Dragonfly In Amber - Gabaldon Diana (книги полные версии бесплатно без регистрации .TXT) 📗
Two weeks after our arrival, Jamie came to fetch me from the drawing room where I sat with Frances and Aline, saying that Lord Lovat wished to see me.
Old Simon waved a casual hand at the decanters set on the table by the wall, then sat down in a wide-seated chair of carved walnut, with crushed padding in well-worn blue velvet. The chair fitted his short, stocky form as though it had been built around him; I wondered whether it had in fact been built to order, or whether, from long use, he had grown into the shape of the chair.
I sat down quietly in a corner with my glass of port, and kept quiet while Simon questioned Jamie once again about Charles Stuart’s situation and prospects.
For the twentieth time in a week, Jamie patiently rehearsed the number of troops available, the structure of command – insofar as one existed – the armament on hand and its condition – mostly poor – the prospects of Charles being joined by Lord Lewis Gordon or the Farquharsons, what Glengarry had said following Prestonpans, what Cameron knew or deduced of the movement of English troops, why Charles had decided to march south, and so on and so forth. I found myself nodding over the cup in my hand, and jerked myself into wakefulness, just in time to keep the ruby liquid from tipping onto my skirt.
“…and Lord George Murray and Kilmarnock both think His Highness would be best advised to pull back into the Highlands for the winter,” Jamie concluded, yawning widely. Cramped on the narrow-backed chair he had been given, he rose and stretched, his shadow flickering on the pale hangings that covered the stone walls.
“And what d’ye think, yourself?” Old Simon’s eyes glittered under half-fallen lids as he leaned back in his chair. The fire burned high and bright on the hearth; Frances had smoored the fire in the main hall, covering it with peats, but this one had been rekindled at Lovat’s order, and with wood, not peat. The smell of pine resin from the burning wood was sharp, mingled with the thicker smell of smoke.
The light cast Jamie’s shadow high on the wall as he turned restlessly, not wanting to sit down again. It was close and dark in the small study, with the window draped against the night – very different from the open, sunny kirkyard in which Column had asked him the same question. And the situation now had shifted; no longer the popular darling to whom clan chieftains deferred, Charles now was sending to the chiefs, grimly calling in his obligations. But the shape of the problem was the same – a dark, amorphous shape, hanging like a shadow over us.
“I’ve told ye what I think – a dozen times or more.” Jamie spoke abruptly. He moved his shoulders impatiently, shrugging as though the fit of his coat was too tight.
“Oh, aye. You’ve told me. But this time I think we shall have the truth.” The old man settled more comfortably into his padded chair, hands linked across his belly.
“Will ye, then?” Jamie uttered a short laugh, and turned to face his grandfather. He leaned back against the table, hands braced behind him. Despite the differences in posture and figure, there was a tension between the two men that brought out a fugitive resemblance between them. The one tall and the other squat, but both of them strong, stubborn, and determined to win this encounter.
“Am I not your kinsman? And your chief? I command your loyalty, do I not?”
So that was the point. Colum, so accustomed to physical weakness, had known the secret of turning another man’s weakness to his own purposes. Simon Fraser, strong and vigorous even in old age, was accustomed to getting his own way by more direct means. I could see from the sour smile on Jamie’s face that he, too, was contrasting Colum’s appeal with his grandfather’s demand.
“Can ye? I dinna recall that I’ve sworn ye an oath.”
Several long stiff hairs grew out of Simon’s eyebrows, in the way of old men. These quivered in the firelight, though I couldn’t tell whether with indignation or amusement.
“Oath, is it? And is it not Fraser blood in your veins?”
Jamie’s mouth twisted wryly as he answered. “They do say that it’s a wise child as kens his own father, no? My mother was a MacKenzie; I know that much.”
Simon’s face grew dark with blood, and his brows drew together. Then his mouth fell open, and he shouted with laughter. He laughed until he was forced to pull himself up in the chair and bend forward, sputtering and choking. At last, beating one hand on the arm of the chair in helpless mirth, he reached into his mouth with the other and pulled out his false teeth.
“Dod,” he sputtered, gasping and wheezing. Face streaming with tears and saliva, he groped blindly for the small table by his chair, and dropped the teeth onto the cake plate. The gnarled fingers closed on a linen napkin, and he pressed it to his face, still emitting strangled grunts of laughter as he conducted his mopping up.
“Chritht, laddie,” he said at last, lisping heavily. “Path me the whithky.”
Eyebrows raised, Jamie took the decanter from the table behind him and passed it to his grandfather, who removed the stopper and gulped a substantial amount of the contents without bothering about the formality of a glass.
“You think you’re not a Frather?” he said, lowering the decanter and exhaling gustily. “Ha!” He leaned back once more, belly rising and falling rapidly as he caught his breath. He pointed a long, skinny finger at Jamie.
“Your own father thtood right where you’re thstanding, laddie, and told me jutht what you did, the day he left Beaufort Cathtle once and for all.” The old man was growing calmer now; he coughed several times and wiped his face again.
“Did ye know that I’d tried to thtop your parents’ marriage by claiming that Ellen MacKenzie’s child wathn’t Brian’s?”
“Aye, I knew.” Jamie was leaning back on the table again, surveying his grandfather through narrowed eyes.
Lord Lovat snorted. “I’ll not thay there’s been always goodwill atween me and mine, but I know my thons. And my grandthons,” he added pointedly. “De’il take me and I think any one of ’em could be a cuckold, nay more than I could.”
Jamie didn’t turn a hair, but I couldn’t stop myself from glancing away from the old man. I found myself staring at his discarded teeth, the stained beechwood gleaming wetly amid the cake crumbs. Luckily Lord Lovat hadn’t noticed my slight motion.
He went on, serious once more. “Now, then. Dougal MacKenzie of Leoch hath declared for Charles. D’ye call him your chief? Is that what ye’re telling me – that ye’ve given him an oath?”
“No. I havena sworn to anyone.”
“Not even Charles?” The old man was fast, pouncing on this like a cat on a mouse. I could almost see his tail twitch as he watched Jamie, slanted eyes deep-set and gleaming under crepey lids.
Jamie’s eyes were fixed on the leaping flames, his shadow motionless on the wall behind him.
“He hasna asked me.” This was true. Charles had had no need to request an oath from Jamie – having precluded the necessity by signing Jamie’s name to his Bond of Association. Still, I knew that he had not, in fact, given his word to Charles was important to Jamie. If he must betray the man, let it not be as an acknowledged chief. The idea that the entire world thought such an oath existed was a matter of much less concern.
Simon grunted again. Without his false teeth, his nose and chin came close together, making the lower half of his face oddly foreshortened.
“Then nothing hampers you to thwear to me, as chief of your clan,” he said quietly. The twitching tail was less visible, but still there. I could almost hear the thoughts in his head, gliding round on padded feet. With Jamie’s loyalty sworn to him, rather than Charles, Lovat’s power would be increased. As would his wealth, with a share of the income from Lallybroch that he might claim as his chieftain’s due. The prospect of a dukedom drew slightly nearer, gleaming through the mist.
