No one else appeared much perturbed by the soldiers’ presence. The little knot of singers in the chimney corner went on with an interminable version of “Fill Every Glass,” and a loud argument broke out between the barmaid and a pair of apprentices.
The soldier returned from the kitchen, having evidently found nothing. Stepping rudely through a dice game on the hearth, he rejoined his fellows by the door. As the soldiers shoved their way out of the tavern, Fergus’s slight figure squeezed in, pressing against the doorjamb to avoid swinging elbows and musket butts.
I saw one soldier’s eyes catch the glint of metal and fasten with interest on the hook Fergus wore in replacement of his missing left hand. He glanced sharply at Fergus, but then shouldered his musket and hurried after his companions.
Fergus shoved through the crowd and plopped down on the bench beside Ian. He looked hot and irritated.
“Blood-sucking
Jamie’s brows went up.
“The priest,” Fergus elaborated. He took the mug Ian pushed in his direction and drained it, lean throat glugging until the cup was empty. He lowered it, exhaled heavily, and sat blinking, looking noticeably happier. He sighed and wiped his mouth.
“He wants ten shillings to bury the man in the churchyard,” he said. “An Anglican church, of course; there are no Catholic churches here. Wretched usurer! He knows we have no choice about it. The body will scarcely keep till sunset, as it is.” He ran a finger inside his stock, pulling the sweat-wilted cotton away from his neck, then banged his fist several times on the table to attract the attention of the servingmaid, who was being run off her feet by the press of patrons.
“I told the super-fatted son of a pig that you would decide whether to pay or not. We could just bury him in the wood, after all. Though we should have to purchase a shovel,” he added, frowning. “These grasping townsfolk know we are strangers; they’ll take our last coin if they can.”
Last coin was perilously close to the truth. I had enough to pay for a decent meal here and to buy food for the journey north; perhaps enough to pay for a couple of nights’ lodging. That was all. I saw Jamie’s eyes flick round the room, assessing the possibilities of picking up a little money at hazard or loo.
Soldiers and sailors were the best prospects for gambling, but there were few of either in the taproom—likely most of the garrison was still searching the town for the fugitive. In one corner, a small group of men was being loudly convivial over several pitchers of brandywine; two of them were singing, or trying to, their attempts causing great hilarity among their comrades. Jamie gave an almost imperceptible nod at sight of them, and turned back to Fergus.
“What have ye done with Gavin for the time being?” Jamie asked. Fergus hunched one shoulder.
“Put him in the wagon. I traded the clothes he was wearing to a ragwoman for a shroud, and she agreed to wash the body as part of the bargain.” He gave Jamie a faint smile. “Don’t worry, milord; he’s seemly. For now,” he added, lifting the fresh mug of ale to his lips.
“Poor Gavin.” Duncan Innes lifted his own mug in a half salute to his fallen comrade.
“He wouldna like being buried in the wood,” he said.
“Why not?” I asked, curious. “I shouldn’t think it would matter to him one way or the other.”
“Oh, no, we couldna do that, Mrs. Claire.” Duncan was shaking his head emphatically. Duncan was normally a most reserved man, and I was surprised at so much apparent feeling.
“He was afraid of the dark,” Jamie said softly. I turned to stare at him, and he gave me a lopsided smile. “I lived wi’ Gavin Hayes nearly as long as I’ve lived with you, Sassenach—and in much closer quarters. I kent him well.”
“Aye, he was afraid of being alone in the dark,” Duncan chimed in. “He was most mortally scairt of
His long, mournful face bore an inward look, and I knew he was seeing in memory the prison cell that he and Jamie had shared with Gavin Hayes—and with forty other men—for three long years. “D’ye recall,
“I do, Duncan, and could wish I did not.” Jamie shuddered despite the heat. “I kept awake myself half the night after he told us that one.”
“What was it, Uncle?” Ian was leaning over his cup of ale, round-eyed. His cheeks were flushed and streaming, and his stock crumpled with sweat.
Jamie rubbed a hand across his mouth, thinking.
“Ah. Well, it was a time in the late, cold autumn in the Highlands, just when the season turns, and the feel of the air tells ye the ground will be shivered wi’ frost come dawn,” he said. He settled himself in his seat and sat back, alecup in hand. He smiled wryly, plucking at his own throat. “Not like now, aye?
“Well, Gavin’s son brought back the kine that night, but there was one beast missing—the lad had hunted up the hills and down the corries, but couldna find it anywhere. So Gavin set the lad to milk the two others, and set out himself to look for the lost cow.”
He rolled the pewter cup slowly between his hands, staring down into the dark ale as though seeing in it the bulk of the night-black Scottish peaks and the mist that floats in the autumn glens.
“He went some distance, and the cot behind him disappeared. When he looked back, he couldna see the light from the window anymore, and there was no sound but the keening of the wind. It was cold, but he went on, tramping through the mud and the heather, hearing the crackle of ice under his boots.
“He saw a small grove through the mist, and thinking the cow might have taken shelter beneath the trees, he went toward it. He said the trees were birches, standing there all leafless, but with their branches grown together so he must bend his head to squeeze beneath the boughs.
