Outlander aka Cross Stitch - Gabaldon Diana (библиотека электронных книг txt) 📗

Deep in my thoughts, I hadn’t noticed the faint murmur of voices or the stirrings of footsteps through the grass, and I was quite startled to hear a voice speak only a few yards away.

“Devil take ye, Dougal MacKenzie,” it said. “Kinsman or no, I dinna owe ye that.” The voice was pitched low, but tight with anger.

“Do ye no?” said another voice, faintly amused. “I seem to recall a certain oath, giving your obedience. ‘So long as my feet rest on the lands of clan MacKenzie,’ I believe was the way of it.” There was a soft thud, as of a foot stamping packed earth. “And MacKenzie land it is, laddie.”

“I gave my word to Colum, not to you.” So it was young Jamie MacTavish, and precisely three guesses as to what he was upset about.

“One and the same, man, and ye ken it well.” There was the sound of a light slap, as of a hand against a cheek. “Your obedience is to the chieftain of the clan, and outside of Leoch, I am Colum’s head and arms and hands as well as his legs.”

“And never saw I a better case of the right hand not knowin’ what the left is up to,” came the quick rejoinder. Despite the bitterness of the tone, there was a lurking wit that enjoyed this clash of wills. “What d’ye think the right is going to say about the left collecting gold for the Stuarts?”

There was a brief pause before Dougal replied, “MacKenzies and MacBeolains and MacVinichs; they’re free men all. None can force them to give against their will, and none can stop them, either. And who knows? It may happen that Colum will give more for Prince Charles Edward than all o’ them put together, in the end.”

“It may,” the deeper voice agreed. “It may rain straight up tomorrow instead of down, as well. That doesna mean I’ll stand waiting at the stairhead wi’ my wee bucket turned upside down.”

“No? You’ve more to gain from a Stuart throne than I have, laddie. And naught from the English, save a noose. If ye dinna care for your own silly neck-”

“My neck is my own concern,” Jamie interrupted savagely. “And so is my back.”

“Not while ye travel with me, sweet lad,” said his uncle’s mocking voice. “If ye wish to hear what Horrocks may tell ye, you’ll do as you’re told, yourself. And wise to do it, at that; a fine hand ye may be wi’ a needle, but you’ve no but the one clean shirt.”

There was a shifting, as of someone rising from his seat on a rock, and the soft passage of footsteps through the grass. Only one set of footsteps, though, I thought. I sat up as quietly as I could, and peered cautiously around the edge of one of the boulders that hid me.

Jamie was still there, sitting hunched on a rock a few feet away, elbows braced on his knees, chin sunk on his locked hands. His back was mostly to me. I started to ease backward, not wishing to intrude on his solitude, when he suddenly spoke.

“I know you’re there,” he said. “Come out, if ye like.” From his tone, it was a matter of complete indifference to him. I rose and started to come out, when I realized I had been lying in my shift. Reflecting that he had enough to worry about without needing to blush for me as well, I tactfully wrapped myself in the blanket before emerging.

I sat down near him and leaned back against a rock, watching him a little diffidently. Beyond a brief nod of acknowledgment, he ignored me, completely occupied with inward thoughts of no very pleasant form, to judge from the dark frown on his face. One foot tapped restlessly against the rock he sat on, and he twisted his fingers together, clenching, then spreading them with a force that made several knuckles pop with soft crackling sounds.

It was the popping knuckles that reminded me of Captain Manson. The supply officer for the field hospital where I had worked, Captain Manson suffered shortages, missed deliveries, and the endless idiocies of the army bureaucracy as his own personal slings and arrows. Normally a mild and pleasant-spoken man, when the frustrations became too great, he would retire briefly into his private office and punch the wall behind the door with all the force he could muster. Visitors in the outer reception area would watch in fascination as the flimsy wallboard quivered under the force of the blows. A few moments later, Captain Manson would reemerge, bruised of knuckle but once more calm of spirit, to deal with the current crisis. By the time he was transferred to another unit, the wall behind his door was pocked with dozens of fist-sized holes.

Watching the young man on the rock trying to disjoint his own fingers, I was forcibly reminded of the captain, facing some insoluble problem of supply.

“You need to hit something,” I said.

“Eh?” He looked up in surprise, apparently having forgotten I was there.

“Hit something,” I advised. “You’ll feel better for it.”

His mouth quirked as though about to say something, but instead he rose from his rock, headed decisively for a sturdy-looking cherry tree, and dealt it a solid blow. Apparently finding this some palliative to his feelings, he smashed the quivering trunk several times more, causing a delirious shower of pale-pink petals to rain down upon his head.

Sucking a grazed knuckle, he came back a moment later.

“Thank ye,” he said, with a wry smile. “Perhaps I’ll sleep tonight after all.”

“Did you hurt your hand?” I rose to examine it, but he shook his head, rubbing the knuckles gently with the palm of the other hand.

“Nay, it’s nothing.”

We stood a moment in awkward silence. I didn’t want to refer to the scene I had overheard, or to the earlier events of the evening. I broke the silence finally by saying, “I didn’t know you were a lefty.”

“A lefty? Oh, cack-handed, ye mean. Aye, always have been. The schoolmaster used to tie that one to my belt behind my back, to make me write wi’ the other.”

“Can you? Write with the other, I mean?”

He nodded, reapplying the injured hand to his mouth. “Aye. Makes my head ache to do it, though.”

“Do you fight left-handed too?” I asked, wanting to distract him. “With a sword, I mean?” He was wearing no arms at the moment except his dirk and sgian dhu, but during the day he customarily wore both sword and pistols, as did most of the men in the party.

“No, I use a sword well enough in either hand. A left-handed swordsman’s at a disadvantage, ye ken, wi’ a small-sword, for ye fight wi’ your left side turned to the enemy, and your heart’s on that side, d’ye see?”

Too filled with nervous energy to keep still, he had begun to stride about the grassy clearing, making illustrative gestures with an imaginary sword. “It makes little difference wi’ a broadsword,” he said. He extended both arms straight out, hands together and swept them in a flat, graceful arc through the air. “Ye use both hands, usually,” he explained.

“Or if you’re close enough to use only one, it doesna matter much which, for you come down from above and cleave the man through the shoulder. Not the head,” he added instructively, “for the blade may slip off easy. Catch him clean in the notch, though” – he chopped the edge of his hand at the juncture of neck and shoulder – “and he’s dead. And if it’s not a clean cut, still the man will no fight again that day – or ever, likely,” he added.

His left hand dropped to his belt and he drew the dirk in a motion like water pouring from a glass.

“Now, to fight wi’ sword and dirk together,” he said, “if ye have no targe to shelter your dirk hand, then you favor the right side, wi’ the small-sword in that hand, and come up from underneath wi’ the dirk if ye fight in close. But if the dirk hand is well shielded, ye can come from either side, and twist your body about” – he ducked and weaved, illustrating – “to keep the enemy’s blade away, and use the dirk only if ye lose the sword or the use of the sword arm.”

He dropped low and brought the blade up in a swift, murderous jab that stopped an inch short of my breast. I stepped back involuntarily, and at once he stood upright, sheathing the dirk with an apologetic smile.