Cold and miserable as the weather was outside, I found myself spending a good deal of time walking the grounds of Holyrood and the Canongate. A faceful of rain seemed preferable to lungfuls of woodsmoke and germ-filled air indoors. The sounds of coughing and sneezing rang through the Palace, though the constraint of His Highness's genteel presence caused most hawking sufferers to spit into filthy handerchiefs or the Delft-lined fireplaces, rather than on the polished Scotch oak floors.
The light failed early at this time of year, and I turned back, halfway up the High Street, in order to reach Holyrood before dark. I had no fear at all of assault in the darkness; even had I not been known by now to all the Jacobite troops occupying the city, the prevailing horror of fresh air kept everyone indoors.
Men still well enough to leave their homes on business completed their errands with dispatch before diving thankfully into the smoke-filled sanctuary of Jenny Ha's tavern, and stayed there, nestled cozily into warm airlessness, where the smell of damp wool, unwashed bodies, whisky, and ale nearly succeeded in overcoming the reek of the stove.
My only fear was of losing my footing in the dark and breaking an ankle on the slippery cobbles. The city was lit only by the feeble lanterns of the town watchmen, and these had a disconcerting habit of ducking from doorway to doorway, appearing and disappearing like fireflies. And sometimes disappearing altogether for half an hour at a time, as the lantern-bearer darted into The World's End at the bottom of the Canongate for a life-saving draught of hot ale.
I eyed the faint glow over the Canongate kirk, estimating how much time remained 'til dark. With luck, I might have time to stop at Mr. Haugh's apothecary's shop. While boasting nothing of the variety to be found in Raymond's Paris emporium, Mr. Haugh did a sound trade in horse chestnuts and slippery-elm bark, and usually was able to provide me with peppermint and barberry, as well. At this time of year, his chief income was derived from the sale of camphor balls, considered a sovereign remedy for colds, catarrh, and consumption. If it was no more effective than modern cold remedies, I reflected, it was no worse, and at least smelled invigoratingly healthy.
Despite the prevalence of red noses and white faces, parties were held at the palace several nights a week, as the noblesse of Edinburgh welcomed their Prince with enthusiasm. Another two hours, and the lanterns of servants accompanying ball-goers would start to flicker in the High Street.
I sighed at the thought of another ball, attended by sneezing gallants, paying compliments in phlegm-thickened voices. Perhaps I'd better add some garlic to the list; worn in a silver pomander-locket about the neck, it was supposed to ward off disease. What it actually did do, I supposed, was to keep disease-ridden companions at a safe distance—equally satisfactory, from my point of view.
The city was occupied by Charles's troops, and the English, while not besieged, were at least sequestered in the Castle above. Still, news—of dubious veracity—tended to leak in both directions. According to Mr. Haugh, the most recent rumor held that the Duke of Cumberland was gathering troops south of Perth, with the intent of marching north almost immediately. I hadn't any idea whether this was true; I doubted it, in fact, recalling no mention of Cumberland's activities much before the spring of 1746, which hadn't arrived. Still, I could hardly ignore the rumor.
The sentry at the gate nodded me in, coughing. The sound was taken up by the guards stationed down the hallways and on the landings. Resisting the impulse to wave my basket of garlic at them like a censer as I passed, I made my way upstairs to the afternoon drawing room, where I was admitted without question.
I found His Highness with Jamie, Aeneas MacDonald, O'Sullivan, His Highness's secretary, and a saturnine man named Francis Townsend, who was lately much in His Highness's good graces. Most of them were red-nosed and sneezing, and splattered phlegm smeared the hearth before the gracious mantel. I cast a sharp look at Jamie, who was slumped wearily in his chair, whitefaced and drooping.
Accustomed to my forays into the city, and eager for any intelligence regarding the English movements, the men heard me out with great attention.
"We are indebted greatly to you for your news, Mistress Fraser," said His Highness, with a gracious bow and a smile. "You must tell me if there some way in which I might repay your generous service."
"There is," I said, seizing the opportunity. "I want to take my husband home to bed. Now."
The Prince's eyes bulged slightly, but he recovered himself quickly. Not so restrained, Aeneas MacDonald broke out into a fit of suspiciously strangled coughing. Jamie's white face blazed suddenly crimson. He sneezed, and buried his countenance in a handkerchief, blue eyes shooting sparks at me over its folds.
"Ah…your husband," said Charles, rallying gallantly to the challenge. "Um…" A soft pink blush began to tint his cheeks.
"He's ill," I said, with some asperity. "Surely you can see that? I want him to go to bed and rest."
"Oh, rest," murmured MacDonald, as though to himself.
I searched for some sufficiently courtly words.
"I should be sorry to deprive Your Highness temporarily of my husband's attendance, but if he isn't allowed to take sufficient rest, he isn't likely to go on attending you much longer."
Charles, recovered from his momentary discomposure, seemed now to be finding Jamie's patent discomfiture entertaining.
"To be sure," he said, eyeing Jamie, whose complexion had faded now into a sort of mottled pallor. "We should dislike exceedingly the contemplation of such a prospect as you wish, Madam." He inclined his head in my direction. "It shall be as you wish, Madam. Cher James is excused from attendance upon our person until he shall be recovering. By all means, take your husband to your rooms at once, and, er…undertake what cure seems…ah…fitting." The corner of the Prince's mouth twitched suddenly, and pulling a large handkerchief from his pocket, he followed Jamie's example and buried the lower half of his face, coughing delicately.
"Best take care, Highness," MacDonald advised somewhat caustically. "You may catch Mr. Fraser's ailment."
"One could wish to have half Mr. Fraser's complaint," murmured Francis Townsend, with no attempt at concealing the sardonic smile that made him look like a fox in a hen coop.
Jamie, now bearing a strong resemblance to a frostbitten tomato, rose abruptly, bowed to the Prince with a brief "I thank ye, Highness," and headed for the door, clutching me by the arm.
"Let go," I snarled as we swept past the guards in the anteroom. "You're breaking my arm."
"Good," he muttered. "As soon as I've got ye in private, I'm going to break your neck." But I caught sight of the curl of his mouth, and knew the gruffness was only a facade.
Once in our apartment, with the door safely shut, he pulled me to him, leaned against the door and laughed, his cheek pressed to the top of my head.
"Thank ye, Sassenach," he said, wheezing slightly.
"You're not angry?" I asked, voice somewhat muffled in his shirtfront. "I didn't mean to embarrass you."
"Nay, I'm no minding it." he said, releasing me. "God, I wouldna ha' cared if ye'd said ye meant to set me on fire in the Great Gallery, so long as I could leave His Highness and come to rest for a bit. I'm tired to death of the man, and every muscle I've got is aching." A sudden spasm of coughing shook his frame, and he leaned against the door once more, this time for support.
"Are you all right?" I stretched up on tiptoe to feel his forehead. I wasn't surprised, but was somewhat alarmed, to feel how hot his skin was beneath my palm.
"You," I said accusingly, "have a fever!"
"Aye well, everyone's got a fever, Sassenach," he said, a bit crossly. "Only some are hotter than others, no?"
"Don't quibble," I said, relieved that he still felt well enough to chop logic. "Take off your clothes. And don't say it," I added crisply, seeing the grin forming as he opened his mouth to reply. "I have no designs whatever on your disease-ridden carcass, beyond getting it into a nightshirt."
"Oh, aye? Ye dinna think I'd benefit from the exercise?" He teased, beginning to unfasten his shirt. "I thought ye said exercise was healthy." His laugh turned suddenly to an attack of hoarse coughing that left him breathless and flushed. He dropped the shirt on the floor, and almost immediately began to shiver with chill.
"Much too healthy for you, my lad." I yanked the thick woolen nightshirt over his head, leaving him to struggle into it as I got him out of kilt, shoes, and stockings. "Christ, your feet are like ice!"
"You could…warm them…for me." But the words were forced out between chattering teeth, and he made no protest when I steered him toward the bed.
He was shaking too hard to speak by the time I had snatched a hot brick from the fire with tongs, wrapped it in flannel, and thrust it in at his feet.
The chill was hard but brief, and he lay still again by the time I had set a pan of water to steep with a handful of peppermint and black currant.
"What's that?" he asked, suspiciously, sniffing the air as I opened another jar from my basket. "Ye dinna mean me to drink it, I hope? It smells like a duck that's been hung ower-long."
"You're close," I said. "It's goose grease mixed with camphor. I'm going to rub your chest with it."