He stopped speaking and sat still, the usual caution now relaxed from his features, the gray eyes open and listening.
Jamie sat as still as Colum, frozen like the marble angel on the tomb behind him. I knew the dilemma that preoccupied him, though no trace of it showed on the stern, chiseled face. It was the same one we had faced before, choosing to come with the men from Lallybroch. Charles's Rising was balanced on a knife edge; the allegiance of a large clan such as the MacKenzies of Leoch might encourage others to join the brash Young Pretender, and lead to his success. But if it ended in failure nonetheless, the MacKenzies of Leoch could well end with it.
At last Jamie turned his head deliberately, and looked at me, blue eyes holding my own. You have some say in this, his look said. What shall I do?
I could feel Colum's eyes upon me, too, and felt rather than saw the questioning lift of the thick, dark brows above them. But what I saw in my mind's eye was young Hamish, a redheaded ten-year-old who looked enough like Jamie to be his son, rather than his cousin. And what life might be for him, and the rest of his clan, if the MacKenzies of Leoch fell with Charles at Culloden. The men of Lallybroch had Jamie to save them from final slaughter, if it came to that. The men of Leoch would not. And yet the choice could not be mine. I shrugged and bowed my head. Jamie took a deep breath, and made up his mind.
"Go home to Leoch, Uncle," he said. "And keep your men there."
Colum sat motionless for a long minute, looking straight at me. Finally, his mouth curled upward, but the expression was not quite a smile.
"I nearly stopped Ned Gowan, when he went to keep you from burning," he said to me. "I suppose I'm glad I didn't."
"Thanks," I said, my tone matching his.
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck with a calloused hand, as though it ached under the weight of leadership.
"Well, then. I shall see His Highness in the morning, and tell him my decision." The hand descended, lying inert on the stone bench, halfway between him and his nephew. "I thank ye, Jamie, for your advice." He hesitated, then added, "And may God go with you."
Jamie leaned forward and laid his hand over Colum's. He smiled his mother's wide, sweet smile and said, "And with you, too, mo caraidh."
The Royal Mile was busy, thronged with people taking advantage of the brief hours of warmth. We walked in silence through the crowd, my hand tucked deep into the crook of Jamie's elbow. Finally he shook his head, muttering something to himself in Gaelic.
"You did right," I said to him, answering the thought rather than the words. "I would have done the same. Whatever happens, at least the MacKenzies will be safe."
"Aye, perhaps." He nodded to a greeting from a passing officer, jostling through the crowd that surrounded the World's End. "But what of the rest—the MacDonalds and MacGillivrays, and the others that have come? Will they be destroyed now, where maybe they wouldn't, had I had the nerve to tell Colum to join them?" He shook his head, face clouded. "There's no knowing, is there, Sassenach?"
"No," I said softly, squeezing his arm. "Never enough. Or maybe too much. But we can't do nothing on that account, surely?"
He gave me a half-smile back, and pressed my hand against his side.
"No, Sassenach. I dinna suppose we can. And it's done now, and naught can change it, so it's no good worrying. The MacKenzies will stay out of it."
The sentry at the gate of Holyrood was a MacDonald, one of Glengarry's men. He recognized Jamie and nodded us into the courtyard, barely looking up from his louse-searching. The warm weather made the vermin active, and as they left their cozy nests in crotch and armpit, often they could be surprised while crossing the perilous terrain of shirt or tartan and removed from the body of their host.
Jamie said something to him in Gaelic, smiling. The man laughed, picked something from his shirt, and flicked it at Jamie, who pretended to catch it, eyed the imaginary beastie critically, then, with a wink at me, popped it into his mouth.
"Er, how is your son's head, Lord Kilmarnock?" I inquired politely as we stepped out together onto the floor of Holyrood's Great Gallery. I didn't care greatly, but I thought as the topic couldn't be avoided altogether, it was perhaps better to air it in a place where hostility was unlikely to be openly exhibited.
The Gallery met that criterion, I thought. The long, high-ceiled room with its two vast fireplaces and towering windows had been the scene of frequent balls and parties since Charles's triumphant entry into Edinburgh in September. Now, crowded with the luminaries of Edinburgh's upper class, all anxious to do honor to their Prince—once it appeared that he might actually win—the room positively glittered. Don Francisco, the guest of honor, stood at the far end of the room with Charles, dressed in the depressing Spanish style, with baggy dark pantaloons, shapeless coat, and even a small ruff, which seemed to provoke considerable suppressed amusement among the younger and more fashionable element.
"Oh, well enough, Mistress Fraser," replied Kilmarnock imperturbably. "A dunt on the skull will not discommode a lad of that age for long; though his pride may take a bit more mending," he added, with a sudden humorous twist to his long mouth.
I smiled at him, relieved to see it.
"You're not angry?"
He shook his head, looking down to be sure that his feet were clear of my sweeping skirt.
"I have tried to teach John the things he should know as heir to Kilmarnock. In teaching him humility I seem to have signally failed; perhaps your servant may have had more success."
"I suppose you didn't whack him outside," I said absently.
"Pardon?"
"Nothing," I said flushing. "Look, is that Lochiel? I thought he was ill."
Dancing required most of my breath, and Lord Kilmarnock appeared not to wish for conversation, so I had time to look around. Charles was not dancing; though he was a good dancer, and the young women of Edinburgh vied for his attentions, tonight he was thoroughly engrossed in the entertainment of his guest. I had seen a small cask with a Portuguese brand-mark burned into its side being rolled into the kitchens in the afternoon, and glasses of the ruby liquid kept reappearing by Don Francisco's left hand as though by magic through the evening.
We crossed the path of Jamie, propelling one of the Misses Williams through the figures of the dance. There were three of them, nearly indistinguishable from one another—young, brown-haired, comely, and all "so terribly interested, Mr. Fraser, in this noble Cause." They made me quite tired, but Jamie, ever the soul of patience, danced with them all, one by one, and answered the same silly questions over and over.
"Well, it's a change for them to get out, poor things," he explained kindly. "And their father's a rich merchant, so His Highness would like to encourage the sympathy of the family."
The Miss Williams with him looked enthralled, and I wondered darkly just how encouraging he was being. Then my attention shifted, as Balmerino danced by with Lord George Murray's wife. I saw the Murrays exchange affectionate glances as they passed, he with another of the Misses Williams, and felt mildly ashamed of my noticing who Jamie danced with.
Not surprisingly, Colum wasn't at the ball. I wondered whether he had had a chance to speak to Charles beforehand, but decided probably not; Charles looked much too cheerful and animated to have been the recipient of bad news anytime recently.
At one side of the Gallery, I caught sight of two stocky figures, almost identical in uncomfortable and unaccustomed formal dress. It was John Simpson, Master of the Swordmakers Guild of Glasgow, and his son, also John Simpson. Arrived earlier in the week to present His Highness with one of the magnificent basket-hilted broadswords for which they were famed throughout Scotland, the two artisans had plainly been invited tonight to show Don Francisco the depth of support that the Stuarts enjoyed.
Both men had thick, dark hair and beards, lightly frosted with gray. Simpson senior was salt with a sprinkle of pepper, while Simpson junior gave the impression of a dark hillside with a rim of snow crusted lightly round its frostline, white hairs confined to the temples and upper cheeks. As I watched, the older swordmaker poked his son sharply in the back and nodded with significance toward one of the merchants' daughters, hovering near the edge of the floor under her father's protection.
Simpson junior gave his father a skeptical glance, but then shrugged, stepped out, and offered his arm with a bow to the third Miss Williams.
I watched with amusement and fascination as they whirled out into the steps of the dance, for Jamie, who had met the Simpsons earlier, had told me that Simpson junior was quite deaf.
"From all the hammering at the forge, I should think," he had said, showing me with pride the beautiful sword he had bought from the artisans. "Deaf as a stone; his father does the talkin', but the young one sees everything."
I saw the sharp dark eyes flick rapidly across the floor now, judging to a nicety the distance from one couple to the next. The young swordmaster trod a little heavily, but kept the measure of the dance well enough—at least as well as I did. Closing my eyes, I felt the thrum of the music vibrating through the wooden floor, from the cellos resting on it, and assumed that was what he followed. Then, opening my eyes so as not to crash into anyone, I saw Junior wince at a screeching miscue among the violins. Perhaps he did hear some sounds, then.