Dragonfly In Amber - Gabaldon Diana (читать книги бесплатно полностью без регистрации сокращений txt) 📗

“If you’re needing that much brandy, there isn’t much that will help you besides some form of opium,” I said, flicking through my assortment of vials and jars. “I think I have some laudanum here, but I can get you some-”

“That isn’t what I want from you.” The tone of authority in his voice stopped me, and I looked up. If he could keep his thoughts to himself, he could also let them show when he chose.

“I could get laudanum easily enough,” he said. “I imagine there’s an apothecarist in the city who sells it – or poppy syrup, or undiluted opium, for that matter.”

I let the lid of the small chest fall shut and rested my hands on top of it. So he didn’t mean to waste away in a drugged state, leaving the leadership of the clan uncertain. And if it were not a temporary oblivion he sought from me, what else? A permanent one, perhaps. I knew Colum MacKenzie. And the clear, ruthless mind that had planned Geillis Duncan’s destruction would not hesitate over his own.

Now it was clear. He had come to see Charles Stuart, to make the final decision whether to commit the MacKenzies of Leoch to the Jacobite cause. Once committed, it would be Dougal who led the clan. And then…

“I was under the impression that suicide was considered a mortal sin,” I said.

“I imagine it is,” he said, undisturbed. “A sin of pride, at least, that I should choose a clean death at the time of my own devising, as best suits my purpose. I don’t, however, expect to suffer unduly for my sin, having put no credence in the existence of God since I was nineteen or so.”

It was quiet in the room, beyond the crackle of the fire and the muffled shouts of mock battle from below. I could hear his breathing, a slow and steady sigh.

“Why ask me?” I said. “You’re right, you could get laudanum where you liked, so long as you have money – and you do. Surely you know that enough of it will kill you. It’s an easy death, at that.”

“Too easy.” He shook his head. “I have had little to depend on in life, save my wits. I would keep them, even to meet death. As for ease…” He shifted slightly on the sofa, making no effort to hide his discomfort. “I shall have enough, presently.”

He nodded toward my box. “You shared Mrs. Duncan’s knowledge of medicines. I thought it possible that you knew what she used to kill her husband. That seemed quick and certain. And appropriate,” he added wryly.

“She used witchcraft, according to the verdict of the court.” The court that condemned her to death, in accordance with your plan, I thought. “Or do you not believe in witchcraft?” I asked.

He laughed, a pure, carefree sound in the sunlit room. “A man who doesn’t believe in God can scarce credit power to Satan, can he?”

I still hesitated, but he was a man who judged others as shrewdly as he did himself. He had asked my pardon before asking my favor, and satisfied himself that I had a sense of justice – or of mercy. And it was, as he said, appropriate. I opened the box and took out the small vial of cyanide that I kept to kill rats.

“I thank ye, Mistress Claire,” he said, formal again, though the smile still lingered in his eyes. “Had my nephew not proved your innocence with such flamboyance at Cranesmuir, still I would never believe you a witch. I have no more notion now than I had at our first meeting, as to who you are, or why you are here, but a witch is not one of the possibilities I’ve ever considered.” He paused, one brow raised. “I don’t suppose you’d be inclined to tell me who – or what – you are?”

I hesitated for a moment. But a man with belief in neither God nor Devil was not likely to believe the truth of my presence here, either. I squeezed his fingers lightly and released them.

“Better call me a witch,” I said. “It’s as close as you’re likely to get.”

On my way out to the courtyard next morning, I met Lord Balmerino on the stairs.

“Oh, Mistress Fraser!” he greeted me jovially. “Just who I was looking for.”

I smiled at him; a chubby, cheerful man, he was one of the refreshing features of life in Holyrood.

“If it isn’t fever, flux, or French pox,” I said, “can it wait for a moment? My husband and his uncle are giving a demonstration of Highland sword-fighting for the benefit of Don Francisco de la Quintana.”

“Oh, really? I must say, I should like to see that myself.” Balmerino fell into step beside me, head bobbing cheerfully at the level of my shoulder. “I do like a pretty man with a sword,” he said. “And anything that will sweeten the Spaniards has my most devout approval.”

“Mine, too.” Deeming it too dangerous for Fergus to lift His Highness’s correspondence inside Holyrood, Jamie was dependent for information on what he learned from Charles himself. This seemed to be quite a lot, though; Charles considered Jamie one of his intimates – virtually the only Highland chief to be accorded such a mark of favor, small as was his contribution in men and money.

So far as money went, though, Charles had confided that he had high hopes of support from Philip of Spain, whose latest letter to James in Rome had been distinctly encouraging. Don Francisco, while not quite an envoy, was certainly a member of the Spanish Court, and might be relied upon to carry back his report of how matters stood with the Stuart rising. This was Charles’s opportunity to see how far his own belief in his destiny would carry him, in convincing Highland chiefs and foreign kings to join him.

“What did you want to see me for?” I asked as we came out onto the walkway that edged the courtyard of Holyrood. A small crowd of spectators was assembling, but neither Don Francisco nor the two combatants were yet in sight.

“Oh!” Reminded, Lord Balmerino groped inside his coat. “Nothing of great importance, my dear lady. I received these from one of my messengers, who obtained them from a kinsman to the South. I thought you might find them amusing.”

He handed me a thin sheaf of crudely printed papers. I recognized them as broadsheets, the popular circulars distributed in taverns or that fluttered from doorposts and hedges through towns and villages.

“Charles Edward Stuart, known to all as The Younge Pretender” read one. “Be it Known to all Present that this Depraved and Dangerous Person, having landed Unlawfully upon the shores of Scotland, hath Incited to Riot the Population of that Country, and hath Unleashed upon Innocent Citizens the Fury of an Unjust War.” There was quite a lot more of it, all in the same vein, concluding with an exhortation to the Innocent Citizens reading this indictment “to do all in their Power to Deliver ye this Person to the Justice which he so Richly Deserves.” The sheet was decorated at the top with what I supposed was meant as a drawing of Charles; it didn’t bear much resemblance to the original, but definitely looked Depraved and Dangerous, which I supposed was the general idea.

“That one’s quite fairly restrained,” said Balmerino, peering over my elbow. “Some of the others show a most impressive range both of imagination and invective, though; look at this one. That’s me,” he said, pointing at the paper with evident delight.

The broadsheet showed a rawboned Highlander, thickly bewhiskered, with beetling brows and eyes that glared wildly under the shadow of a Scotch bonnet. I looked askance at Lord Balmerino, clad, as was his habit, in breeches and coat in the best of taste; made of fine stuff, but subdued both in cut and color, to flatter his tubby little form. He stared at the broadsheet, meditatively stroking his round, clean-shaven cheeks.

“I don’t know,” he said. “The whiskers do lend me a most romantic air, do they not? Still, a beard itches most infernally; I’m not sure I could bear it, even for the sake of being picturesque.”

I turned to the next page, and nearly dropped the whole sheaf.