Voyager - Diana Gabaldon [65]
Grey would have given a great deal simply to have let him go. Unfortunately, duty called.
“Mr. Fraser!” The Scot stopped, a few feet from the door, but didn’t turn.
Grey took a deep breath, steeling himself to it.
“If you do what I ask, I will have your irons struck off,” he said.
Fraser stood quite still. Young and inexperienced Grey might be, but he was not unobservant. Neither was he a poor judge of men. Grey watched the rise of his prisoner’s head, the increased tension of his shoulders, and felt a small relaxation of the anxiety that had gripped him since the news of the wanderer had come.
“Mr. Fraser?” he said.
Very slowly, the Scot turned around. His face was quite expressionless.
“You have a bargain, Major,” he said softly.
* * *
It was well past midnight when they arrived in the village of Ardsmuir. No lights showed in the cottages they passed, and Grey found himself wondering what the inhabitants thought, as the sound of hooves and the jingle of arms passed by their windows late at night, a faint echo of the English troops who had swept through the Highlands ten years before.
The wanderer had been taken to the Lime Tree, an inn so called because for many years, it had boasted a huge lime tree in the yard; the only tree of any size for thirty miles. There was nothing left now but a broad stump—the tree, like so many other things, had perished in the aftermath of Culloden, burned for firewood by Cumberland’s troops—but the name remained.
At the door, Grey paused and turned to Fraser.
“You will recall the terms of our agreement?”
“I will,” Fraser answered shortly, and brushed past him.
In return for having the irons removed, Grey had required three things: firstly, that Fraser would not attempt to escape during the journey to or from the village. Secondly, Fraser would undertake to give a full and true account of all that the vagrant should say. And thirdly, Fraser would give his word as a gentleman to speak to no one but Grey of what he learned.
There was a murmur of Gaelic voices inside; a sound of surprise as the innkeeper saw Fraser, and deference at the sight of the red coat behind him. The goodwife stood on the stair, an oil-dip in her hand making the shadows dance around her.
Grey laid a hand on the innkeeper’s arm, startled.
“Who is that?” There was another figure on the stairs, an apparition, clothed all in black.
“That is the priest,” Fraser said quietly, beside him. “The man will be dying, then.”
Grey took a deep breath, trying to steady himself for what might come.
“Then there is little time to waste,” he said firmly, setting a booted foot on the stair. “Let us proceed.”
* * *
The man died just before dawn, Fraser holding one of his hands, the priest the other. As the priest leaned over the bed, mumbling in Gaelic and Latin, making Popish signs over the body, Fraser sat back on his stool, eyes closed, still holding the small, frail hand in his own.
The big Scot had sat by the man’s side all night, listening, encouraging, comforting. Grey had stood by the door, not wishing to frighten the man by the sight of his uniform, both surprised and oddly touched at Fraser’s gentleness.
Now Fraser laid the thin weathered hand gently across the still chest, and made the same sign as the priest had, touching forehead, heart, and both shoulders in turn, in the sign of a cross. He opened his eyes, and rose to his feet, his head nearly brushing the low rafters. He nodded briefly to Grey, and preceded him down the narrow stair.
“In here.” Grey motioned to the door of the taproom, empty at this hour. A sleepy-eyed barmaid laid the fire for them and brought bread and ale, then went out, leaving them alone.
He waited for Fraser to refresh himself before asking.
“Well, Mr. Fraser?”
The Scot set down his pewter mug and wiped a hand across his mouth. Already bearded, with his long hair neatly plaited, he didn’t look disheveled by the long night watch, but there were dark smudges of tiredness under his eyes.
“All right,” he said.