Outlander aka Cross Stitch - Gabaldon Diana - Страница 61
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Randall then turned to the sergeant-major and said, “A pretty job, Sergeant Wilkes. I must see if I can do as well.” With considerable punctilio, he then called for the garrison doctor, and had him certify officially that Jamie was fit enough to be flogged.
“You’ve seen a cat play wi’ a wee mousie?” Dougal asked. “ ’Twas like that. Randall strolled round the lad, making one kind of remark and another, none of them what ye’d call pleasant. And Jamie stood there like an oak tree, sayin’ nothing and keeping his eyes fixed on the post, not lookin’ at Randall at all. I could see the lad was hugging his elbows to try to stop the shivering, and ye could tell Randall saw it too.
“His mouth tightened up and he says, ‘I thought this was the young man who only a week past was shouting that he wasn’t afraid to die. Surely a man who’s not afraid to die isn’t afraid of a few lashes?’ and he gives Jamie a poke in the belly wi’ the handle of the whip.
“Jamie met Randall’s eye straight on then, and said, ‘No, but I’m afraid I’ll freeze stiff before ye’re done talking.’ ”
Dougal sighed. “Well. It was a braw speech, but damn reckless, for a’ that. Now, scourging a man is never a pretty business, but there’s ways to make it worse than it might be; strikin’ sideways to cut deep, or steppin’ in wi’ a hard blow ower the kidneys, for instance.” He shook his head. “Verra ugly.”
He frowned, choosing his words slowly.
“Randall’s face was – intent, I suppose ye’d say – and sort o’ lighted up, like when a man is lookin’ at a lass he’s soft on, if ye know what I mean. ’Twas as though he were doin’ somethin’ much worse to Jamie than just skinning him alive. The blood was running down the lad’s legs by the fifteenth stroke, and the tears running down his face wi’ the sweat.”
I swayed a little, and put out a hand to the stone of the coping.
Well,” he said abruptly, catching sight of my expression, “I’ll say no more except that he lived through it. When the corporal untied his hands, he nearly fell, but the corporal and sergeant-major each caught him by an arm and kind o’ steadied him ’til he could keep his feet. He was shakin’ worse than ever from shock and cold, but his head was up and his eyes blazin’ – I could see it from twenty feet away. He keeps his eyes fixed on Randall while they help him off the platform, leavin’ bloody footprints – it’s like watchin’ Randall is the only thing keeping him on his feet. Randall’s face was almost as white as Jamie’s, and his eyes were locked wi’ the lad’s – as though either of them would fall if he took his eyes away.” Dougal’s own eyes were fixed, still seeing the eerie scene.
Everything was quiet in the small glade except for the faint rush of wind through the leaves of the rowan tree. I closed my eyes and listened to it for some time.
“Why?” I asked finally, eyes still closed. “Why did you tell me?”
Dougal was watching me intently when I opened my eyes. I dipped a hand in the spring again, and applied the cool water to my temples.
“I thought it might serve as what ye may call a character illustration,” he said.
“Of Randall?” I uttered a short, mirthless laugh. “I don’t need any further evidence as to his character, thank you.”
“Of Randall,” he agreed, “and Jamie too.”
I looked at him, suddenly ill at ease.
“Ye see, I have orders,” he emphasized the word sarcastically, “from the good captain.”
“Orders to do what?” I asked, the agitated feeling increasing.
“To produce the person of an English subject, one Claire Beauchamp by name, at Fort William on Monday, the 18th of June. For questioning.”
I must have looked truly alarming, for he jumped to his feet and came over to me.
“Put your head between your knees, lass,” he instructed, pushing on the back of my neck, “ ’til the faintness passes off.”
“I know what to do,” I said irritably, doing it nonetheless. I closed my eyes, feeling the ebbing blood begin to throb in my temples again. The clammy sensation around my face and ears began to disappear, though my hands were still icy. I concentrated on breathing properly, counting in -one-two-three-four, out-one-two, in -one-two-three-four…
At length I sat up, feeling more or less in possession of all my faculties. Dougal had resumed his seat on the stone coping, and was waiting patiently, watching to be sure that I didn’t fall backward into the spring.
“There’s a way out of it,” he said abruptly. “The only one I can see.”
“Lead me to it,” I said, with an unconvincing attempt at a smile.
“Verra well, then.” He sat forward, leaning toward me to explain. “Randall’s the right to take ye for questioning because you’re a subject of the English crown. Well, then, we must change that.”
I stared at him, uncomprehending. “What do you mean? You’re a subject of the crown as well, aren’t you? How would you change such a thing?”
“Scots law and English law are verra similar,” he said, frowning, “but no the same. And an English officer canna compel the person of a Scot, unless he’s firm evidence of a crime committed, or grounds for serious suspicions. Even with suspicion, he could no remove a Scottish subject from clan lands without the permission of the laird concerned.”
“You’ve been talking to Ned Gowan,” I said, beginning to feel a little dizzy again.
He nodded. “Aye, I have. I thought it might come to this, ye ken. And what he told me is what I thought myself; the only way I can legally refuse to give ye to Randall is to change ye from an Englishwoman into a Scot.”
“Into a Scot?” I said, the dazed feeling quickly being replaced by a horrible suspicion.
This was confirmed by his next words.
“Aye,” he said, nodding at my expression. “Ye must marry a Scot. Young Jamie.”
“I couldn’t do that!”
“Weel,” he frowned, considering. “I suppose ye could take Rupert, instead. He’s a widower, and he’s the lease of a small farm. Still, he’s a good bit older, and-”
“I don’t want to marry Rupert, either! That’s the… the most absurd…” Words failed me. Springing to my feet in agitation, I paced around the small clearing, fallen rowan berries crunching under my feet.
“Jamie’s a goodly lad,” Dougal argued, still sitting on the coping. “He’s not much in the way of property just now, true, but he’s a kind-hearted lad. He’d not be cruel to ye. And he’s a bonny fighter, with verra good reason to hate Randall. Nay, marry him, and he’ll fight to his last breath to protect ye.”
“But… but I can’t marry anyone!” I burst out.
Dougal’s eyes were suddenly sharp. “Why not, lass? Do ye have a husband living still?”
“No. It’s just… it’s ridiculous! Such things don’t happen!”
Dougal had relaxed when I said “No.” Now he glanced up at the sun and rose to go.
“Best get moving, lass. There are things we’ll have to attend to. There’ll have to be a special dispensation,” he murmured, as though to himself. “But Ned can manage that.”
He took my arm, still muttering to himself. I wrenched it away.
“I will not marry anyone,” I said firmly.
He seemed undisturbed by this, merely raising his brows.
“You want me to take you to Randall?”
“No!” Something occurred to me. “So at least you believe me when I say I’m not an English spy?”
“I do now.” He spoke with some emphasis.
“Why now and not before?”
He nodded at the spring, and at the worn figure etched in the rock. It must be hundreds of years old, much older even than the giant rowan tree that shaded the spring and cast its white flowers into the black water.
“St. Ninian’s spring. Ye drank the water before I asked ye.”
I was thoroughly bewildered by this time.
“What does that have to do with it?”
He looked surprised, then his mouth twisted in a smile. “Ye didna know? They call it the liar’s spring, as well. The water smells o’ the fumes of hell. Anyone who drinks the water and then tells untruth will ha’ the gizzard burnt out of him.”
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