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

I was loath to surrender any of my precious supply of rose hips and dried berries, but had offered, reluctantly, to make the Prince a tea of them. The offer had been rejected, with a minimum of courtesy, and I understood that Archie Cameron had been summoned, with his bowl of leeches and his lancet, to see whether a letting of the Royal blood would relieve the Royal itch.

“I could do it,” I said. My heart was beating heavily in my chest, making it hard to breathe. “I could mix him a draught. I think I could persuade him to take it.”

“And if he should die upon drinking your medicine? Christ, Claire! They would kill ye on the spot!”

I folded my hands beneath my arms, trying to warm them.

“D-does that matter?” I asked, desperately trying to steady my voice. The truth was that it did. Just at the moment, my own life weighed a good deal more in the balance than did the hundreds I might save. I clenched my fists, shaking with terror, a mouse in the jaws of the trap.

Jamie was at my side in an instant. My legs didn’t work very well; he half-carried me to the broken settle and sat down with me, his arms wrapped tight around me.

“You’ve the courage of a lion, mo duinne,” he murmured in my ear. “Of a bear, a wolf! But you know I willna let ye do it.”

The shivering eased slightly, though I still felt cold, and sick with the horror of what I was saying.

“There might be another way,” I said. “There’s little food, but what there is goes to the Prince. I think it might not be difficult to add something to his dish without being noticed; things are so disorganized.” This was true; all over the house, officers lay sleeping on tables and floors, still clad in their boots, too tired to lay aside their arms. The house was in chaos, with constant comings and goings. It would be a simple matter to distract a servant long enough to add a deadly powder to the evening dish.

The immediate terror had receded slightly, but the awfulness of my suggestion lingered like poison, chilling my own blood. Jamie’s arm tightened briefly around my shoulders, then fell away as he contemplated the situation.

The death of Charles Stuart would not end the matter of the Rising; things had gone much too far for that. Lord George Murray, Balmerino, Kilmarnock, Lochiel, Clanranald – all of us were traitors, lives and property forfeit to the Crown. The Highland army was in tatters; without the figurehead of Charles to rally to, it would dissipate like smoke. The English, terrorized and humiliated at Preston and Falkirk, would not hesitate to pursue the fugitives, seeking to retrieve their lost honor and wash out the insult in blood.

There was little chance that Henry of York, Charles’s pious younger brother, already bound by churchly vows, would take his brother’s place to continue the fight for restoration. There was nothing ahead but catastrophe and wreck, and no possible way to avert it. All that might be salvaged now was the lives of the men who would die on the moor tomorrow.

It was Charles who had chosen to fight at Culloden, Charles whose stubborn, shortsighted autocracy had defied the advice of his own generals and gone to invade England. And whether Sandringham had meant his offer for good or ill, it had died with him. There was no support from the South; such English Jacobites as there were did not rally as expected to the banner of their king. Forced against his will to retreat, Charles had chosen this last stubborn stand, to place ill-armed, exhausted, starving men in a battle line on a rain-soaked moor, to face the wrath of Cumberland’s cannon fire. If Charles Stuart were dead, the battle of Culloden might not take place. One life, against two thousand. One life – but that life a Royal one, and taken not in battle, but in cold blood.

The small room where we sat had a hearth, but a fire had not been lit – there was no fuel. Jamie sat gazing at it as though seeking an answer in invisible flames. Murder. Not only murder, but regicide. Not only murder, but the killing of a sometime friend.

And yet – the clansmen of the Highlands shivered already on the open moor, shifting in their serried ranks as the plan of battle was adjusted, rearranged, reordered, as more men drifted to join them. Among them were the MacKenzies of Leoch, the Frasers of Beauly, four hundred men of Jamie’s blood. And the thirty men of Lallybroch, his own.

His face was blank, immobile as he thought, but the hands laced together on his knee knotted tight with the struggle. The crippled fingers and the straight strove together, twisting. I sat beside him, scarcely daring to breathe, awaiting his decision.

At last the breath went from him in an almost inaudible sigh, and he turned to me, a look of unutterable sadness in his eyes.

“I cannot,” he whispered. His hand touched my face briefly, cupping my cheek. “Would God that I could, Sassenach. I cannot do it.”

The wave of relief that washed through me robbed me of speech, but he saw what I felt, and grasped my hands between his own.

“Oh, God, Jamie, I’m glad of it!” I whispered.

He bowed his head over my hands. I turned my head to lay my cheek against his hair, and froze.

In the doorway, watching me with a look of absolute revulsion, was Dougal MacKenzie.

The last months had aged him; Rupert’s death, the sleepless nights of fruitless argument, the strains of the hard campaign, and now the bitterness of imminent defeat. There were gray hairs in the russet beard, a gray look to his skin, and deep lines in his face that had not been there in November. With a shock, I realized that he looked like his brother, Colum. He had wanted to lead, Dougal MacKenzie. Now he had inherited the chieftainship, and was paying its price.

“Filthy… traitorous… whoring… witch!”

Jamie jerked as though he had been shot, face gone white as the sleet outside. I sprang to my feet, overturning the bench with a clatter that echoed through the room.

Dougal MacKenzie advanced on me slowly, putting aside the folds of his cloak, so that the hilt of his sword was freed to his hand. I hadn’t heard the door behind me open; it must have stood ajar. How long had he been on the other side, listening?

“You,” he said softly. “I should have known it; from the first I saw ye, I should have known.” His eyes were fixed on me, something between horror and fury in the cloudy green depths.

There was a sudden stir in the air beside me; Jamie was there, a hand on my arm, urging me back behind him.

“Dougal,” he said. “It isna what ye think, man. It’s-”

“No?” Dougal cut in. His gaze left me for a second, and I shrank behind Jamie, grateful for the respite.

“Not what I think?” he said, still speaking softly. “I hear the woman urging ye to foul murder – to the murder of your Prince! Not only vile murder, but treason as well! And ye tell me I havena heard it?” He shook his head, the tangled russet curls lank and greasy on his shoulders. Like the rest of us, he was starving; the bones jutted in his face, but his eyes burned from their shadowy orbits.

“I dinna blame ye, lad,” he said. His voice was suddenly weary, and I remembered that he was a man in his fifties. “It isna your fault, Jamie. She’s bewitched ye – anyone can see that.” His mouth twisted as he looked again at me.

“Aye, I ken weel enough how it’s been for ye. She’s worked the same sorcery on me, betimes.” His eyes raked over me, burning. “A murdering, lying slut, would take a man by the cock and lead him to his doom, wi’ her claws sunk deep in his balls. That’s the spell that they lay on ye, lad – she and the other witch. Take ye to their beds and steal the soul from you as ye lie sleeping wi’ your head on their breasts. They take your soul, and eat your manhood, Jamie.”

His tongue darted out and wetted his lips. He was still staring at me, and his hand tightened on the hilt of his sword.