Dragonfly in Amber

  “I know.”

  While I hadn’t fought with sword or knife, I had fought often enough with hands and will; getting through the chaos of death only because there is no other choice. And it did leave behind that odd feeling of detachment; the brain seemed to rise above the body, coldly judging and directing, the viscera obediently subdued until the crisis passed. It was always sometime later that the shaking started.

  I hadn’t reached that point yet. I slid the cloak from my shoulders and covered him before going back into the cottage.

  * * *

  The dawn came, and relief with it, in the person of two village women and an army surgeon. The man with the wounded leg was pale and shaky, but the bleeding had stopped. Jamie took me by the arm and led me away, down the street of Tranent.

  O’Sullivan’s constant difficulties with the commissary had been temporarily relieved by the captured wagons, and there was food in plenty. We ate quickly, scarcely tasting the hot porridge, aware of food only as a bodily necessity, like breathing. The feeling of nourishment began to creep through my body, freeing me to think of the next most pressing need—sleep.

  Wounded men were quartered in every house and cottage, the sound of body mostly sleeping in the fields outside. While Jamie could have claimed a place in the manse with the other officers, he instead took my arm and turned me aside, heading between the cottages and up a hill, into one of the scattered small groves that lay outside Tranent.

  “It’s a bit of a walk,” he said apologetically, looking down at me, “but I thought perhaps ye’d rather be private.”

  “I would.” While I had been raised under conditions that would strike most people of my time as primitive—often living in tents and mud houses on Uncle Lamb’s field expeditions—still, I wasn’t used to living crowded cheek by jowl with numbers of other people, as was customary here. People ate, slept, and frequently copulated, crammed into tiny, stifling cottages, lit and warmed by smoky peat fires. The only thing they didn’t do together was bathe—largely because they didn’t bathe.

  Jamie led the way under the drooping limbs of a huge horse chestnut, and into a small clearing, thick with the fallen leaves of ash, alder, and sycamore. The sun was barely up, and it was still cold under the trees, a faint edge of frost rimming some of the yellowed leaves.

  He scraped a rough trench in the layer of leaves with one heel, then stood at one end of the hollow, set his hand to the buckle of his belt, and smiled at me.

  “It’s a bit undignified to get into, but it’s verra easy to take off.” He jerked the belt loose, and his plaid dropped around his ankles, leaving him clad to mid-thigh in only his shirt. He usually wore the military “little kilt,” which buckled about the waist, with the plaid a separate strip of cloth around the shoulders. But now, his own kilt rent and stained from the battle, he had acquired one of the older belted plaids—nothing more than a long strip of cloth, tucked about the waist and held in place with no fastening but a belt.

  “How do you get into it?” I asked curiously.

  “Well, ye lay it out on the ground, like this”—he knelt, spreading the cloth so that it lined the leaf-strewn hollow—“and then ye pleat it every few inches, lie down on it, and roll.”

  I burst out laughing, and sank to my knees, helping to smooth the thick tartan wool.

  “That, I want to see,” I told him. “Wake me up before you get dressed.”

  He shook his head good-naturedly, and the sunlight filtering through the leaves glinted off his hair.

  “Sassenach, the chances of me wakin’ before you do are less than those of a worm in a henyard. I dinna care if another horse steps on me, I’ll no be moving ’til tomorrow.” He lay down carefully, pushing back the leaves.

  “Come lie wi’ me.” He extended an inviting hand upward. “We’ll cover ourselves with your cloak.”

  The leaves beneath the smooth wool made a surprisingly comfortable mattress, though at this point I would cheerfully have slept on a bed of nails. I relaxed bonelessly against him, reveling in the exquisite delight of simply lying down.

  The initial chill faded quickly as our bodies warmed the pocket where we lay. We were far enough from the town that the sounds of its occupation reached us only in wind-borne snatches, and I thought with drowsy satisfaction that it might well be tomorrow before anyone looking for Jamie found us.

  I had removed my petticoats and torn them up for additional bandages the night before, and there was nothing between us but the thin fabric of skirt and shirt. A hard, solid warmth stirred briefly against my stomach.

  “Surely not?” I said, amused despite my tiredness. “Jamie, you must be half-dead.”

  He laughed tiredly, holding me close with one large, warm hand on the small of my back.

  “A lot more than half, Sassenach. I’m knackered, and my cock’s the only thing too stupid to know it. I canna lie wi’ ye without wanting you, but wanting’s all I’m like to do.”

  I fumbled with the hem of his shirt, then pushed it up and wrapped my hand gently around him. Even warmer than the skin of his belly, his penis was silken under the touch of my stroking thumb, pulsing strongly with each beat of his heart.

  He made a small sound of half-painful content, and rolled slowly onto his back, letting his legs sprawl loosely outward, half-covered by my cloak.

  The sun had reached our pile of leaves, and my shoulders relaxed under the warming touch of the light. Everything seemed slightly tinged with gold, the mingled result of early autumn and extreme fatigue. I felt languid and vaguely disembodied, watching the small stirrings of his flesh under my fingers. All the terror and the tiredness and the noise of the two days past ebbed slowly away, leaving us alone together.

  The haze of fatigue seemed to act as a magnifying glass, exaggerating tiny details and sensations. The tail of his saber wound was visible beneath the rucked-up shirt, crusted black against the fair skin. Two or three small flies buzzed low, investigating, and I waved them away. My ears rang with the silence, the breath of the trees no match for the echoes of the town.

  I laid my cheek against him, feeling the hard, smooth curve of his hip bone, close under the skin. His skin was transparent in the crease of his groin, the branching veins blue and delicate as a child’s.

  His hand rose slowly, floating like the leaves, and rested lightly on my head.

  “Claire. I need you,” he whispered. “I need ye so.”

  Without the hampering petticoats, it was easy. I felt as though I were floating myself, rising without volition, drifting my skirts up the length of his body, settling over him like a cloud on a hilltop, sheltering his need.

  His eyes were closed, head laid back, the red gold of his hair tumbled coarsely in the leaves. But his hands rose together and settled surely on my waist, resting without weight on the curve of my hips.

  My eyes closed as well, and I felt the shapes of his mind, as surely as I felt those of his body under me; exhaustion blocked our every thought and memory; every sensation but the knowledge of each other.

  “Not…long,” he whispered. I nodded, knowing he felt what he did not see, and rose above him, thighs powerful and sure under the stained fabric of my gown.

  Once, and twice, and again, and once again, and the tremor rose through him and through me, like the rising of water through the roots of a plant and into its leaves.

  The breath left him in a sigh, and I felt his descent into unconsciousness like the dimming of a lamp. I fell beside him, with barely time to draw the heavy folds of the cloak up over us before the darkness filled me, and I lay weighted to the earth by the heavy warmth of his seed in my belly. We slept.

  37

  HOLYROOD

  Edinburgh, October 1745

  The knock on my door surprised me from an inspection of my newly replenished medical boxes. After the stunning victory at Prestonpans, Charles had led his triumphant army back to Edinburgh, to bask in adulation. While he was basking, his generals and chieftains labored, rallying their me
n and procuring what equipment was to be had, in preparation for whatever was coming next.

  Buoyed by early success, Charles talked freely of taking Stirling, then Carlyle, and then, perhaps, of advancing south, even to London itself. I spent my spare time counting suture needles, hoarded willow bark, and stole every spare ounce of alcohol I could find, to be brewed into disinfectant.

  “What is it?” I asked, opening the door. The messenger was a young boy, scarcely older than Fergus. He was trying to look grave and deferential, but couldn’t suppress his natural curiosity. I saw his eyes dart around the room, resting on the large medicine chest in the corner with fascination. Clearly the rumors concerning me had spread through the palace of Holyrood.

  “His Highness has asked for ye, Mistress Fraser,” he answered. Bright brown eyes scanned me closely, no doubt looking for signs of supernatural possession. He seemed slightly disappointed at my depressingly normal appearance.

  “Oh, has he?” I said. “Well, all right. Where is he, then?”

  “In the morning drawing room, Mistress. I’m to take ye. Oh…” The thought struck him as he turned, and he swung back before I could close the door. “You’re to bring your box of medicines, if ye’d be so kind.”

  My escort brimmed with self-importance at his mission as he escorted me down the long hallway to the Royal wing of the palace. Plainly someone had been schooling him in the behavior appropriate to a Royal page, but an occasional exuberant skip in his step betrayed his newness to the job.

  What on earth did Charles want with me? I wondered. While he tolerated me on Jamie’s account, the story of La Dame Blanche had plainly disconcerted him and made him uneasy. More than once, I had surprised him crossing himself surreptitiously in my presence, or making the quick two-fingered “horns” sign against evil. The idea that he would ask me to treat him medically was unlikely in the extreme.

  When the heavy cross-timbered door swung open into the small morning drawing room, it seemed still more unlikely. The Prince, plainly in good health, was leaning on the painted harpsichord, picking out a hesitant tune with one finger. His delicate skin was mildly flushed, but with excitement, not fever, and his eyes were clear and attentive when he looked up at me.

  “Mistress Fraser! How kind of you to attend me so shortly!” He was dressed this morning with even more lavishness than usual, bewigged and wearing a new cream-colored silk waistcoat, embroidered with flowers. He must be excited about something, I thought; his English went to pot whenever he became agitated.

  “My pleasure, Your Highness,” I said demurely, dropping a brief curtsy. He was alone, an unusual state of affairs. Could he want my medical services for himself after all?

  He made a quick, nervous gesture toward one of the gold damask chairs, urging me to be seated. A second chair was pulled up, facing it, but he walked up and down in front of me, too restless to sit.

  “I need your help,” he said abruptly.

  “Um?” I made a politely inquiring noise. Gonorrhea? I wondered, scanning him covertly. I hadn’t heard of any women since Louise de La Tour, but then, it only took once. He worked his lips in and out, as though searching for some alternative to telling me, but finally gave it up.

  “I have a capo—a chief, you understand?—here. He thinks of joining my Father’s cause, but has still some doubt.”

  “A clan chieftain, you mean?” He nodded, brow furrowed beneath the careful curls of his wig.

  “Oui, Madame. He is of course in support of my Father’s claims…”

  “Oh, of course,” I murmured.

  “…but he is wishing to speak to you, Madame, before he will commit his men to follow me.”

  He sounded incredulous, hearing his own words, and I realized that the flush on his cheeks came from a combination of bafflement and suppressed fury.

  I was more than a little baffled myself. My imagination promptly visualized a clan chieftain with some dread disease, whose adherence to the cause depended on my performing a miraculous cure.

  “You’re sure he wants to speak to me?” I said. Surely my reputation hadn’t gone that far.

  Charles inclined his head coldly in my direction. “So he says, Madame.”

  “But I don’t know any clan chieftains,” I said. “Bar Glengarry and Lochiel, of course. Oh, and Clanranald and Keppoch, of course. But they’ve all committed themselves to you already. And why on earth…”

  “Well, he is of the opinion you are knowing him,” the Prince interrupted, syntax becoming more mangled with his rising temper. He clenched his hands, obviously forcing himself to speak courteously. “It is of importance—most importance, Madame, that he should become convinced to join me. I require…I request…you therefore, that you…convince him.”

  I rubbed my nose thoughtfully, looking at him. One more point of decision. One more opportunity to make events move in the path I chose. And once more, the inability to know what best to do.

  He was right; it was important to convince this chieftain to commit his resources to the Jacobite cause. With the Camerons, the various MacDonalds, and the others so far committed, the Jacobite army numbered barely two thousand men, and those the most ill-assorted lot of ragtag and draggletail that any general had ever been lumbered with. And yet, that ragged-arsed lot had taken the city of Edinburgh, routed a greatly superior English force at Preston, and showed every disposition to continue going through the countryside like a dose of salts.

  We had been unable to stop Charles; perhaps, as Jamie said, the only way to avert calamity was now to do everything possible to help him. The addition of an important clan chieftain to the roster of supporters would greatly influence the odds of others joining. This might be a turning point, where the Jacobite forces could be increased to the level of a true army, actually capable of the proposed invasion of England. And if so, what in bloody hell would happen then?

  I sighed. No matter what I decided to do, I couldn’t make any decision until I saw this mysterious person. I glanced down to make sure my gown was suitable for interviewing clan chieftains, infected or otherwise, and rose, tucking the medicine box under my arm.

  “I’ll try, Your Highness,” I said.

  The clenched hands relaxed, showing the bitten nails, and his frown lessened.

  “Ah, good,” he said. He turned toward the door of the larger afternoon drawing room. “Come, I shall take you myself.”

  * * *

  The guard at the door jumped back in surprise as Charles flung the door open and strode past him without a glance. On the far side of the long, tapestry-hung room was an enormous marble fireplace, lined with white Delft tiles, painted with Dutch country scenes in shades of blue and mulberry. A small sofa was drawn up before the fire, and a big, broad-shouldered man in Highland dress stood beside it.

  In a room less imposing, he would have bulked huge, legs like tree trunks in their checkered stockings beneath the kilt. As it was, in this immense room with its high gessoed ceilings, he was merely big—quite in keeping with the heroic figures of mythology that decorated the tapestries at either end of the room.

  I stopped dead at sight of the enormous visitor, the shock of recognition still mingled with absolute incredulity. Charles had kept on, and now glanced back with some impatience, beckoning me to join him before the fire. I nodded to the big man. Then I walked slowly around the end of the sofa and gazed down at the man who lay upon it.

  He smiled faintly when he saw me, the dove-gray eyes lighting with a spark of amusement.

  “Yes,” he said, answering my expression. “I hadn’t really expected to meet you again, either. One might almost believe we are fated.” He turned his head and lifted a hand toward his enormous body-servant.

  “Angus. Will ye fetch a drop of the brandy for Mistress Claire? I’m afraid the surprise of seeing me may have somewhat discomposed her.”

  That, I thought, was putting it mildly. I sank into a splay-footed chair and accepted the crystal goblet Angus Mhor held out to me.

&nb
sp; Colum MacKenzie’s eyes hadn’t changed; neither had his voice. Both held the essence of the man who had led clan MacKenzie for thirty years, despite the disease that had crippled him in his teens. Everything else had changed sadly for the worse, though; the black hair streaked heavily with gray, the lines of his face cut deep into skin that had fallen slack over the sharp outlines of bone. Even the broad chest was sunken and the powerful shoulders hunched, flesh fallen away from the fragile skeleton beneath.

  He already held a glass half-filled with amber liquid, glowing in the firelight. He raised himself painfully to a sitting position and lifted the cup in ironic salute.

  “You’re looking very well…niece.” From the corner of my eye, I saw Charles’s mouth drop open.

  “You aren’t,” I said bluntly.

  He glanced dispassionately down at the bowed and twisted legs. In a hundred years’ time, they would call this disease after its most famous sufferer—the Toulouse-Lautrec syndrome.

  “No,” he said. “But then, it’s been two years since you saw me last. Mrs. Duncan estimated my survival at less than two years, then.”