The Scottish Prisoner - Diana Gabaldon [83]
The guard who admitted them to the castle led them up the curving walkway into the center of the fortress, past a series of arrow slits set into the immense outer wall. These were narrow in their outer aspect but much wider on the inside, to allow an archer to draw a longbow, Grey supposed, and wondered idly if he could fit his head through one.
It was an ancient construction, originally a motte and bailey, and remnants of this were still evident, the central donjon rising like a twelve-sided pepperpot from the old bailey, now a paved courtyard ringed with smaller structures that crowded up against the huge surrounding wall.
The present justiciar was a man named Sir Melchior Williamson, also English, and while neither Grey nor Hal knew him, Harry did, and a note from the brother of the Duke of Pardloe had been enough to secure an invitation to dine at the castle.
“Is it wise to advertise your presence?” Jamie had asked, frowning, when Grey had written the note, enclosing Harry’s introduction. “If we need to take Siverly by force, best if no one knows who ye are, surely.”
“It’s a thought,” Grey agreed, folding and stamping the note. “But force should be our last resort. And I want to know whatever the justiciar can tell us about Siverly before I go to see him. Best to know the terrain before a battle.” The terrain in this case included Sir Melchior’s disposition and potential to be of assistance, should Plan B need to be invoked—but that judgment would have to wait until he saw the man.
Fraser snorted a little but seemed resigned.
“Aye. I’ll tell wee Byrd to lay hold of a couple of burlap bags, then.”
“What for?”
“To wear over our heads when we break in to Siverly’s house.”
Grey had stopped in the act of putting his signet back on and eyed Fraser.
“Haven’t much faith in my powers of diplomacy, have you?”
“No, and neither has your brother, or I wouldna be here.”
That stung.
“My brother prefers to have all contingencies covered,” Grey said, with exquisite politeness. “And with that in mind … I’ll mention the bags to Tom.”
Sir Melchior Williamson proved to be a short, thick-bodied man with the mournful eyes of a bloodhound—these belying a cordial, if wary, nature. He greeted them with pleasure and showed them the facilities of the castle, such as they were.
“Cold as charity,” he said, ushering them afterward into the small dining room in his quarters. “And nearly as cramped. Damp as a sieve, too, with the Shannon running past within bow shot of the walls.” He sneezed, sniffed, and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “I’ve had a cold in the head since I came here, two years ago. Going to France day after tomorrow, thank God—though I’m glad you came before I left.” So much for Plan B, Grey thought.
The dinner was simple but well cooked, and there was sufficient wine as to allow for comfortable conversation, during which Grey was able to inquire about Major Siverly without making his interest too obvious.
“Glastuig, his place is called,” Sir Melchior said, leaning back in his chair and unbuttoning the lower buttons of his waistcoat with an absentmindedness born of long practice. “I’ve been there just the once, soon after I came. Beautiful house. That was when Mrs. Siverly was in residence, though.”
Grey made an encouraging sound.
“She went back to her father’s house, when the major went off to Canada. From what I hear, husband and wife never had agreed very well, though, and she declined to come back when he returned.”
“The major lives quietly now, does he?” Fraser asked. He’d not taken the lead in conversation but had been useful in leading it back in the desired direction whenever Sir Melchior, who had a tendency to ramble, made off in some unprofitable direction.
“Very quietly. Though I hear he’s done the place