The Scottish Prisoner - Diana Gabaldon [94]
It was valuable, too; a glance was enough to show him that. The cup was about the size of a small quaich and fit in the palm of his hand when Abbot gave it to him.
It was made of a polished wood, to his surprise, rather than gold. Stained and darkened by immersion in the peat, but still beautifully made. There was a carving in the bottom of the bowl, and gemstones—uncut, but polished—were set round the rim, each one sunk into a small carved depression and apparently fastened there with some sort of resin.
The cup gave him the same feeling he’d had in the abbot’s study: the sense that someone—or something—was standing close behind him. He didn’t like it at all, and the abbot saw that.
“What is it, mo mhic?” he asked quietly. “Does this speak to you?”
“Aye, it does,” he said, trying for a smile. “And I think it’s saying, ‘Put me back.’ ” He handed the cup to the abbot, repressing a strong urge to wipe his hand on his breeks.
“Is it an evil thing, do you think?”
“I canna say that, Father. Only that it gives me the cold grue to touch it. But”—he clasped his hands behind his back and leaned forward—“what is the thing carved into the bottom there?”
“A carraig mór, or so I think. A long stone.” The abbot turned the bowl, holding it sideways so that the lantern light illumined the dish. The cold grue slid right down the backs of Jamie’s legs, and he shuddered. The carving showed what was plainly a standing stone—cleft down the center.
“Father,” he said abruptly, making up his mind on the moment. “I’ve a thing or two to tell ye. Might ye hear my confession?”
THEY STOPPED BRIEFLY for Father Michael to fetch his stola, then walked out across the sheep field and into a small apple orchard, thick with scent and the humming of bees. There they found a couple of stones to sit upon, and he told the abbot, as simply as he could, about Quinn, the notion of a fresh Jacobite rising from Ireland, and the idea of using the Druid king’s Cupán to legitimize the Stuarts’ last bid for the throne of three kingdoms.
The abbot sat clutching the ends of the purple stola that hung round his neck, head down, listening. He didn’t move or make any response while Jamie laid out for him Quinn’s plan. When Jamie had finished, though, Father Michael looked up at him.
“Did you come to steal the cup for this purpose yourself?” the abbot asked, quite casually.
“No!” He spoke from astonishment rather than resentment; the abbot saw it and smiled faintly.
“No, of course not.” He was sitting on a rock, the cup itself perched on his knee. He looked down at it, contemplating. “Put it back, you said.”
“It’s no my place to say, Father. But I—” The presence that had hovered near him earlier had vanished, but the memory of it was cold in his mind. “It—he—he wants it back, Father,” he blurted. “The man ye found in the bog.”
The abbot’s green eyes went wide, and he studied Jamie closely. “He spoke to you, did he?”
“Not in words, no. I—I feel him. Felt him. He’s gone now.”
The abbot picked up the cup and peered into it, his thumb stroking the ancient wood. Then he put it down on his knee and, looking at Jamie, said quietly, “There’s more, is there not? Tell me.”
Jamie hesitated. Grey’s business was not his to share—and it had nothing to do with the bog-man, the cup, nor anything that was the abbot’s concern. But the priest’s green eyes were on him, kind but firm.
“It’s under the seal, you know, mo mhic,” he said, conversationally. “And I can see you’ve a burden on your soul.”
Jamie closed his eyes, the breath going out of him in a long, long sigh.
“I have, Father,” he said. He got up from the stone where he’d sat and knelt down at the abbot’s feet.
“It’s not a sin, Father,” he said. “Or most of it’s not. But it troubles me.”
“Tell God, and let him ease you, man,” the abbot said, and,