It was an ancient construction, originally a motte and bailey, and remnants of this were still evident, the central donjon rising like a twelve-sided pepperpot from the old bailey, now a paved courtyard ringed with smaller structures that crowded up against the huge surrounding wall.
The present justiciar was a man named Sir Melchior Williamson, also English, and while neither Grey nor Hal knew him, Harry did, and a note from the brother of the Duke of Pardloe had been enough to secure an invitation to dine at the castle.
“Is it wise to advertise your presence?” Jamie had asked, frowning, when Grey had written the note, enclosing Harry’s introduction. “If we need to take Siverly by force, best if no one knows who ye are, surely.”
“It’s a thought,” Grey agreed, folding and stamping the note. “But force should be our last resort. And I want to know whatever the justiciar can tell us about Siverly before I go to see him. Best to know the terrain before a battle.” The terrain in this case included Sir Melchior’s disposition and potential to be of assistance, should Plan B need to be invoked—but that judgment would have to wait until he saw the man.
Fraser snorted a little but seemed resigned.
“Aye. I’ll tell wee Byrd to lay hold of a couple of burlap bags, then.”
“What for?”
“To wear over our heads when we break in to Siverly’s house.”
Grey had stopped in the act of putting his signet back on and eyed Fraser.
“Haven’t much faith in my powers of diplomacy, have you?”
“No, and neither has your brother, or I wouldna be here.”
That stung.
“My brother prefers to have all contingencies covered,” Grey said, with exquisite politeness. “And with that in mind … I’ll mention the bags to Tom.”
Sir Melchior Williamson proved to be a short, thick-bodied man with the mournful eyes of a bloodhound—these belying a cordial, if wary, nature. He greeted them with pleasure and showed them the facilities of the castle, such as they were.
“Cold as charity,” he said, ushering them afterward into the small dining room in his quarters. “And nearly as cramped. Damp as a sieve, too, with the Shannon running past within bow shot of the walls.” He sneezed, sniffed, and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “I’ve had a cold in the head since I came here, two years ago. Going to France day after tomorrow, thank God—though I’m glad you came before I left.” So much for Plan B, Grey thought.
The dinner was simple but well cooked, and there was sufficient wine as to allow for comfortable conversation, during which Grey was able to inquire about Major Siverly without making his interest too obvious.
“Glastuig, his place is called,” Sir Melchior said, leaning back in his chair and unbuttoning the lower buttons of his waistcoat with an absentmindedness born of long practice. “I’ve been there just the once, soon after I came. Beautiful house. That was when Mrs. Siverly was in residence, though.”
Grey made an encouraging sound.
“She went back to her father’s house, when the major went off to Canada. From what I hear, husband and wife never had agreed very well, though, and she declined to come back when he returned.”
“The major lives quietly now, does he?” Fraser asked. He’d not taken the lead in conversation but had been useful in leading it back in the desired direction whenever Sir Melchior, who had a tendency to ramble, made off in some unprofitable direction.
“Very quietly. Though I hear he’s done the place over lately. Perhaps he proposes to lure his wife back with damask wallpaper.” Sir Melchior laughed, the bloodhound wrinkles of his face all turning up.
The conversation moved on to speculation as to what amenities might best please a woman. Sir Melchior was not married but had hopes in that direction; hence his journey to France—though he feared his intended would find the castle less than appealing.
“She’s half English, half French,” he explained. “Hates Irish food, thinks the Irish even more barbarous than the Scots—meaning no offense, Captain Fraser.”
“None taken, sir,” Jamie murmured, refilling his glass.
“And I do not know that I can count upon the appeal of my person to overcome such objections.” Sir Melchior looked over the rounded slope of his belly and shook his head, resigned.
Conversation became general at that point, and while Grey and Fraser prodded gently from time to time, they learned little more about Gerald Siverly, save for the interesting fact that his father had been a Jacobite.
“Marcus Siverly was one of the Wild Geese,” Sir Melchior said. “Know about them, do you?”
Grey did, but shook his head obligingly.
“That’s what they called themselves, the Irish brigades who fought for the Stuarts at the end of the last century.
“The castle was rather important then,” Sir Melchior explained, beckoning the steward to bring more wine, “because of the river ford. The bridge—you saw the bridge? Of course you did—it leads into Connaught Province, a Jacobite stronghold in the last war. The last war here, I mean,” he added, with a courteous inclination of the head toward Jamie.
“The Williamites assaulted Athlone on the west, the Connaught side, but the Jacobites destroyed the bridge over the Shannon and managed to hold them off. So the Williamites bombarded the town—according to the castle records, more than sixty thousand shots were fired into the town over a ten-day period. They never did take the town, but the Williamite general, a Dutchman named Ginkel, cleverly went downriver a bit—the Shannon’s navigable for most of its length—crossed there, and came round behind the Jacobites, flushing them out.
“The Jacobites were crushed at Aughrim then, of course—but the survivors made it to Limerick, and there took ship to Spain. The flight of the Wild Geese, they called it.” Sir Melchior took a meditative mouthful of wine and held it for a moment before swallowing; it was good wine.
“So Major Siverly’s father left for Spain, did he?” said Grey, taking up his own glass casually. “When did he come back?”
“Oh, he never did. Died in Spain, some years later. The son came back about six years ago, bought Glastuig, which had fallen into disrepair, and began to build it back up. I hear he’s come into quite a bit of money lately,” Sir Melchior added. “Inheritance from some distant relative, I heard.”
“Has he? How fortunate,” Grey murmured, and met Jamie’s eye across the table.
Jamie gave the shadow of a nod and put his hand into his coat.
“I wonder, sir—as ye seem to know so much regarding the history of these parts—might ye ever have seen a poem such as this?” He handed across a folded copy of the fragment of the Wild Hunt, translated into English.
Sir Melchior looked interested and sat up, fumbling for his spectacles. Placing these on his nose, he read the lines slowly out loud, following the words with a blunt fingertip.
Listen, you men of the three lands.
Listen for the sound of the horns that wail in the wind,
that come out of the night.
She is coming. The Queen is coming
and they come following, her great train, her retinue
wild of hair and eye,
the volunteers who follow the Queen.
They search out blood, they seek its heat. They echo the voice of the king under the hill.
“Deuced odd thing, that,” he said, looking up from the page and blinking owlishly through his spectacles at them. “I’ve heard of the Wild Hunt but can’t say I’ve ever seen an account quite like this one. Where’d you get it?”
“From a soldier,” Jamie said, with perfect truth. “As ye see, it’s not complete. I should like to find out the rest of it, and maybe who wrote it.” He gave Sir Melchior a look of convincingly scholarly earnestness, quite surprising Grey. He hadn’t known Fraser capable of acting. “I have it in mind to publish a wee book one day, with some of the auld tales. This would be a fine addition, if it were complete. Might ye be acquainted with anyone familiar wi’ such
things?”
“Why … yes. Yes, I think perhaps I do know someone.” Sir Melchior beckoned to his steward to fetch a fresh decanter of port. “Do you know Inchcleraun?”
Both Grey and Fraser shook their heads, but Grey felt his heart pick up its pace a bit.
“It’s a Catholic monastery,” Sir Melchior said. “A glass with you, Lord John? Yes, yes.” He drank deep and set down the glass to be refilled, belching contentedly. “It’s on an island—the island’s called Inchcleraun, too—up toward the north end of Lough Ree. Only about ten miles from here by water. The abbot—Michael FitzGibbons, he’s called—is quite a collector of old things: parchments, oddments, all-sorts. I met him once; decent sort, for a priest. I think if anyone could tell you where to find the rest of your poem, it might be him.”
Grey saw Jamie’s face change suddenly. The change was transient, like the ripple of wine in the glass the steward set down before him, but definitely there. Perhaps he took exception to that “decent for a priest” remark? Surely not; such remarks were commonplace, and it hadn’t been said with any particular tone of derogation.
“I thank ye,” Jamie said, and smiled, nodding over his lifted glass. “A glass with ye, sir? It’s a verra nice make of wine, to be sure.”
18
Fireside Tales
Grey had hoped to be rid of Quinn once they reached Athlone, but the Irishman clung like a burr, popping up wherever he and Jamie went in the city, cheerful as a grig, and giving no indication that he viewed John as anything but an esteemed acquaintance.
“Can’t you get rid of him?” he’d snapped at Jamie finally, discovering Quinn lounging in the yard of the stable where they’d gone to hire a mule cart for the larger baggage—for Tom had arrived by coach that morning.
“D’ye want me to shoot him?” Fraser inquired. “You’ve got the pistols, aye?”
“What does he bloody want?” Grey demanded in exasperation, but Fraser merely shrugged and looked stubborn—or, rather, more stubborn than usual, if such a thing were possible.
“He says he has business near Inchcleraun, and I’ve nay grounds to call him a liar. Have you? Or do ye ken the way, for that matter?”
Grey had given up, having no choice, and suffered Quinn to ride along with them. With Tom and the baggage-cart and with Jamie Fraser’s inclination to seasickness in mind, they had determined to go by road up the coast of Lough Ree, then find a boat to ferry Jamie across to Inchcleraun, where he would see the abbot and make inquiries regarding the Wild Hunt poem, before they made their assault upon Siverly’s estate near the village of Ballybonaggin, this being only a few miles from the end of Lough Ree, where the island of Inchcleraun lay.
Quinn had promptly declared that he knew Lough Ree well, would guide them safely and find them transport to Inchcleraun. “For sure, I’m after having my own small bit of business nearby, am I not?”
It was roughly twenty miles from Athlone to the far end of Lough Ree, but a torrential downpour that turned the road to liquid mud, bogged the horses, and sank the cart to its axles marooned them four miles short of their goal.
At this point, Grey was not precisely grateful but at least not displeased that Quinn had come with them, for the Irishman did apparently know the countryside and found them shelter in a tumbledown structure that had once been a cow byre. True, the roof leaked and there was a lingering scent of the building’s former inhabitants, but it was substantially drier than the open air, and there was enough dung and a few damp peats to scrape together for a meager fire.
Grey admitted to a reluctant admiration for Quinn’s sangfroid. He behaved precisely as though they were all jolly companions, joking and telling stories, and such was his skill that in fact the atmosphere in the dank little shelter was relaxed and pleasant, in spite of what Grey either knew or suspected of the Irishman.
“And what of you, lad?” Quinn was saying to Tom. “D’ye have a tale to tell, to pass the time?”
Tom blushed visibly, despite the darkness.
“I’m no hand with a tale, sir,” he said, deprecating. “I, um, could maybe read a bit, though?”
Tom had, for reasons best known to himself, brought along as light recreational reading for the journey a shabby volume borrowed from Hal’s library, entitled The Gentleman Instructed. This was a treatise on deportment, etiquette, and general behavior, dating roughly from the year of Grey’s birth, and, while extremely entertaining in spots, was perhaps a trifle obsolete in its advice.
“Oh, by all means, Tom,” Grey said. “I’m sure all profit from a bit of elevating discourse.”
Tom looked pleased and, after a bit of thumbing, cleared his throat and read:
“Dueling is a Great Evil, which a Christian Gentleman should strive always to avoid. Should appeal to Reason fail to resolve Conflict and Honor prevent gracious Capitulation, a Gentleman should then seek the Assistance of Friends, who by dint of Persuasion may bring your Opponent to a sense of Christian Obligation and Responsibility. However …”
Someone must have given it to Grey’s father—his name was inscribed on the flyleaf—but Grey couldn’t imagine his father having actually purchased such a book himself.
Still, Grey reflected, he’d take The Gentleman Instructed any day in preference to Tom’s usual favorite, Arbuthnot’s Ailments, from which he was accustomed to regale Grey, in tones of gloomy relish, with descriptions of exactly what happened to persons so reckless as to neglect the proper balance of their humors. Allowing one’s phlegm to get the upper hand was particularly dire, he understood, and cleared his throat in reflex at the thought, spitting neatly into the fire, which hissed and sizzled at the insult.
“Should Armed Conflict prove unavoidable, the Gentleman should give his Opponent every Opportunity for Withdrawal without loss of Reputation. To this end, such Epithets as ‘Coward,’ ‘Seducer,’ ‘Fop,’ or most particularly ‘Dog’ are strongly discouraged to be used.”
Grey was beginning to wonder whether perhaps his mother had given the book to his father as a joke. It would be quite like her.
He relaxed against the backstop of his portmanteau and, with belly pleasantly full and lulled by Tom’s reading, fell into a half dream in which he called Siverly out. A duel would be so much more straightforward, he reflected drowsily. “Have at you, sir!” And a straight thrust through the heart … Well, no, better through the guts; the poltroon didn’t deserve a clean, uncomplicated death.
He’d been out a few times, mostly with swords. Inconsequential encounters—both parties drunk, hasty words, perhaps a blow—that neither one could find enough coherence to apologize for while preserving any countenance.
The advantage to dueling while drunk, he’d found, was that there wasn’t any sense of fear or urgency about it; it was an elevated sort of feeling, literally—he felt as though he stood a little above himself, living at a faster pace, so that he saw every move, every thrust, as though performed in exquisite slow motion. The grunt of effort, the tickle of sweat, and the smell of his opponent’s body were vivid punctuations of their dance, and the sense of being intensely alive was intoxicating in itself.
He always won; it didn’t occur to him that he might not. A decent fight, a simple stab, a quick slash that drew a little blood, honor satisfied, and they stood together, chests heaving, often laughing and leaning on each other, still drunk. He hadn’t had that sort of duel in years, though.
“Ye’ve been out now and then yourself, haven’t ye, Jamie?”
Distracted by memory, Grey hadn’t noticed that Tom had stopped reading, but was pulled from his thoughts by Quinn’s interjection. Grey looked up and caught a most peculiar expression on Jamie’s face.
“Once or twice,” Jamie muttered, averting his eyes. He picked up a stick and poked the fire unnecessarily, making the peats crumble and glow.
“In the Bois de Boulogne, wasn’t it? With some Englishman. I recall hearing about it—a famous fight! And did ye not end in the Bastille for it?” Quinn laughed.
John himself leapt in, wanting above all to disrupt the conversation.
“I once killed a man by accident during a duel—or thought I had. It was the last duel I fought; I think it might be the last altogether. A most distressing experience.”
That duel had been with pistols. He hadn’t been drunk then. He’d been suffering the aftereffects of being electrocuted by an electric eel, and the entire experience had been so unreal that he still didn’t trust his memories of it. He had no idea how it had begun, still less how it had finished.
His opponent had died, and he regretted that—though not very much, he admitted to himself; Nicholls had been a boor and a waste to society, and, besides, he’d asked for it. Still, his death had been an accident, and Grey really preferred to kill on purpose, when it was necessary.
Interrupted, but not offended, Tom shut the book with his finger in it to hold his place and leaned forward, face wary. That duel had sent him and Lord John to Canada; he hadn’t been there when Grey killed Nicholls but certainly remembered the occasion, and it occurred to Grey to wonder whether Tom had chosen the Gentleman’s admonition against dueling on purpose.
Quinn’s interest had shifted from Fraser to Grey, though, which was what Grey had intended, so he answered when Quinn inquired what he meant by saying he thought he’d killed the man by accident.
“I meant to delope—to fire up into the air?” Quinn nodded impatiently, familiar with the term. “But my man fell and sat bleeding on the grass—he was quite alive, though, and didn’t seem much hurt. The bullet had gone up and more or less fallen on him from a height but hadn’t struck him on the head or anything. He walked off, in fact, in the company of a surgeon who happened to be there—it was following a party. I was therefore entirely shocked to hear the next morning that he’d died.”
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