’ you before we left London.”
Grey blinked at that and felt a cold finger down his back. So Quinn had been in touch with Jamie in London? How? Had Jamie sought him out? What had Fraser told him—and why had he joined their company? And why had