By some miracle of stubbornness or fear, Fergus was still in place, skinny legs flailing as he slithered and bounced on the heaving back. The grooms were all shouting at him to let go, but he ignored this advice, eyes squeezed tight shut as he clung to the two handfuls of horsehair like a lifeline. One of the grooms was carrying a pitchfork; he waved this menacingly in the air, causing a shriek of dismay from Madame Montresor, who plainly thought he meant to skewer the child.
The shriek didn’t ease the colt’s nerves to any marked extent. It danced and skittered, backing away from the people who were beginning to surround it. While I didn’t think the groom actually intended to stab Fergus off the horse’s back, there was a real danger that the child would be trampled if he fell off—and I didn’t see how he was going to avoid that fate for much longer. The horse made a sudden dash for a small clump of trees that grew near the paddock, either seeking shelter from the mob, or possibly having concluded that the incubus on its back might be scraped off on a branch.
As it passed beneath the first branches, I caught a glimpse of red tartan among the greenery, and then there was a flash of red as Jamie launched himself from the shelter of a tree. His body struck the colt a glancing blow and he tumbled to the ground in a flurry of plaid and bare legs that would have revealed to a discerning observer that this particular Scotsman wasn’t wearing anything under his kilt at the moment.
The party of courtiers rushed up as one, concentrating on the fallen Lord Broch Tuarach, as the grooms pursued the disappearing horse on the other side of the trees.
Jamie lay flat on his back under the beech trees, his face a dead greenish-white, both eyes and mouth wide open. Both arms were locked tight around Fergus, who clung to his chest like a leech. Jamie blinked at me as I dashed up to him, and made a faint effort at a smile. The faint wheezings from his open mouth deepened into a shallow panting, and I relaxed in relief; he’d only had his wind knocked out.
Finally realizing that he was no longer moving, Fergus raised a cautious head. Then he sat bolt upright on his employer’s stomach and said enthusiastically, “That was fun, milord! Can we do it again?”
* * *
Jamie had pulled a muscle in his thigh during the rescue at Argentan, and was limping badly by the time we returned to Paris. He sent Fergus—none the worse either for the escapade or the scolding that followed it—down to the kitchen to seek his supper, and sank into a chair by the hearth, rubbing the swollen leg.
“Hurt much?” I asked sympathetically.
“A bit. All it needs is rest, though.” He stood up and stretched luxuriously, long arms nearly reaching the blackened oak beams above the mantel. “Cramped in that coach; I’d’ve sooner ridden.”
“Mmm. So would I.” I rubbed the small of my back, aching with the strain of the trip. The ache seemed to press downward through my pelvis to my legs—joints loosening from pregnancy, I supposed.
I ran an exploratory hand over Jamie’s leg, then gestured to the chaise.
“Come and lie on your side. I’ve some nice ointment I can rub your leg with; it might ease the ache a bit.”
“Well, if ye dinna mind.” He rose stiffly and lay down on his left side, kilt pulled above his knee.
I opened my medicine box and rummaged through the boxes and jars. Agrimony, slippery elm, pellitory-of-the-wall … ah, there it was. I pulled out the small blue glass jar Monsieur Forez had given me and unscrewed the lid. I sniffed cautiously; salves went rancid easily, but this one appeared to have a good proportion of salt mixed in for preservation. It had a nice mellow scent, and was a beautiful color—the rich yellow-white of fresh cream.
I scooped out a good bit of the salve and spread it down the long muscle of the thigh, pushing Jamie’s kilt above his hip to keep out of the way. The flesh of his leg was warm; not the heat of infection, only the normal heat of a young male body, flushed with exercise and the glowing pulse of health. I massaged the cream gently into the skin, feeling the swell of the hard muscle, probing the divisions of quadriceps and hamstring. Jamie made a small grunting sound as I rubbed harder.
“Hurt?” I asked.
“Aye, a bit, but don’t stop,” he answered. “Feels as though it’s doing me good.” He chuckled. “I wouldna admit it to any but you, Sassenach, but it was fun. I havena moved like that in months.”
“Glad you enjoyed yourself,” I said dryly, taking another dab of cream. “I had an interesting time myself.” Not pausing in the massage, I told him of Sandringham’s offer.
He grunted in response, wincing slightly as I hit a tender spot. “So Colum was right, when he thought the man might be able to help with the charges against me.”
“So it would seem. I suppose the question is—do you want to take him up on it?” I tried not to hold my breath, as I waited for his answer. For one thing, I knew what it would be; the Frasers as a family were renowned for stubbornness, and despite his mother’s having been a MacKenzie, Jamie was a Fraser through and through. Having made up his mind to stopping Charles Stuart, he was hardly likely to abandon the effort. Still, it was tempting bait—to me, as well as to him. To be able to go back to Scotland, to his home; to live in peace.
But there was another rub, of course. If we did go back, leaving Charles’s plans to run their course into the future I knew, then any peace in Scotland would be short-lived indeed.
Jamie gave a small snort, apparently having followed my own thought processes. “Well, I’ll tell ye, Sassenach. If I thought that Charles Stuart might succeed—might free Scotland from English rule—then I would give my lands, my liberty, and life itself to help him. Fool he might be, but a royal fool, and not an ungallant one, I think.” He sighed.
“But I know the man, and I’ve talked with him—and with all the Jacobites that fought with his father. And given what you tell me will happen if it comes to a Rising again … I dinna see that I’ve any choice but to stay, Sassenach.
Once he is stopped, then there may be a chance to go back—or there may not. But for now, I must decline His Grace’s offer wi’ thanks.”
I patted his thigh gently. “That’s what I thought you’d say.”
He smiled at me, then glanced down at the yellowish cream that coated my fingers. “What’s that stuff?”
“Something Monsieur Forez gave me. He didn’t say what it’s called. I don’t think it’s got any active ingredients, but it’s a nice, greasy sort of cream.”
The body under my hands stiffened and Jamie glanced over his shoulder at the blue jar.
“Monsieur Forez gave it ye?” he said uneasily.
“Yes,” I answered, surprised. “What’s the matter?” For he had put aside my cream-smeared hands and, swinging his legs over the side of the chaise longue, was reaching for a towel.
“Has that jar a fleur-de-lys on the lid, Sassenach?” he asked, wiping the ointment from his leg.
“Yes, it has,” I said. “Jamie, what’s wrong with that salve?” The look on his face was peculiar in the extreme; it kept vacillating between dismay and amusement.
“Oh, I wouldna say there’s anything wrong about it, Sassenach,” he answered finally. Having rubbed his leg hard enough to leave the curly red-gold hair bristling above reddened skin, he tossed the towel aside and looked thoughtfully at the jar.
“Monsieur Forez must think rather highly of ye, Sassenach,” he said. “It’s expensive stuff, that.”
“But—”
“It’s not that I dinna appreciate it,” he assured me hastily. “It’s only that havin’ come within a day’s length of being one of the ingredients myself, it makes me feel a bit queer.”
“Jamie!” I felt my voice rising. “What is that stuff?” I grabbed the towel, hastily swabbing my salve-coated hands.
“Hanged-men’s grease,” he answered reluctantly.
“H-h-h …” I couldn’t even get the word out, and started over. “You mean …” Goose bumps rippled up my arms, raising the fine hairs like pins in a cushion.
“Er,
aye. Rendered fat from hanged criminals.” He spoke cheerfully, regaining his composure as quickly as I was losing mine. “Verra good for the rheumatism and joint-ill, they say.”
I recalled the tidy way in which Monsieur Forez had gathered up the results of his operations in L’Hôpital des Anges, and the odd look on Jamie’s face when he had seen the tall chirurgien escort me home. My knees were watery, and I felt my stomach flip like a pancake.
“Jamie! Who in bloody fucking hell is Monsieur Forez?” I nearly screamed.
Amusement was definitely getting the upper hand in his expression.
“He’s the public hangman for the Fifth Arondissement, Sassenach. I thought ye knew.”
* * *
Jamie returned damp and chilled from the stableyard, where he had gone to scrub himself, the required ablutions being on a scale greater than the bedroom basin could provide.
“Don’t worry, it’s all off,” he assured me, skinning out of his shirt and sliding naked beneath the covers. His flesh was rough and chilly with gooseflesh, and he shivered briefly as he took me in his arms.
“What is it, Sassenach? I don’t still smell of it, do I?” he asked, as I huddled stiff under the bedclothes, hugging myself with my arms.
“No,” I said. “I’m scared. Jamie, I’m bleeding.”
“Jesus,” he said softly. I could feel the sudden thrill of fear that ran through him at my words, identical to the one that ran through me. He held me close to him, smoothing my hair and stroking my back, but both of us felt the awful helplessness in the face of physical disaster that made his actions futile. Strong as he was, he couldn’t protect me; willing he might be, but he couldn’t help. For the first time, I wasn’t safe in his arms, and the knowledge terrified both of us.
“D’ye think—” he began, then broke off and swallowed. I could feel the tremor run down his throat and hear the gulp as he swallowed his fear. “Is it bad, Sassenach? Can ye tell?”
“No,” I said. I held him tighter, trying to find an anchorage. “I don’t know. It isn’t heavy bleeding; not yet, anyway.”
The candle was still alight. He looked down at me, eyes dark with worry.
“Had I better fetch someone to ye, Claire? A healer, one of the women from the Hôpital?”
I shook my head and licked dry lips.
“No. I don’t … I don’t think there’s anything they could do.” It was the last thing I wanted to say; more than anything, I wanted there to be someone we could find who knew how to make it all right. But I remembered my early nurse’s training, the few days I had spent on the obstetrical ward, and the words of one of the doctors, shrugging as he left the bed of a patient who’d had a miscarriage. “There’s really nothing you can do,” he’d said. “If they’re going to lose a child, they generally do, no matter what you try. Bed rest is really the only thing, and even that often won’t do it.”
“It may be nothing,” I said, trying to hearten both of us. “It isn’t unusual for women to have slight bleeding sometimes during pregnancy.” It wasn’t unusual—during the first three months. I was more than five months along, and this was by no means usual. Still, there were many things that could cause bleeding, and not all of them were serious.
“It may be all right,” I said. I laid a hand on my stomach, pressing gently. I felt an immediate response from the occupant, a lazy, stretching push that at once made me feel better. I felt a rush of passionate gratitude that made tears come to my eyes.
“Sassenach, what can I do?” Jamie whispered. His hand came around me and lay over mine, cupping my threatened abdomen.
I put my other hand on top of his, and held on.
“Just pray,” I said. “Pray for us, Jamie.”
23
THE BEST-LAID PLANS OF MICE AND MEN …
The bleeding had stopped by the morning. I rose very cautiously, but all remained well. Still, it was obvious that the time had come for me to stop working at L’Hôpital des Anges, and I sent Fergus with a note of explanation and apology to Mother Hildegarde. He returned with her prayers and good wishes, and a bottle of a brownish elixir much esteemed—according to the accompanying note—by les maîtresses sage-femme for the prevention of miscarriage. After Monsieur Forez’s salve, I was more than a little dubious about using any medication I hadn’t prepared myself, but a careful sniff reassured me that at least the ingredients were purely botanical.
After considerable hesitation, I drank a spoonful. The liquid was bitter and left a nasty taste in my mouth, but the simple act of doing something—even something I thought likely to be useless—made me feel better. I spent the greater part of each day now lying on the chaise longue in my room, reading, dozing, sewing, or simply staring into space with my hands over my belly.
When I was alone, that is. When he was home, Jamie spent most of his time with me, talking over the day’s business, or discussing the most recent Jacobite letters. King James had apparently been told of his son’s proposed investment in port wine, and approved it wholeheartedly as “… a very sounde scheme, which I cannot but feel will go a great way in providing for you as I should wish to see you established in France.”
“So James thinks the money’s intended merely to establish Charles as a gentleman, and give him some position here,” I said. “Do you think that could be all he has in mind? Louise was here this afternoon; she says Charles came to see her last week—insisted on seeing her, though she refused to receive him at first. She says he was very excited and puffed up about something, but he wouldn’t tell her what; just kept hinting mysteriously about something great he was about to do. ‘A great adventure’ is what she says he said. That doesn’t sound like a simple investment in port, does it?”
“It doesn’t.” Jamie looked grim at the thought.
“Hm,” I said. “Well, all things taken together, it seems a good bet that Charles isn’t meaning just to settle down upon the profits of his venture and become an upstanding Paris merchant.”
“If I were a wagering man, I’d lay my last garter on it,” Jamie said. “The question now is, how do we stop him?”
* * *
The answer came several days later, after any amount of discussion and useless suggestions. Murtagh was with us in my bedroom, having brought up several bolts of cloth from the docks for me.
“They say there’s been an outbreak of pox in Portugal,” he observed, dumping the expensive watered silk on the bed as though it were a load of used burlap. “There was a ship carrying iron from Lisbon came in this morning, and the harbor master was over it with a toothcomb, him and three assistants. Found naught, though.” Spotting the brandy bottle on my table, he poured a tumbler half-full and drank it like water, in large, healthy swallows. I watched this performance openmouthed, pulled from the spectacle only by Jamie’s exclamation.
“Pox?”
“Aye,” said Murtagh, pausing between swallows. “Smallpox.” He lifted the glass again and resumed his systematic refreshment.
“Pox,” Jamie muttered to himself. “Pox.”
Slowly, the frown left his face and the vertical crease between his eyebrows disappeared. A deeply contemplative look came over him, and he lay back in his chair, hands linked behind his neck, staring fixedly at Murtagh. The hint of a smile twitched his wide mouth sideways.
Murtagh observed this process with considerable skeptical resignation. He drained his cup and sat stolidly hunched on his stool as Jamie sprang to his feet and began circling the little clansman, whistling tunelessly through his teeth.
“I take it you have an idea?” I said.
“Oh, aye,” he said, and began to laugh softly to himself. “Oh, aye, that I have.”
He turned to me, eyes alight with mischief and inspiration.
“Have ye anything in your box of medicines that would make a man feverish? Or give him flux? Or spots?”
“Well, yes,” I said slowly, thinking. “There’s rosemary. Or cayenne. And cascara, of course, for diarrhea. Why?”
He looked at Murtagh, grinning widely, then, overcome with his idea, cackled and ruffled his kinsman’s hair, so it stuck up in black spikes. Murtagh glared at him, exhibiting a strong resemblance to Louise’s pet monkey.
“Listen,” Jamie said, bending toward us conspiratorially. “What if the Comte St. Germain’s ship comes back from Portugal wi’ pox aboard?”
I stared at him. “Have you lost your mind?” I inquired politely. “What if it did?”
“If it did,” Murtagh interrupted, “they’d lose the cargo. It would be burnt or dumped in the harbor, by law.” A gleam of interest showed in the small black eyes. “And how d’ye mean to manage that, lad?”
Jamie’s exhilaration dropped slightly, though the light in his eyes remained.
“Well,” he admitted, “I havena got it thought out all the way as yet, but for a start …”
The plan took several days of discussion and research to refine, but was at last settled. Cascara to cause flux had been rejected as being too debilitating in action. However, I’d found some good substitutes in one of the herbals Master Raymond had lent me.
Murtagh, armed with a pouch full of rosemary essence, nettle juice, and madder root, would set out at the end of the week for Lisbon, where he would gossip among the sailors’ taverns, find out the ship chartered by the Comte St. Germain, and arrange to take passage on it, meanwhile sending back word of the ship’s name and sailing date to Paris.
“No, that’s common,” said Jamie, in answer to my question as to whether the captain might not find this behavior fishy. “Almost all cargo ships carry a few passengers; however many they can squeeze between decks. And Murtagh will have enough money to make him a welcome addition, even if they have to give him the captain’s cabin.” He wagged an admonitory finger at Murtagh.
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