Dragonfly in Amber

  I undressed slowly, standing by the bed, looking down at him. He had turned onto his side and curled himself up against the cold. His lashes lay long and curving against his cheek; they were a deep auburn, nearly black at the tips, but a pale blond near the roots. It gave him an oddly innocent air, despite the long, straight nose and the firm lines of mouth and chin.

  Clad in my chemise, I slid into bed behind him, snuggling against the wide, warm back in its woolen nightshirt. He stirred a little, coughing, and I put a hand on the curve of his hip to soothe him. He shifted, curling further and thrusting himself back against me with a small exhalation of awareness. I put my arm around his waist, my hand brushing the soft mass of his testicles. I could rouse him, I knew, sleepy as he was; it took very little to bring him standing, no more than a few firm strokes of my fingers.

  I didn’t want to disturb his rest, though, and contented myself with gently patting his belly. He reached back a large hand and clumsily patted my thigh in return.

  “I love you,” he muttered, half-awake.

  “I know,” I said, and fell asleep at once, holding him.

  39

  FAMILY TIES

  It was not quite a slum, but the next thing to it. I stepped gingerly aside to avoid a substantial puddle of filth, left by the emptying of chamber pots from the windows overhead, awaiting removal by the next hard rain.

  Randall caught my elbow to save my slipping on the slimy cobblestones. I stiffened at the touch, and he withdrew his hand at once.

  He saw my glance at the crumbling doorpost, and said defensively, “I couldn’t afford to move him to better quarters. It isn’t so bad inside.”

  It wasn’t—quite. Some effort had been made at furnishing the room comfortably, at least. There was a large bowl and ewer, a sturdy table with a loaf, a cheese, and a bottle of wine upon it, and the bed was equipped with a feather mattress, and several thick quilts.

  The man who lay on the mattress had thrown off the quilts, overheated by the effort of coughing, I assumed. He was quite red in the face, and the force of his coughing shook the bed frame, sturdy as it was.

  I crossed to the window and threw it up, disregarding Randall’s exclamation of protest. Cold air swept into the stifling room, and the stench of unwashed flesh, unclean linen, and overflowing chamber pot lightened a bit.

  The coughing gradually eased, and Alexander Randall’s flushed countenance faded to a pasty white. His lips were slightly blue, and his chest labored as he fought to recover his breath.

  I glanced around the room, but didn’t see anything suitable to my purpose. I opened my medical kit and drew out a stiff sheet of parchment. It was a trifle frayed at the edges, but would still serve. I sat down on the edge of the bed, smiling as reassuringly at Alexander as I could manage.

  “It was…kind of you…to come,” he said, struggling not to cough between words.

  “You’ll be better in a moment,” I said. “Don’t talk, and don’t fight the cough. I’ll need to hear it.”

  His shirt was unfastened already; I spread it apart to expose a shockingly sunken chest. It was nearly fleshless; the ribs were clearly visible from abdomen to clavicle. He had always been thin, but the last year’s illness had left him emaciated.

  I rolled the parchment into a tube and placed one end against his chest, my ear against the other. It was a crude stethoscope, but amazingly effective.

  I listened at various spots, instructing him to breathe deeply. I didn’t need to tell him to cough, poor boy.

  “Roll onto your stomach for a moment.” I pulled up the shirt and listened, then tapped gently on his back, testing the resonance over both lungs. The bare flesh was clammy with sweat under my fingers.

  “All right. Onto your back again. Just lie still, now, and relax. This won’t hurt at all.” I kept up the soothing talk as I checked the whites of his eyes, the swollen lymph glands in his neck, the coated tongue and inflamed tonsils.

  “You’ve a touch of catarrh,” I said, patting his shoulder. “I’ll brew you something that will ease the cough. Meanwhile…” I pointed a toe distastefully at the lidded china receptacle under the bed, and glanced at the man who stood waiting by the door, back braced and rigid as though on parade.

  “Get rid of that,” I ordered. Randall glared at me, but came forward and stooped to obey.

  “Not out the window!” I said sharply, as he made a move toward it. “Take it downstairs.” He about-faced and left without looking at me.

  Alexander drew a shallow breath as the door closed behind his brother. He smiled up at me, hazel eyes glowing in his pale face. The skin was nearly transparent, stretched tight over the bones of his face.

  “You’d better hurry, before Johnny comes back. What is it?”

  His dark hair was disordered by the coughing; trying to restrain the feelings it roused in me, I smoothed it for him. I didn’t want to tell him, but he clearly knew already.

  “You have got catarrh. You also have tuberculosis—consumption.”

  “And?”

  “And congestive heart failure,” I said, meeting his eyes straight on.

  “Ah. I thought…something of the kind. It flutters in my chest sometimes…like a very small bird.” He laid a hand lightly over his heart.

  I couldn’t bear the look of his chest, heaving under its impossible burden, and I gently closed his shirt and fastened the tie at the neck. One long, white hand grasped mine.

  “How long?” he said. His tone was light, almost unconcerned, displaying no more than a mild curiosity.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “That’s the truth. I don’t know.”

  “But not long,” he said, with certainty.

  “No. Not long. Months perhaps, but almost surely less than a year.”

  “Can you…stop the coughing?”

  I reached for my kit. “Yes. I can help it, at least. And the heart palpitations; I can make you a digitalin extract that will help.” I found the small packet of dried foxglove leaves; it would take a little time to brew them.

  “Your brother,” I said, not looking at him. “Do you want me—”

  “No,” he said, definitely. One corner of his mouth curved up, and he looked so like Frank that I wanted momentarily to weep for him.

  “No,” he said. “He’ll know already, I think. We’ve always…known things about each other.”

  “Have you, then?” I asked, looking directly at him. He didn’t turn away from my eyes, but smiled faintly.

  “Yes,” he said softly. “I know about him. It doesn’t matter.”

  Oh, doesn’t it? I thought. Not to you, perhaps. Not trusting either my face or my voice, I turned away and busied myself in lighting the small alcohol lamp I carried.

  “He is my brother,” the soft voice said behind me. I took a deep breath and steadied my hands to measure out the leaves.

  “Yes,” I said, “at least he’s that.”

  * * *

  Since news had spread of Cope’s amazing defeat at Prestonpans, offers of support, of men and money, poured in from the north. In some cases, these offers even materialized: Lord Ogilvy, the eldest son of the Earl of Airlie, brought six hundred of his father’s tenants, while Stewart of Appin appeared at the head of four hundred men from the shires of Aberdeen and Banff. Lord Pitsligo was single-handedly responsible for most of the Highland cavalry, bringing in a large number of gentlemen and their servants from the northeastern counties, all well mounted and well armed—at least by comparison with some of the miscellaneous clansmen, who came armed with claymores saved by their grandsires from the Rising of the ’15, rusty axes, and pitchforks lately removed from the more homely tasks of cleaning cow-byres.

  They were a motley crew, but none the less dangerous for that, I reflected, making my way through a knot of men gathered round an itinerant knifegrinder, who was sharpening dirks, razors, and scythes with perfect indifference. An English soldier facing them might be risking tetanus rather than instant death, but the results were like
ly to be the same.

  While Lord Lewis Gordon, the Duke of Gordon’s younger brother, had come to do homage to Charles in Holyrood, holding out the glittering prospect of raising the whole of clan Gordon, it was a long way from hand-kissing to the actual provisioning of men.

  And the Scottish Lowlands, while perfectly willing to cheer loudly at news of Charles’s victory, were singularly unwilling to send men to support him; nearly the whole of the Stuart army was composed of Highlanders, and likely to remain so. The Lowlands hadn’t been a total washout, though; Lord George Murray had told me that levies of food, goods, and money on the southern burghs had resulted in a very useful sum being contributed to the army’s treasury, which might tide them over for a time.

  “We’ve gotten fifty-five hundred pounds from Glasgow, alone. Though it’s but a pittance, compared to the promised moneys from France and Spain,” His Lordship had confided to Jamie. “But I’m not inclined to turn up my nose at it, particularly as His Highness has had nothing from France but soothing words, and no gold.”

  Jamie, who knew just how unlikely the French gold was to materialize, had merely nodded.

  * * *

  “Have ye found out anything more today, mo duinne?” he asked me as I came in. He had a half-written dispatch in front of him, and stuck his quill into the inkpot to wet it again. I pulled the damp hood off my hair with a crackle of static electricity, nodding.

  “There’s a rumor that General Hawley is forming cavalry units in the south. He has orders for the formation of eight regiments.”

  Jamie grunted. Given the Highlanders’ aversion to cavalry, this wasn’t good news. Absentmindedly, he rubbed his back, where the hoofprint-shaped bruise from Prestonpans had all but faded.

  “I’ll put it down for Colonel Cameron, then,” he said. “How good a rumor do ye think it is, Sassenach?” Almost automatically, he glanced over his shoulder, to be sure we were alone. He called me “Sassenach” now only in privacy, using the formality of “Claire” in public.

  “You can take it to the bank,” I said. “I mean, it’s good.”

  It wasn’t a rumor at all; it was the latest bit of intelligence from Jack Randall, the latest installment payment on the debt he insisted on assuming for my care of his brother.

  Jamie knew, of course, that I visited Alex Randall, as well as the sick of the Jacobite army. What he didn’t know, and what I could never tell him, was that once a week—sometimes more often—I would meet Jack Randall, to hear what news seeped into Edinburgh Castle from the South.

  Sometimes he came to Alex’s room when I was there; other times, I would be coming home in the winter twilight, watching my footing on the slippery cobbles of the Royal Mile, when suddenly a stick-straight form in brown homespun would beckon from the mouth of a close, or a quiet voice come out of the mist behind my shoulder. It was unnerving; like being haunted by Frank’s ghost.

  It would have been simpler in many ways for him to leave a letter for me at Alex’s lodging, but he would have nothing put in writing, and I could see his point. If such a letter was ever found, even unsigned, it could implicate not only him but Alex as well. As it was, Edinburgh teemed with strangers; volunteers to King James’s standard, curious visitors from south and north, foreign envoys from France and Spain, spies and informers in plenty. The only people not abroad on the streets were the officers and men of the English garrison, who remained mewed up in the Castle. So long as no one heard him speak to me, no one would recognize him for what he was, nor think anything odd of our encounters, even were we seen—and we seldom were, such were his precautions.

  For my part, I was just as pleased; I would have had to destroy anything put in writing. While I doubted that Jamie would recognize Randall’s hand, I couldn’t explain a regular source of information without outright lying. Far better to make it appear that the information he gave me was merely part of the gleanings of my daily rounds.

  The drawback, of course, was that by treating Randall’s contributions in the same light as the other rumors I collected, they might be discounted or ignored. Still, while I believed that Jack Randall was supplying information in good faith—assuming one could entertain such a concept in conjunction with the man—it didn’t necessarily follow that it was always correct. As well to have it regarded skeptically.

  I relayed the news of Hawley’s new regiments with the usual faint twinge of guilt at my quasi deception. However, I had concluded that while honesty between husband and wife was essential, there was such a thing as carrying it too bloody far. And I saw no reason why the supplying of useful information to the Jacobites should cause Jamie further pain.

  “The Duke of Cumberland is still waiting for his troops to return from Flanders,” I added. “And the siege of Stirling Castle is getting nowhere.”

  Jamie grunted, scribbling busily. “That much I knew; Lord George had a dispatch from Francis Townsend two days ago; he holds the town, but the ditches His Highness insisted on are wasting men and time. There’s no need for them; they’d do better just to batter the Castle from a distance with cannon fire, and then storm it.”

  “So why are they digging ditches?”

  Jamie waved a hand distractedly, still concentrating on his writing. His ears were pink with frustration.

  “Because the Italian army dug ditches when they took Verano Castle, which is the only siege His Highness has seen, so plainly that’s how it must be done, aye?”

  “Och, aye,” I said.

  It worked; he looked up at me and laughed, his eyes slanting half-shut with it.

  “That’s a verra fair try, Sassenach,” he said. “What else can ye say?”

  “Settle for the Lord’s Prayer in Gaelic, would you?” I asked.

  “No,” he said, scattering sand across his dispatch. He got up, kissed me briefly, and reached for his coat. “But I’ll settle for some supper. Come along, Sassenach. We’ll find a nice, cozy tavern and I’ll teach you a lot of things ye mustn’t say in public. They’re all fresh in my mind.”

  * * *

  Stirling Castle fell at last. The cost had been high, the likelihood of holding it low, and the benefit in keeping it dubious. Still, the effect on Charles was euphoric—and disastrous.

  “I have succeeded at last in convincing Murray—such a stubborn fool as he is!” Charles interjected, frowning. Then he remembered his victory, and beamed around the room once more. “I have prevailed, I say, though. We march into England on this day a week, to reclaim all of my Father’s lands!”

  The Scottish chieftains gathered in the morning drawing room glanced at each other, and there was considerable coughing and shifting of weight. The overall mood didn’t seem to be one of wild enthusiasm at the news.

  “Er, Your Highness,” Lord Kilmarnock began, carefully. “Would it not be wiser to consider…?”

  They tried. They all tried. Scotland, they pointed out, already belonged to Charles, lock, stock, and barrel. Men were still pouring in from the north, while from the south there seemed little promise of support. And the Scottish lords were all too aware that the Highlanders, while fierce fighters and loyal followers, were also farmers. Fields needed to be tilled for the spring planting; cattle needed to be provisioned for overwintering. Many of the men would resist going deeply into the South in the winter months.

  “And these men—they are not my subjects? They go not where I command them? Nonsense,” Charles said firmly. And that was that. Almost.

  “James, my friend! Wait, I speak with you a moment in private, if you please.” His Highness turned from a few sharp words with Lord Pitsligo, his long, stubborn chin softening a bit as he waved a hand at Jamie.

  I didn’t think I was included in this invitation. I hadn’t any intention of leaving, though, and settled more firmly into one of the gold damask chairs as the Jacobite lords and chieftains filed out, muttering to each other.

  “Ha!” Charles snapped his fingers contemptuously in the direction of the closing door. “Old women, all of them!
They will see. So will my cousin Louis, so will Philip—do I need their help? I show them all.” I saw the pale, manicured fingers touch briefly at a spot just over his breast. A faint rectangular outline showed through the silk of his coat. He was carrying Louise’s miniature; I had seen it.

  “I wish Your Highness every good fortune in the endeavor,” Jamie murmured, “but…”

  “Ah, I thank you, cher James! You at least believe in me!” Charles threw an arm about Jamie’s shoulders, massaging his deltoids affectionately.

  “I am desolated that you will not accompany me, that you will not be at my side to receive the applause of my subjects as we march into England,” Charles said, squeezing vigorously.

  “I won’t?” Jamie looked stunned.

  “Alas, mon cher ami, duty demands of you a great sacrifice. I know how much your great heart yearns for the glories of battle, but I require you for another task.”