Naturally, the only prophecies mentioned in connection with this man are the ones that appeared to come true: he predicted, for instance, that when there were five bridges over the River Ness, the world would fall into chaos. In August 1939 the fifth bridge over the Ness was opened, and in September, Hitler invaded Poland. Quite enough chaos for anyone.
The Seer came to a sticky end, as prophets often do (do please remember that, darling, will you?), burnt to death in a spiked barrel of tar at the instigation of Lady Seaforth—to whom he had unwisely prophesied that her husband was having affairs with various ladies while away in Paris. (That one was likely true, in my opinion.)
Amongst his lesser-known prophecies, though, was one called the Fraser Prophecy. There isn’t a great deal known about this, and what there is is rambling and vague, as prophecies usually are, the Old Testament notwithstanding. The only relevant bit, I think, is this: “The last of Lovat’s line will rule Scotland.”
Frank’s explanation of the enclosed family tree makes it apparent that the conspirators—whoever they may be—do know about the possibility of time travel and do know that Brianna is the great-granddaughter of Lord Lovat, the Old Fox, whose legitimate line died out in the late eighteenth century. But do prophecies care about such issues as legitimacy?
If I find whoever drew this chart, I will question them and do my best to neutralize any possible threat to you. But as I say—I know the look of a conspiracy. Nutters of this sort thrive in company. I might miss one.
“Neutralize them,” she murmured, the chill in her hands spreading through her arms and chest, crystallizing around her heart. She had no doubt at all what he’d meant by that, the bland matter-of-factness of the term notwithstanding. And had he found him—them?
Don’t—I repeat, don’t—go anywhere near the Service or anyone connected with it. At best, they’d think you insane. But if you are indeed what you may be, the last people who should ever know it are the funny buggers, as we used to be known during the war.
And if worse should come to worst—and you can do it—then the past may be your best avenue of escape. I have no idea how it works; neither does your mother, or at least she says so. I hope I may have given you a few tools to help, if that should be necessary.
And…there’s him. Your mother said that Fraser sent her back to me, knowing that I would protect her—and you. She thought that he died immediately afterward. He did not. I looked for him, and I found him. And, like him, perhaps I send you back, knowing—as he knew of me—that he will protect you with his life.
I will love you forever, Brianna. And I know whose child you truly are.
With all my love,
Dad
BACK IN 1739, Brian takes Roger to the MacLaren croft, where he finds Buck plainly very ill with some sort of heart ailment. The MacLarens give Roger grudging accommodation for the night, remarking that they’ll send for the healer in the morning—should Buck survive the night.
He does. And the healer, Dr. Hector McEwan, is something of a revelation to Roger, from the moment he places his hands on Buck’s chest and exclaims under his breath, “Cognosco te!” I know you!
The MacLarens all watched the healer work, with great respect and not a little awe. Roger, who had learned a good bit about the psychology of healing from Claire, was just as impressed. And, to be frank, scared shitless….
All of them were breathing, hearts beating as one—and somehow they were supporting the stricken man, holding him as part of a larger entity, embracing him, bracing him. Buck’s injured heart lay in the palm of Roger’s hand: he realized it quite suddenly and, just as suddenly, realized that it had been there for some time, resting as naturally in the curve of his palm as rounded river rock, smooth and heavy. And…beating, in time with the heart in Roger’s chest. What was much stranger was that none of this felt in any way out of the ordinary.
Odd—and impressive—as it was, Roger could have explained this. Mass suggestion, hypnosis, will and willingness. He’d done much the same thing himself any number of times, singing—when the music caught the audience up with him, when he knew they were with him, would follow him anywhere. He’d done it once or twice, preaching; felt the people warm to him and lift him up as he lifted them. It was impressive to see it done so quickly and thoroughly without any sort of warm-up, though—and much more disquieting to feel the effects in his own flesh. What was scaring him, though, was that the healer’s hands were blue.
No one seems to see the faint blue glow but Roger. Unnerved by the sight but driven by the healer’s words, Roger follows Dr. McEwan when he leaves the croft, stops him, and boldly says, “Cognosco te.”
Hector McEwan is nearly as excited as Roger. Taking him off the road to a sheltered spot, he tells Roger his story—he traveled accidentally through the stones from 1841, where he was an Edinburgh physician—and asks eagerly after Roger’s story. He also tells Roger the story of the half-burnt croft in which they’ve taken shelter, involving a mysterious death by hanging and an even more mysterious woman.
Roger is less interested in the man’s stories than in his actions. McEwan puts his hand around Roger’s damaged throat. “Maybe, just maybe,” he murmurs. Roger feels no more than a slight warmth—but over the subsequent days realizes gradually that his throat is better; it no longer hurts to swallow.
The MacLarens, who had been rattled by the arrival of the two strangers—and still more by the sight of the rope scar on Roger’s throat, which makes them think that he may be the ghost of the hanged man—send for the authorities: Dougal MacKenzie, war chief of clan MacKenzie, who stops by with several of his henchmen.
“Good morn to ye, sir,” the dark man said, with a courteous inclination of the head. “My name is Dougal MacKenzie, of Castle Leoch. And…who might you be?”
Dear Jesus bloody hell, he thought. The shock rippled through him, and he hoped it didn’t show on his face. He shook hands firmly.
“I am Roger Jeremiah MacKenzie, of Kyle of Lochalsh,” he said, keeping his voice mild and—he hoped—assured, as some compensation for his shabby appearance. His voice sounded nearly normal this morning; if he didn’t force it, with luck it wouldn’t crack or gurgle.
“Your servant, sir,” MacKenzie said with a slight bow, surprising Roger with his elegant manners. He had deep-set hazel eyes, which looked Roger over with frank interest—and a faint touch of what appeared to be amusement—before shifting to Buck.
“My kinsman,” Roger said hastily. “William Bu—William MacKenzie.” When? he thought in agitation. Was Buck born yet? Would Dougal recognize the name William Buccleigh MacKenzie? But, no, he can’t be born yet; you can’t exist twice in the same time—can you?!?
Dougal finds the strangers interesting but no threat—either physically or supernaturally—and goes so far as to lend them horses to aid in their search. Roger wonders uneasily whether he should tell Buck the truth about his parentage, but this seems neither the time nor yet the place for it.
A toilsome search leads them eventually back to Lallybroch, where Brian Fraser greets them with the news that the garrison commander has sent an object found by one of his men, which may possibly have something to do with their search.
It does—but not in the way they expect.
“Captain Randall said that Captain Buncombe sent word out wi’ all the patrols, and one of them came across this wee bawbee and sent it back to Fort William. None of them ever saw such a thing before, but because of the name, they were thinking it might have to do wi’ your lad.”
“The name?” Roger untied the cord and the cloth fell open. For an instant, he didn’t know what the hell he was seeing. He picked it up; it was light as a feather, dangling from his fingers.
Two disks, made of something like pressed cardboard, threaded onto a bit of light woven cord. One round, colored red—the other was green and octagonal.
“Oh, Jesus,” he said. “Oh, Christ Jesus.”
J. W. MacKenzie was printed on both disks, along
with a number and two letters. He turned the red disk gently over with a shaking fingertip and read what he already knew was stamped there.
RAF
He was holding the dog tags of a Royal Air Force flier. Circa World War II.
Have they been searching all along for the wrong Jeremiah? Is Roger’s father, who disappeared during WWII, actually here, in 1739? It’s a staggering and far-fetched possibility—but it’s the only clue they have, and Roger insists on returning to the garrison in Fort William, to ask where the dog tags came from, in hopes of tracing their origin.
When they arrive at Fort William, though, they find that a new commander has succeeded the ailing Captain Buncombe: Captain Jonathan Randall. Shocked by meeting the man whose future actions he knows all too well, Roger expects a monster and is further shocked to find Randall curious, friendly, and helpful. The captain summons one of his soldiers, who can tell Roger where the dog tags came from.
During the conversation, Roger has been praying desperately, for help in their search and for a way—perhaps—to deal with what he knows Randall will do here in a few years’ time. But talking to God is seldom a one-sided conversation, and he becomes aware—with considerable dismay—that there is more than one soul in danger here.
PRIVATE MACDONALD, ABASHED, saluted and left. There was a moment’s silence, during which Roger became aware of the rain, grown harder now, clattering like gravel on the large casement window. A chilly draft leaked around its frame and touched his face. Glancing at the window, he saw the drill yard below, and the whipping post, a grim crucifix stark and solitary, black in the rain.
Oh, God.
Carefully, he folded up the dog tags again and put them away in his pocket. Then met Captain Randall’s dark eyes directly.
“Did Captain Buncombe tell you, sir, that I am a minister?”
Randall’s brows rose in brief surprise.
“No, he didn’t.” Randall was plainly wondering why Roger should mention this, but he was courteous. “My younger brother is a clergyman. Ah…Church of England, of course.” There was the faintest implied question there, and Roger answered it with a smile.
“I am a minister of the Church of Scotland myself, sir. But if I might…will ye allow me to offer a blessing? For the success of my kinsman and myself—and in thanks for your kind help to us.”
“I—” Randall blinked, clearly discomfited. “I—suppose so. Er…all right.” He leaned back a little, looking wary, hands on his blotter. He was completely taken aback when Roger leaned forward and grasped both his hands firmly. Randall gave a start, but Roger held tight, eyes on the captain’s.
“Oh, Lord,” he said, “we ask thy blessing on our works. Guide me and my kinsman in our quest, and guide this man in his new office. May your light and presence be with us and with him, and your judgment and compassion ever on us. I commend him to your care. Amen.”
His voice cracked on the last word, and he let go Randall’s hands and coughed, looking away as he cleared his throat.
Randall cleared his throat, too, in embarrassment, but kept his poise.
“I thank you for your…er…good wishes, Mr. MacKenzie. And I wish you good luck. And good day.”
“The same to you, Captain,” Roger said, rising. “God be with you.”
PART 3: A BLADE NEW-MADE FROM THE ASHES OF THE FORGE
Valley Forge, that is. Washington’s army is indeed coming out, headed toward Philadelphia with the intent of intercepting the retreating British army and engaging them in battle. This is the first—and maybe final—test of the newly trained American troops, and the battle—if it happens—may put paid once and for all to the rebellion, or may show the mettle of Washington’s men and thus perhaps encourage vital support from France.
With the Continental regulars will be a good many companies of militia, drawn from Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and New York. And in command of ten of these companies will be the newly minted field general James Fraser. Much to the horror of his wife.
HE’D COME UP to the loft and pulled the ladder up behind him, to prevent the children coming up. I was dressing quickly—or trying to—as he told me about Dan Morgan, about Washington and the other Continental generals. About the coming battle.
“Sassenach, I had to,” he said again, softly. “I’m that sorry.”
“I know,” I said. “I know you did.” My lips were stiff. “I—you—I’m sorry, too.”
I was trying to fasten the dozen tiny buttons that closed the bodice of my gown, but my hands shook so badly that I couldn’t even grasp them. I stopped trying and dug my hairbrush out of the bag he’d brought me from the Chestnut Street house.
He made a small sound in his throat and took it out of my hand. He threw it onto our makeshift couch and put his arms around me, holding me tight with my face buried in his chest. The cloth of his new uniform smelled of fresh indigo, walnut hulls, and fuller’s earth; it felt strange and stiff against my face. I couldn’t stop shaking.
“Talk to me, a nighean,” he whispered into my tangled hair. “I’m afraid, and I dinna want to feel so verra much alone just now. Speak to me.”
“Why has it always got to be you?” I blurted into his chest.
That made him laugh, a little shakily, and I realized that all the trembling wasn’t coming from me.
“It’s no just me,” he said, and stroked my hair. “There are a thousand other men readying themselves today—more—who dinna want to do it, either.”
“I know,” I said again. My breathing was a little steadier. “I know.” I turned my face to the side in order to breathe, and all of a sudden began to cry, quite without warning.
“I’m sorry,” I gasped. “I don’t mean—I don’t want t-to make it h-harder for you. I—I—oh, Jamie, when I knew you were alive—I wanted so much to go home. To go home with you.”
His arms tightened hard round me. He didn’t speak, and I knew it was because he couldn’t.
“So did I,” he whispered at last. “And we will, a nighean. I promise ye.”
It may be some time, though, before Jamie is able to keep that promise, and a long road lies ahead.
As they make their hurried preparations to leave Fergus and Marsali’s printshop, Germain appears and makes an impassioned plea to accompany his grandfather to war.
“Bonjour, Grand-père,” he said, wiping a cobweb off his face as he landed and bowing to Jamie with great formality. He turned and bowed to me, as well. “Comment ça va, Grand-mère?”
“Fi—” I began automatically, but was interrupted by Jamie.
“No,” he said definitely. “Ye’re not coming.”
“Please, Grandda!” Germain’s formality disappeared in an instant, replaced by pleading. “I could be a help to ye!”
“I know,” Jamie said dryly. “And your parents would never forgive me if ye were. I dinna even want to know what your notion of help involves, but—”
“I could carry messages! I can ride, ye ken that, ye taught me yourself! And I’m nearly twelve!”
“Ye ken how dangerous that is? If a British sharpshooter didna take ye out of the saddle, someone from the militia would club ye over the head to steal the horse. And I can count, ken? Ye’re no even eleven yet, so dinna be tryin’ it on with me.”
Germain is no match for his grandfather when it comes to stubbornness, and he retires, disgruntled.
JENNY HAD SENT my medicine chest from Chestnut Street and with it the large parcel of herbs from Kingsessing, which had been delivered there the night before. With the forethought of a Scottish housewife, she’d also included a pound of oatmeal, a twist of salt, a package of bacon, four apples, and six clean handkerchiefs. Also a neat roll of fabric with a brief note, which read:
Dear Sister Claire,
You appear to own nothing suitable in which to go to war. I suggest you borrow Marsali’s printing apron for the time being, and here are two of my flannel petticoats and the simplest things Mrs. Figg could find amongst your wardrobe.
> Take care of my brother, and tell him his stockings need darning, because he won’t notice until he’s worn holes in the heel and given himself blisters.
Your Good-sister,
Janet Murray
While their mood is anxious and somber, Claire is able to relieve at least one of Jamie’s fears—that of meeting his son, William, on the field of battle.
“He can’t fight,” I said, letting out a half-held breath. “It doesn’t matter what the British army is about to do. William was paroled after Saratoga—he’s a conventioner. You know about the Convention army?”
“I do.” He took my hand and squeezed it. “Ye mean he’s not allowed to take up arms unless he’s been exchanged—and he hasn’t been, is that it?”
“That’s it. Nobody can be exchanged, until the King and the Congress come to some agreement about it.”
His face was suddenly vivid with relief, and I was relieved to see it.
“John’s been trying to have him exchanged for months, but there isn’t any way of doing it.” I dismissed Congress and the King with a wave of my free hand and smiled up at him. “You won’t have to face him on a battlefield.”
“Taing do Dhia,” he said, closing his eyes for an instant. “I’ve been thinking for days—when I wasna fretting about you, Sassenach”—he added, opening his eyes and looking down his nose at me—“the third time’s the charm. And that would be an evil charm indeed.”
“Third time?” I said. “What do you—would you let go my fingers? They’ve gone numb.”
“Oh,” he said. He kissed them gently and let go. “Aye, sorry, Sassenach. I meant—I’ve shot at the lad twice in his life so far and missed him by no more than an inch each time. If it should happen again—ye canna always tell, in battle, and accidents do happen. I was dreaming, during the night, and…och, nay matter.” He waved off the dreams and turned away, but I put a hand on his arm to stop him. I knew his dreams—and I’d heard him moan the night before, fighting them.
The Companion to the Fiery Cross, a Breath of Snow and Ashes, an Echo in the Bone, and Written in My Own Heart's Blood Page 28