Over a restorative ale and oatcake, he had at length told me that his grandfather, Lord Lovat, had not approved of his son's choice of bride, and had not seen fit either to bless the union or to communicate with his son—or his son's children—anytime since the marriage of Brian Fraser and Ellen MacKenzie, more than thirty years before.
"I've heard a good bit about him, one way and another, though." Jamie replied, chewing a bite of cheese. "He's the sort of man that makes an impression on folk, ye ken."
"So I gather." The elderly Tullibardine, one of the Parisian Jacobites, had regaled me with a number of uncensored opinions regarding the leader of clan Fraser, and I thought that perhaps Brian Fraser had not been desolated at his father's inattention. I said as much, and Jamie nodded.
"Oh, aye. I canna recall my father having much good to say of the old man, though he wouldna be disrespectful of him. He just didna speak of him often." He rubbed at the side of his neck, where a red welt from the deerfly bite was beginning to show. The weather was freakishly warm, and he had unfolded his plaid for me to sit on. The deputation to the head of clan Fraser had been thought worth some investment in dignity, and Jamie wore a new kilt, of the buckled military cut, with the plaid a separate strip of cloth. Less enveloping for shelter from the weather than the older, belted plaid, it was a good deal more efficient to put on in a hurry.
"I wondered a bit," he said thoughtfully, "whether my father was the sort of father he was because of the way old Simon treated him. I didna realize it at the time, of course, but it's no so common for a man to show his feelings for his sons."
"You've thought about it a lot." I offered him another flask of ale, and he took it with a smile that lingered on me, more warming than the feeble autumn sun.
"Aye, I did. I was wondering, ye see, what sort of father I'd be to my own bairns, and looking back a bit to see, my own father being the best example I had. Yet I knew, from the bits that he said, or that Murtagh told me, that his own father was nothing like him, so I thought as how he must have made up his mind to do it all differently, once he had the chance."
I sighed a bit, setting down my bit of cheese.
"Jamie," I said. "Do you really think we'll ever—"
"I do," he said, with certainty, not letting me finish. He leaned over and kissed my forehead. "I know it, Sassenach, and so do you. You were meant to be a mother, and I surely dinna intend to let anyone else father your children."
"Well, that's good," I said. "Neither do I."
He laughed and tilted my chin up to kiss my lips. I kissed him back, then reached up to brush away a breadcrumb that clung to the stubble around his mouth.
"Ought you to shave, do you think?" I asked. "In honor of seeing your grandfather for the first time?"
"Oh, I've seen him the once before," he said casually. "And he's seen me, for that matter. As for what he thinks of my looks now, he can take me as I am, and be damned to him."
"But Murtagh said you'd never met him!"
"Mphm." He brushed the rest of the crumbs from his shirtfront, frowning slightly as if deciding how much to tell me. Finally he shrugged and lay back in the shade of a gorse bush, hands clasped behind his head as he stared at the sky.
"Well, we never have met, as ye'd say. Or not exactly. 'Twas like this…"
At the age of seventeen, young Jamie Fraser set sail for France, to finish his education at the University of Paris, and to learn further such things as are not taught in books.
"I sailed from the harbor at Beauly," he said, nodding over the next hill, where a narrow slice of gray on the far horizon marked the edge of the Moray Firth. "There were other ports I could have gone by—Inverness would have been most like—but my father booked my passage, and from Beauly it was. He rode with me, to see me off into the world, ye might say."
Brian Fraser had seldom left Lallybroch in the years since his marriage, and took pleasure as they rode in pointing out various spots to his son, where he had hunted or traveled as boy and young man.
"But he grew much quieter as we drew near Beaufort. He hadna spoken of my grandsire on this trip, and I knew better than mention him myself. But I kent he had reason for sending me from Beauly."
A number of small sparrows edged their way cautiously nearer, popping in and out of the low shrubs, ready to dart back to safety at the slightest hint of danger. Seeing them, Jamie reached for a remnant of bread, and tossed it with considerable accuracy into the middle of the flock, which exploded like shrapnel, all fleeing the sudden intrusion.
"They'll be back," he said, motioning toward the scattered birds. He put an arm across his face as though to shield it from the sun, and went on with his story.
"There was a sound of horses along the road from the castle, and when we turned to see, there was a small party coming down, six horsemen with a wagon, and one of them held Lovat's banner, so I knew my grandfather was with them. I looked quick at my father, to see did he mean to do anything, but he just smiled and squeezed my shoulder quick and said, ‘Let's go aboard, then, lad.'
"I could feel my grandsire's eyes on me as I walked down the shore, wi' my hair and my height fair shriekin' ‘MacKenzie,' and I was glad I had my best clothes on and didna look a beggar. I didna look round, but I stood as tall as I could, and was proud that I had half a head's height above the tallest man there. My father walked by my side, quiet like he was, and he didna look aside, either, but I could feel him there, proud that he'd sired me."
He smiled at me, lopsided.
"That was the last time I was sure I'd done well by him, Sassenach. I wasna so sure, times after, but I was glad of that one day."
He locked his arms around his knees, staring ahead as though reliving the scene on the quay.
"We stepped aboard the ship, and met the master, then we stood by the rail, talking a bit about nothing, both of us careful not to look at the men from Beaufort who were loading the bundles, or glance to the shore where the horsemen stood. Then the master gave the order to cast off. I kissed my father, and he jumped over the rail, down to the dock, and walked to his horse. He didna look back until he was mounted, and by then the ship had started out into the harbor.
"I waved, and he waved back, then he turned, leading my horse, and started on the road back to Lallybroch. And the party from Beaufort turned then, too, and started back. I could see my grandsire at the head of the party, sitting straight in his saddle. And they rode, my father and grandfather, twenty yards apart, up the hill and over it, out of my sight, and neither one turned to the other, or acted as though the other one was there at all."
He turned his head down the road, as though looking for signs of life from the direction of Beaufort.
"I met his eyes," he said softly. "The once. I waited until Father reached his horse, and then I turned and looked at Lord Lovat, bold as I could. I wanted him to know we'd ask nothing of him, but that I wasna scairt of him." He smiled at me, one-sided. "I was, though."
I put a hand over his, stroking the grooves of his knuckles.
"Was he looking back at you?"
He snorted briefly.
"Aye, he was. Reckon he didna take his eyes off me from the time I came down the hill 'til my ship sailed away; I could feel them borin' into my back like an auger. And when I looked at him, there he was, wi' his eyes black under his brows, starin' into mine."
He fell silent, still looking at the castle, 'til I gently prodded him.
"How did he look, then?"
He pulled his eyes from the dark cloud mass on the far horizon to look down at me, the customary expression of good humor missing from the curve of his mouth, the depths of his eyes.
"Cold as stone, Sassenach," he replied. "Cold as the stone."
We were lucky in the weather; it had been warm all the way from Edinburgh.
"It's no going to last," Jamie predicted, squinting toward the sea ahead. "See the bank of cloud out there? It will be inland by tonight." He sniffed the air, and pulled his plaid across his shoulders. "Smell the air? Ye can feel weather coming."
Not so experienced at olfactory meteorology, I still thought that perhaps I could smell it; a dampness in the air, sharpening the usual smells of dried heather and pine resin, with a faint, moist scent of kelp from the distant shore mixed in.
"I wonder if the men have got back to Lallybroch yet," I said.
"I doubt it." Jamie shook his head. "They've less distance to go than we've had, but they're all afoot, and it will ha' been slow getting them all away." He rose in his stirrups, shading his eyes to peer toward the distant cloud bank. "I hope it's just rain; that willna trouble them overmuch. And it might not be a big storm, in any case. Perhaps it willna reach so far south."
I pulled my arisaid, a warm tartan shawl, tighter around my own shoulders, in response to the rising breeze. I had thought this few days' stretch of warm weather a good omen; I hoped it hadn't been deceptive.
Jamie had spent an entire night sitting by the window in Holyrood, after receipt of Charles's order. And in the morning, he had gone first to Charles, to tell His Highness that he and I would ride alone to Beauly, accompanied only by Murtagh, to convey His Highness's respects to Lord Lovat, and his request that Lovat honor his promise of men and aid.
Next, Jamie had summoned Ross the smith to our chamber, and given him his orders, in a voice so low that I could not make out the words from my place near the fire. I had seen the burly smith's shoulders rise, though, and set firm, as he absorbed their import.
The Highland army traveled with little discipline, in a ragtag mob that could scarcely be dignified as a "column." In the course of one day's movement, the men of Lallybroch were to drop away, one by one. Stepping aside into the shrubbery as though to rest a moment or relieve themselves, they were not to return to the main body, but to steal quietly away, and make their way, one by one, to a rendezvous with the other men from Lallybroch. And once regathered under the command of Ross the smith, they were to go home.
"I doubt they'll be missed for some time, if at all," Jamie had said, discussing the plan with me beforehand. "Desertion is rife, all through the army. Ewan Cameron told me they'd lost twenty men from his regiment within the last week. It's winter, and men want to be settling their homes and making things ready for the spring planting. In any case, it's sure there's no one to spare to go after them, even should their leavin' be noticed."
"Have you given up, then, Jamie?" I had asked, laying a hand on his arm. He had rubbed a hand tiredly over his face before answering.
"I dinna ken, Sassenach. It may be too late; it may not. I canna tell. It was foolish to go south so near to the winter; and more foolish still to waste time in beseiging Stirling. But Charles hasna been defeated, and the chiefs—some of them—are coming in answer to his summons. The MacKenzies, now, and others because of them. He's twice as many men now as we had at Preston. What will that mean?" He flung up his hands, frustrated.
"I dinna ken. There's no opposition; the English are terrified. Well, ye know; you've seen the broadsheets." He smiled without humor. "We spit small children and roast them ower the fire, and dishonor the wives and daughters of honest men." He gave a snort of wry disgust. While such crimes as theft and insubordination were common among the Highland army, rape was virtually unknown.
He sighed, a brief, angry sound. "Cameron's heard a rumor that King Geordie's makin' ready to flee from London, in fear that the Prince's army will take the city soon." He had—a rumor that had reached Cameron through me, from Jack Randall. "And there's Kilmarnock, and Cameron. Lochiel, and Balmerino, and Dougal, with his MacKenzies. Bonny fighters all. And should Lovat send the men he's promised—God, maybe it would be enough. Christ, should we march into London—" He hunched his shoulders, then stretched suddenly, shrugging as though to fight his way out of a strangling shirt.
"But I canna risk it," he said simply. "I canna go to Beauly, and leave my own men here, to be taken God knows where. If I were there to head them—that would be something else. But damned if I'll leave them for Charles or Dougal to throw at the English, and me a hundred miles away at Beauly."
So it was arranged. The Lallybroch men—including Fergus, who had protested vociferously, but been overruled—would desert, and depart inconspicuously for home. Once our business at Beauly was completed, and we had returned to join Charles—well, then it would be time enough to see how matters went.
"That's why I'm takin' Murtagh with us," Jamie had explained. "If it looks all right, then I shall send him to Lallybroch to fetch them back." A brief smile lightened his somber face. "He doesna look much on a horse, but he's a braw rider, is Murtagh. Fast as chain lightning."
He didn't look it at the moment, I reflected, but then, there was no emergency at hand. In fact, he was moving even slower than usual; as we topped one hill, I could see him at the bottom, pulling his horse to a halt. By the time we had reached him, he was off, glaring at the packhorse's saddle.
"What's amiss, then?" Jamie made to get down from his own saddle, but Murtagh waved him irritably off.
"Nay, nay, naught to trouble ye. A binding's snapped, is all. Get ye on."
With no more than a nod of acknowledgment, Jamie reined away, and I followed him.
"Not very canty today, is he?" I remarked, with a flip of the hand back in Murtagh's direction. In fact, the small clansman had grown more testy and irritable with each step in the direction of Beauly. "I take it he's not enchanted with the prospect of visting Lord Lovat?"
Jamie smiled, with a brief backward glance at the small, dark figure, bent in absorption over the rope he was splicing.
"Nay, Murtagh's no friend of Old Simon. He loved my father dearly"—his mouth quirked to one side—"and my mother, as well. He didna care for Lovat's treatment of them. Or for Lovat's methods of getting wives. Murtagh's got an Irish grandmother, but he's related to Primrose Campbell through his mother's side," he explained, as though this made everything crystal clear.
"Who's Primrose Campbell?" I asked, bewildered.
"Oh." Jamie scratched his nose, considering. The wind off the sea was rising steadily, and his hair was being whipped from its lacing, ruddy wisps flickering past his face.
"Primrose Cambell was Lovat's third wife—still is, I suppose," he added, "though she's left him some years since and gone back to her father's house."
"Popular with women, is he?" I murmured.
Jamie snorted. "I suppose ye can call it that. He took his first wife by a forced marriage. Snatched the Dowager Lady Lovat from her bed in the middle o' the night, married her then and there, and went straight back to bed with her. Still," he added fairly, "she did later decide she loved him, so maybe he wasna so bad."
"Must have been rather special in bed, at least," I said flippantly. "Runs in the family, I expect."
He cast me a mildly shocked look, which dissolved into a sheepish grin.
"Aye, well," he said. "If he was or no, it didna help him much. The Dowager's maids spoke up against him, and Simon was outlawed and had to flee to France."
Forced marriages and outlawry, hm? I refrained from further remark on family resemblances, but privately trusted that Jamie wouldn't follow in his grandfather's footsteps with regard to subsequent wives. One had apparently been insufficient for Simon.
"He went to visit King James in Rome and swear his fealty to the Stuarts," Jamie went on, "and then turned round and went straight to William of Orange, King of England, who was visiting in France. He got James to promise him his title and estates, should a restoration come about, and then—God knows how—got a full pardon from William, and was able to come home to Scotland."
Now it was my turn for raised eyebrows. Apparently it wasn't just attractiveness to the opposite sex, then.
Simon had continued his adventures by returning later to France, this time to spy on the Jacobites. Being found out, he was thrown into prison, but escaped, returned to Scotland, masterminded the assembling of the clans under the guise of a hunting-party on the Braes of Mar in 1715—and then managed to get full credit with the English Crown for putting down the resultant Rising.
"Proper old twister, isn't he?" I said, completely intrigued. "Though I suppose he can't have been so old then; only in his forties." Having heard that Lord Lovat was now in his middle seventies, I had been expecting something fairly doddering and decrepit, but was rapidly revising my expectations, in view of these stories.
"My grandsire," Jamie observed evenly, "has by all reports got a character that would enable him to hide conveniently behind a spiral staircase. Anyway," he went on, dismissing his grandfather's character with a wave of his hand, "then he married Margaret Grant, the Grant o' Grant's daughter. It was after she died that he married Primrose Campbell. She was maybe eighteen at the time."
"Was Old Simon enough of a catch for her family to force her into it?" I asked sympathetically.
"By no means, Sassenach." He paused to brush the hair out of his face, tucking the stray locks back behind his ears. "He kent well enough that she wouldna have him, no matter if he was rich as Croesus—which he wasn't—so he had her sent a letter, saying her mother was fallen sick in Edinburgh, and giving the house there she was to go to."
Hastening to Edinburgh, the young and beautiful Miss Campbell had found not her mother, but the old and ingenious Simon Fraser, who had informed her that she was in a notorious house of pleasure, and that her only hope of preserving her good name was to marry him immediately.
"She must have been a right gump, to fall for that one," I remarked cynically.
"Well, she was verra young," Jamie said defensively, "and it wasna an idle threat, either; had she refused him, Old Simon would ha' ruined her reputation without a second thought. In any event, she married him—and regretted it."
"Hmph." I was busy doing sums in my head. The encounter with Primrose Campbell had been only a few years ago, he'd said. Then…"Was it the Dowager Lady Lovat or Margaret Grant who was your grandmother?" I asked curiously.
The high cheekbones were chapped by sun and wind; now they flushed a sudden, painful red.
"Neither one," he said. He didn't look at me, but kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, in the direction of Beaufort Castle. His lips were pressed tightly together.