Jamie found me a seat on a nearby stone, before taking up the place indicated next to Colum. The marble was surprisingly cold, even through my thick skirts, and I shifted a bit, the carved skull and crossbones atop the memorial lumpy and uncomfortable under me. I saw the epitaph carved below it and grinned:
Here lies Martin Elginbrod,
Have mercie on my soul, Lord God,
As I would do were I Lord God,
And thou wert Martin Elginbrod.
Jamie raised one brow at me in warning, then turned back to Colum. “You asked to see us, Uncle?”
“I’ve a question for ye, Jamie Fraser,” Colum said, without preamble. “D’ye hold me as your kinsman?”
Jamie was silent for a moment, studying his uncle’s face. Then he smiled faintly.
“You’ve my mother’s eyes,” he said. “Shall I deny that?”
Colum looked startled for a moment. His eyes were the clear, soft gray of a dove’s wing, fringed thick with black lashes. For all their beauty, they could gleam cold as steel, and I wondered, not for the first time, just what Jamie’s mother had been like.
“You remember your mother? You were no more than a wee laddie when she died.”
Jamie’s mouth twisted slightly at this, but he answered calmly.
“Old enough. For that matter, my father’s house had a looking glass; I’m told I favor her a bit.”
Colum laughed shortly. “More than a bit.” He peered closely at Jamie, eyes squinting slightly in the bright sun. “Oh, aye, lad; you’re Ellen’s son, not a doubt of it. That hair, for the one thing…” He gestured vaguely toward Jamie’s hair, glinting auburn and amber, roan and cinnabar, a thick, wavy mass with a thousand colors of red and gold. “…And that mouth.” Colum’s own mouth rose at one side, as though in reluctant reminiscence. “Wide as a nightjar’s, I used to tease her. Ye could catch bugs like a toad, I’d say to her, had ye no but a sticky tongue.”
Taken by surprise, Jamie laughed.
“Willie said that once, to me,” he said, and then the full lips clamped shut; he spoke rarely of his dead elder brother, and never, I imagined, had he mentioned Willie to Colum before.
If Colum noticed the slip, he gave no sign of it.
“I wrote to her then,” he said, looking abstractedly at one of the tilted stones nearby. “When your brother and the babe died of the pox. That was the first time, since she left Leoch.”
“Since she wed my father, ye mean.”
Colum nodded slowly, still looking away.
“Aye. She was older than me, ye ken, by two years or so; about the same as between your sister and you.” The deep-set gray eyes swiveled back and fixed on Jamie.
“I’ve never met your sister. Were ye close, the two of you?”
Jamie didn’t speak, but nodded slightly, studying his uncle closely, as though looking for the answer to a puzzle in the worn face before him.
Colum nodded, too. “It was that way between Ellen and myself. I was a sickly wee thing, and she nursed me often. I remember the sun shining through her hair, and she telling me tales as I lay in bed. Even later”—the fine-cut lips lifted in a slight smile—“when my legs first gave way; she’d come and go, all about Leoch, and stop each morning and night in my chamber, to tell me who she’d seen and what they’d said. We’d talk, about the tenants and the tacksmen, and how things might be arranged. I was married then, but Letitia had no mind for such matters, and less interest.” He flipped a hand, dismissing his wife.
“We talked between us—sometimes with Dougal, sometimes alone—of how the fortunes of the clan might best be maintained; how peace might be kept among the septs, which alliances could be made with other clans, how the lands and the timber should be managed.…And then she left,” he said abruptly, looking down at the broad hands folded on his knee. “With no asking of leave nor word of farewell. She was gone. And I heard of her from others now and then, but from herself—nothing.”
“She didn’t answer your letter?” I asked softly, not wanting to intrude. He shook his head, still looking down.
“She was ill; she’d lost a child, as well as having the pox. And perhaps she meant to write later; it’s an easy task to put off.” He smiled briefly, without humor, and then his face relaxed into somberness. “But by Christmas twelve-month, she was dead.”
He looked directly at Jamie, who met his gaze squarely.
“I was a bit surprised, then, when your father wrote to tell me he was taking you to Dougal, and wished ye then to come to me at Leoch for your schooling.”
“It was agreed so, when they wed,” Jamie answered. “That I should foster with Dougal, and then come to you for a time.” The dry twigs of a larch rattled in a passing wind, and he and Colum both hunched their shoulders against the sudden chill of it, their family resemblance exaggerated by the similarity of the gesture.
Colum saw my smile at their resemblance, and one corner of his mouth turned up in answer.
“Oh, aye,” he said to Jamie. “But agreements are worth as much as the men who make them, and nay more. And I didna know your father then.”
He opened his mouth to go on, but then seemed to reconsider what he had been about to say. The silence of the kirkyard flowed back into the space their conversation had made, filling in the gap as though no word were ever spoken.
It was Jamie, finally, who broke the silence once more.
“What did ye think of my father?” he asked, and I glimpsed in his tone that curiosity of a child who has lost his parents early, seeking clues to the identity of these people known only from a child’s restricted point of view. I understood the impulse; what little I knew of my own parents came almost entirely from Uncle Lamb’s brief and unsatisfactory answers to my questions—he was not a man given to character analysis.
Colum, on the other hand, was.
“What was he like, d’ye mean?” He looked his nephew over carefully, then gave a short grunt of amusement.
“Look ye in the mirror, lad,” he said, a half-grudging smile lingering on his face. “If it’s your mother’s face ye see, it’s your father looking back at ye through those damned Fraser cat-eyes.” He stretched and shifted his position, easing his bones on the lichened stone bench. His lips were pressed tight, by habit, against any exclamation of discomfort, and I could see what had made those deep creases between nose and mouth.
“To answer ye, though,” he went on, once more comfortably settled, “I didn’t like the man overmuch—nor he me—but I knew him at once for a man of honor.” He paused, then said, very softly, “I know you for the same, Jamie MacKenzie Fraser.”
Jamie didn’t change expression, but there was a faint quiver to his eyelids; only one as familiar with him as I was—or as observant as Colum was—would have noticed.
Colum let out his breath in a long sigh.
“So, lad, that’s why I wished to talk with you. I must decide, ye see, whether the MacKenzies of Leoch go for King James or King Geordie.” He smiled sourly. “It’s a case, I think, of the devil ye know, or the devil ye don’t, but it’s a choice I must make.”
“Dougal—” Jamie began, but his uncle cut him off with a sharp motion of his hand.
“Aye, I know what Dougal thinks—I’ve had little rest from it, these two years past,” he said impatiently. “But I am the MacKenzie of Leoch, and it’s mine to decide. Dougal will abide by what I say. I’d know what you’d advise me to do—for the sake of the clan whose blood runs in your veins.”
Jamie glanced up, eyes dark blue and impervious, hooded against the afternoon sun that shone in his face.
“I am here, and my men with me,” he said. “Surely my choice is plain?”
Colum shifted himself again, head cocked attentively to his nephew, as though to catch any nuances of voice or expression that might give him a clue.
“Is it?” he asked. “Men give their allegiance for any number of reasons, lad, and few of them have much to do with the reasons they speak aloud. I’ve talked wi
th Lochiel, and Clanranald, and Angus and Alex MacDonald of Scotus. D’ye think they’re here only because they feel James Stuart their rightful king? Now I would talk with you—and hear the truth, for the sake of your father’s honor.”
Seeing Jamie hesitate, Colum went on, still watching his nephew keenly.
“I don’t ask for myself; if you’ve eyes, ye can see that the matter isn’t one that will trouble me long. But for Hamish—the lad is your cousin, remember. If there’s to be a clan for him to lead, once he’s of age—then I must choose rightly, now.”
He stopped speaking and sat still, the usual caution now relaxed from his features, the gray eyes open and listening.
Jamie sat as still as Colum, frozen like the marble angel on the tomb behind him. I knew the dilemma that preoccupied him, though no trace of it showed on the stern, chiseled face. It was the same one we had faced before, choosing to come with the men from Lallybroch. Charles’s Rising was balanced on a knife edge; the allegiance of a large clan such as the MacKenzies of Leoch might encourage others to join the brash Young Pretender, and lead to his success. But if it ended in failure nonetheless, the MacKenzies of Leoch could well end with it.
At last Jamie turned his head deliberately, and looked at me, blue eyes holding my own. You have some say in this, his look said. What shall I do?
I could feel Colum’s eyes upon me, too, and felt rather than saw the questioning lift of the thick, dark brows above them. But what I saw in my mind’s eye was young Hamish, a redheaded ten-year-old who looked enough like Jamie to be his son, rather than his cousin. And what life might be for him, and the rest of his clan, if the MacKenzies of Leoch fell with Charles at Culloden. The men of Lallybroch had Jamie to save them from final slaughter, if it came to that. The men of Leoch would not. And yet the choice could not be mine. I shrugged and bowed my head. Jamie took a deep breath, and made up his mind.
“Go home to Leoch, Uncle,” he said. “And keep your men there.”
Colum sat motionless for a long minute, looking straight at me. Finally, his mouth curled upward, but the expression was not quite a smile.
“I nearly stopped Ned Gowan, when he went to keep you from burning,” he said to me. “I suppose I’m glad I didn’t.”
“Thanks,” I said, my tone matching his.
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck with a calloused hand, as though it ached under the weight of leadership.
“Well, then. I shall see His Highness in the morning, and tell him my decision.” The hand descended, lying inert on the stone bench, halfway between him and his nephew. “I thank ye, Jamie, for your advice.” He hesitated, then added, “And may God go with you.”
Jamie leaned forward and laid his hand over Colum’s. He smiled his mother’s wide, sweet smile and said, “And with you, too, mo caraidh.”
* * *
The Royal Mile was busy, thronged with people taking advantage of the brief hours of warmth. We walked in silence through the crowd, my hand tucked deep into the crook of Jamie’s elbow. Finally he shook his head, muttering something to himself in Gaelic.
“You did right,” I said to him, answering the thought rather than the words. “I would have done the same. Whatever happens, at least the MacKenzies will be safe.”
“Aye, perhaps.” He nodded to a greeting from a passing officer, jostling through the crowd that surrounded the World’s End. “But what of the rest—the MacDonalds and MacGillivrays, and the others that have come? Will they be destroyed now, where maybe they wouldn’t, had I had the nerve to tell Colum to join them?” He shook his head, face clouded. “There’s no knowing, is there, Sassenach?”
“No,” I said softly, squeezing his arm. “Never enough. Or maybe too much. But we can’t do nothing on that account, surely?”
He gave me a half-smile back, and pressed my hand against his side.
“No, Sassenach. I dinna suppose we can. And it’s done now, and naught can change it, so it’s no good worrying. The MacKenzies will stay out of it.”
The sentry at the gate of Holyrood was a MacDonald, one of Glengarry’s men. He recognized Jamie and nodded us into the courtyard, barely looking up from his louse-searching. The warm weather made the vermin active, and as they left their cozy nests in crotch and armpit, often they could be surprised while crossing the perilous terrain of shirt or tartan and removed from the body of their host.
Jamie said something to him in Gaelic, smiling. The man laughed, picked something from his shirt, and flicked it at Jamie, who pretended to catch it, eyed the imaginary beastie critically, then, with a wink at me, popped it into his mouth.
* * *
“Er, how is your son’s head, Lord Kilmarnock?” I inquired politely as we stepped out together onto the floor of Holyrood’s Great Gallery. I didn’t care greatly, but I thought as the topic couldn’t be avoided altogether, it was perhaps better to air it in a place where hostility was unlikely to be openly exhibited.
The Gallery met that criterion, I thought. The long, high-ceiled room with its two vast fireplaces and towering windows had been the scene of frequent balls and parties since Charles’s triumphant entry into Edinburgh in September. Now, crowded with the luminaries of Edinburgh’s upper class, all anxious to do honor to their Prince—once it appeared that he might actually win—the room positively glittered. Don Francisco, the guest of honor, stood at the far end of the room with Charles, dressed in the depressing Spanish style, with baggy dark pantaloons, shapeless coat, and even a small ruff, which seemed to provoke considerable suppressed amusement among the younger and more fashionable element.
“Oh, well enough, Mistress Fraser,” replied Kilmarnock imperturbably. “A dunt on the skull will not discommode a lad of that age for long; though his pride may take a bit more mending,” he added, with a sudden humorous twist to his long mouth.
I smiled at him, relieved to see it.
“You’re not angry?”
He shook his head, looking down to be sure that his feet were clear of my sweeping skirt.
“I have tried to teach John the things he should know as heir to Kilmarnock. In teaching him humility I seem to have signally failed; perhaps your servant may have had more success.”
“I suppose you didn’t whack him outside,” I said absently.
“Pardon?”
“Nothing,” I said flushing. “Look, is that Lochiel? I thought he was ill.”
Dancing required most of my breath, and Lord Kilmarnock appeared not to wish for conversation, so I had time to look around. Charles was not dancing; though he was a good dancer, and the young women of Edinburgh vied for his attentions, tonight he was thoroughly engrossed in the entertainment of his guest. I had seen a small cask with a Portuguese brand-mark burned into its side being rolled into the kitchens in the afternoon, and glasses of the ruby liquid kept reappearing by Don Francisco’s left hand as though by magic through the evening.
We crossed the path of Jamie, propelling one of the Misses Williams through the figures of the dance. There were three of them, nearly indistinguishable from one another—young, brown-haired, comely, and all “so terribly interested, Mr. Fraser, in this noble Cause.” They made me quite tired, but Jamie, ever the soul of patience, danced with them all, one by one, and answered the same silly questions over and over.
“Well, it’s a change for them to get out, poor things,” he explained kindly. “And their father’s a rich merchant, so His Highness would like to encourage the sympathy of the family.”
The Miss Williams with him looked enthralled, and I wondered darkly just how encouraging he was being. Then my attention shifted, as Balmerino danced by with Lord George Murray’s wife. I saw the Murrays exchange affectionate glances as they passed, he with another of the Misses Williams, and felt mildly ashamed of my noticing who Jamie danced with.
Not surprisingly, Colum wasn’t at the ball. I wondered whether he had had a chance to speak to Charles beforehand, but decided probably not; Charles looked much too cheerful and animated t
o have been the recipient of bad news anytime recently.
At one side of the Gallery, I caught sight of two stocky figures, almost identical in uncomfortable and unaccustomed formal dress. It was John Simpson, Master of the Swordmakers Guild of Glasgow, and his son, also John Simpson. Arrived earlier in the week to present His Highness with one of the magnificent basket-hilted broadswords for which they were famed throughout Scotland, the two artisans had plainly been invited tonight to show Don Francisco the depth of support that the Stuarts enjoyed.
Both men had thick, dark hair and beards, lightly frosted with gray. Simpson senior was salt with a sprinkle of pepper, while Simpson junior gave the impression of a dark hillside with a rim of snow crusted lightly round its frostline, white hairs confined to the temples and upper cheeks. As I watched, the older swordmaker poked his son sharply in the back and nodded with significance toward one of the merchants’ daughters, hovering near the edge of the floor under her father’s protection.
Simpson junior gave his father a skeptical glance, but then shrugged, stepped out, and offered his arm with a bow to the third Miss Williams.
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