The Scottish Prisoner (35 page)

“Mon Dieu, je regrette …”
He said it in French, as he always had. And as it always had, a sense of peace came upon him with the saying.

He stopped speaking, and the air of the evening was still.

For the first time, he saw what he had not seen before: the mound of slightly darker rock and soil, speckled with the sprouting green blades of fresh grass, spangled with the tiny jewels of wildflowers. And a small wooden cross at the head of it, just under the pine tree.

Dust to dust. This was the stranger’s grave, then; they had given him burial in the Christian way, letting the unseemly jumble of bones and leather, so long preserved in dark water, crumble at last in peaceful anonymity. Here, by the seat of kings.

The sun was still above the horizon, but the light came low, and shadows lay dark upon the bog, ready to rise and join the coming night.

“Wait for a bit,
mo mhic
,” Father Michael said, reaching to retrieve the cup. “Let me put this away safe, and I’ll see ye back.”

In the distance, Jamie could see the dark gash of the pit where the peat-cutters had been at work. They called that sort of place a moss-hag in Scotland, he thought, and wondered briefly what—or who?—might lie in other bogs.

“Dinna fash yourself, Father,” he said, looking out across the tumps and hummocks, the shallow pools glinting in the last of the sun. “I’ll find my own way.”

Stalking Horse

QUINN HAD GONE, PRESUMABLY TO TEND TO HIS OWN BUSINESS
. Jamie found his absence soothing but not reassuring; Quinn hadn’t gone far. Jamie told Grey what the abbot had said regarding the Wild Hunt poem, and after some discussion it was decided that Jamie should make the first approach to Siverly.

“Show him the Wild Hunt poem,” Grey had suggested. “I want to know if he seems to recognize it. If not, there’s at least the possibility that it has nothing to do with him and was somehow included with Carruthers’s packet by mistake. If he
does
recognize it, though, I want to know what he says about it.” He’d smiled at Jamie, eyes alight with the imminence of action. “And once you’ve spied out the land for me, I’ll have a better notion of which tack to take when I see him.”

A stalking horse, Jamie noted dourly. At least Grey had been honest about that.

On Tom Byrd’s advice, Jamie wore the brown worsted suit, as being more suitable to a day call in the country—the puce velvet was much too fine for such an occasion. There had been an argument between Tom and Lord John as to whether the yellow silk waistcoat with the blackwork was preferable to the plain cream-colored
one, as indicating Jamie’s presumed wealth, or not, as possibly being thought vulgar.

“I dinna mind if he thinks I’m common,” Jamie assured Tom. “It will put him at his ease if he feels himself my superior. And the one thing we know of him for sure is that he likes money; so much the better if he thinks me a rich vulgarian.”

Lord John made a noise that he hastily converted to a sneeze, causing both Jamie and Tom to look at him austerely.

Jamie was not sure how much—if at all—Siverly might recall him. He had seen Siverly only now and then in Paris, and only for a few weeks. He thought they might have exchanged words once in the course of a dinner, but that was the extent of their interaction. Still … Jamie recalled Siverly; it was not unthinkable that the man would remember him, particularly given Jamie’s noticeable appearance.

In Paris, he had worked in his cousin Jared’s wine business; he might reasonably have continued in trade, after the Rising. There would be no reason for Siverly either to have heard of his actions, nor to have followed his movements after Culloden.

Jamie hadn’t bothered noting that his English speech would likely cause Siverly to regard him as a social inferior, no matter what he wore, and thus when he gave his horse to the gatekeeper who came out of the lodge to meet him, he broadened his accent slightly.

“What’s the name of this place, lad?”

“Glastuig,” the man said. “Will it be the place ye’re lookin’ for, then?”

“The verra place. Will your master be at home the day?”

“Himself’s in the house,” the gatekeeper said dubiously. “As for bein’ at home … I’ll send and see, if ye like, sir.”

“Much obliged to ye, lad. Here, then, give him this—and that wee bawbee’s for yourself.” He handed over the note he’d prepared,
enclosing the introduction from Sir Melchior and asking for an interview, along with a lavish thrupenny bit.

His role as a rich vulgarian thus promisingly begun, he furthered it by openly gaping at the imposing house and its extensive grounds as he walked slowly up the drive after the servant. It was an old house—he hadn’t yet seen a newly built one in Ireland—but well kept up, its dark stonework freshly pointed and the chimneys—fourteen, he counted them—all alight and drawing well. Six good horses in the far pasture, including one that he wouldn’t have minded seeing closer to—a big dark bay with a white blaze and a nice arse end; good muscle, he thought approvingly. A good-sized lawn spread out before the house, a gardener pushing a heavy roller over it with no perceptible enthusiasm, and the gardens themselves had a dull, prosperous gleam to their leaves, wet with the drizzling rain.

He was in no great doubt that he’d be admitted, and by the time he’d reached the door, there was a butler standing in it to take his hat and cloak and show him to a drawing room. Like the house itself, it was richly appointed—there was a huge silver candlestick, with six beeswax tapers shedding a gracious light—but lacking any great sense of style. He wandered slowly around the room, fingering the ornaments: a Meissen figurine of a woman, a dove perched on her hand, taking a comfit from her lips; a longcase clock with three dials, showing the time, the barometric pressure, and the phase of the moon; a tobacco humidor made of a dark, unfamiliar kind of wood that he thought might be African; a footed silver bowl full of sugared violets, jumbled and broken among a handful of ginger-nut biscuits; a vicious-looking club with a peculiar knob at the end; a curious piece of something … He picked it up to examine closer. It was a rectangular strip, perhaps ten inches by five (he measured it automatically, using the joints of his left middle finger as
gauge), made of small, odd beads—what were they made of? Not glass … Shell?—strung on a woven thread in an interesting pattern of blue and white and black.

Surely no woman had assembled these things. He wondered just what the owner of such a magpie collection would be like. For all their delving into the man’s antecedents, the Greys had given Jamie no coherent picture of Siverly’s personality. Carruthers had painted a vivid portrait of the man—but his record was concerned only with the man’s crimes and did little to reveal the man himself.

“A man may smile, and smile, and be a villain,”
he thought to himself. He had himself met personable villains. And amiable fools whose actions did more damage than deliberately wicked men. His mouth set at the memory of Charles Edward Stuart. He had no doubt that this Siverly was a villain—but what kind of villain?

A heavy, limping step came down the hall, and Major Siverly came in. He was still an imposing man, nearly as tall as Jamie himself, though a good deal older now and going to paunch. His face was slab-sided, the skin faintly gray, as though he’d been cut from the same rock as his house, and while he had adopted an expression of welcome, this was unable to conceal the clear lines of harshness and open cruelty in his face.

Jamie offered his hand and a cordial greeting, thinking to himself that any soldier unlucky enough to draw Siverly as a commander would have known at once what he was in for. “Failure to suppress a mutiny” was one of the charges against him.

“Your servant, sir,” Siverly said politely, offering his hand in return. He looked Jamie over with a practiced glance—nay
a fool, no
, Jamie thought, as he made his own courtesies—but if he recalled Jamie, there was no hint of it in his manner.

“So Melchior Williamson says that you’ve something in
which I might have an interest,” Siverly said abruptly. No offer of refreshment, nor even a seat, Jamie noted. Evidently he was not sufficiently interesting in himself as to merit much of the man’s time.

“Aye, sir, I have,” he answered, reaching into his bosom for the copy of the Wild Hunt poem he’d brought. “Sir Melchior said that you’d some expertise in matters of antiquity—as I see ye have.” He nodded at the silver bowl, which he knew from its hallmark to have been made no more than fifty years prior and could plainly see was the work of a mediocre silversmith. Siverly’s lip twitched, not quite curling, and he took the paper from Jamie, jerking his head at the settee in what was not quite an invitation to sit down.

Jamie sat, nonetheless. Siverly glanced briefly at the paper, clearly not expecting anything of interest—and then stiffened, looked at Jamie with a brief, piercing glare, then returned to the sheet. He read it through twice, turned the paper over to examine the back, then set it down carefully on the mantelpiece.

He walked over and stood in front of Jamie, looking down. Jamie gave him a bland look, keeping his feet under him in case the man went for his throat—from the look of him, it was in his mind.

“Who the bloody hell are you?” Siverly demanded. His voice was pitched low and was meant to sound dangerous.

Jamie smiled up at him. “Who do ye think I am?” he asked softly.

That gave Siverly pause. He stood looking at Jamie, his eyes narrowed, for quite a long time.

“Who gave you that paper?”

“A friend,” Jamie replied, with complete truth. “His name is not mine to share.”
Can I go further?
“
Is deonach é.
” He is a volunteer.

That stopped Siverly as surely as if he had received a bullet in the heart. Very slowly, he lowered himself to a chair opposite,
not taking his eyes from Jamie’s face. Did a flicker of recognition stir in those eyes, or only at last suspicion?

Jamie’s heart was beating fast and he felt the prickle of excitement down his forearms.

“No,” Siverly said at last, and his voice had changed. It was casual now, dismissive. “I’ve no idea how your friend came by that paper, but it doesn’t matter. The subject of the poem is ancient, to be sure. But the verse itself is no more ancient than you yourself are, Mr. Fraser. Anyone who’s read Irish verse in a scholarly way could tell you that.” He smiled, an expression that didn’t reach his deep-set eyes, the color of rainwater on slate.

“What is your interest in such a thing, Mr. Fraser?” he asked, becoming overtly cordial. “If you are in the way to collect antiquities and curios, I should be pleased to give you an introduction to one or two dealers in Dublin.”

“I should be most obliged to ye, sir,” Jamie said pleasantly. “I did think of going to Dublin; I ken a man at the great university there to whom I thought of showing this. Perhaps your dealers might have an interest in it, too.”

A spark of alarm flickered in the deep-set eyes. At what? Jamie wondered, but the answer came immediately.
He doesna want a great many people to see it—lest the wrong person hear about it. And who might that be, I wonder?

“Really,” Siverly said, pretending doubt. “What is the name of your university man? Perhaps I know him.”

Jamie’s mind went blank for an instant. He fumbled among the names of his Irish acquaintance for anyone he’d known who might conceivably be or have been at Trinity—but then caught sight of the tenseness of Siverly’s shoulders. The man was trying it on as much as he was.

“O’Hanlon,” he said carelessly, choosing a name at random. “Peter O’Hanlon. D’ye ken him?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Well, nay matter. I’ll thank ye for your time, sir.” Jamie leaned forward, preparatory to rising. He’d accomplished what he came for. He’d learned that the Irish poem was connected to Siverly and had some secret meaning—and he’d successfully fixed Siverly’s attention on him as a person of interest, that was certain. The man was looking at him like a wolf with a prey in view.

“Where are you staying, Mr. Fraser?” he asked. “Perhaps I might discover some further information that would be helpful to you. If, that is, you are still interested in learning more regarding your verse?”

“Oh, aye, sir, that I am. I’m in the village, at Beckett’s public house. Much obliged to ye, sir.”

He stood and bowed to Siverly, then crossed the room to take the paper from the mantelpiece. He heard Siverly rise behind him, saying, “Not at all, Mr. Fraser.”

The reflexes bred from a lifetime of people trying to kill him saved him. Jamie heard the man’s sharp intake of breath and dodged aside, as the knob of the club slashed through the spot where his head had been and crashed down on the wooden mantel, making splinters fly.

Siverly was between him and the door. Jamie lowered his head and charged the man, butting him in the chest. Siverly stumbled back, hit a small table, and sent it flying in a shower of sugared violets, its collection of small ornaments bouncing and ringing off the floor.

Jamie made for the door, then by impulse doubled back, seized the paper, which had floated to the floor, and shoved the settee into Siverly’s way as the man lunged for him, murder in his eye. He’d got hold of the club again and swung it as Jamie danced back, catching him a glancing blow on the point of the shoulder that numbed his arm to the fingers.