Seven Stones to Stand or Fall Read online

  Between the warmth of the fire and the hot tea, Jamie was sweating, too, and could have used a glass of wine. But the old gentleman stood up abruptly and, with a courteous bow to D’Eglise, came out from behind his desk and took Jamie by the arm, pulling him up and tugging him gently toward a doorway.

  He ducked, just in time to avoid braining himself on a low archway, and found himself in a small, plain room, with bunches of drying herbs hung from its beams. What—

  But before he could formulate any sort of question, the old man had got hold of his shirt and was pulling it free of his plaid. He tried to step back, but there was no room, and willy-nilly, he found himself set down on a stool, the old man’s horny fingers pulling loose the bandages. The doctor made a deep sound of disapproval, then shouted something in which the words “agua caliente” were clearly discernible, back through the archway.

  He daren’t stand up and flee—and risk D’Eglise’s new arrangement. And so he sat, burning with embarrassment, while the physician probed, prodded, and—a bowl of hot water having appeared—scrubbed at his back with something painfully rough. None of this bothered Jamie nearly as much as the appearance of Rebekah in the doorway, her dark eyebrows raised.

  “My grandfather says your back is a mess,” she told him, translating a remark from the old man.

  “Thank ye. I didna ken that,” he muttered in English, but then repeated the remark more politely in French. His cheeks burned with mortification, but a small, cold echo sounded in his heart. “I see he’s made a mess of you, boy.”

  The surgeon at Fort William had said it when the soldiers dragged Jamie to him after the flogging, legs too wobbly to stand by himself. The surgeon had been right, and so was Dr. Hasdi, but it didn’t mean Jamie wanted to hear it again.

  Rebekah, evidently interested to see what her grandfather meant, came round behind Jamie. He stiffened, and the doctor poked him sharply in the back of the neck, making him bend forward again. The two Jews were discussing the spectacle in tones of detachment; he felt the girl’s small, soft fingers trace a line between his ribs and nearly shot off the stool, his skin erupting in goose flesh.

  “Jamie?” Ian’s voice came from the hallway, sounding worried. “Are ye all right?”

  “Aye!” he managed, half strangled. “Don’t—ye needn’t come in.”

  “Your name is Jamie?” Rebekah was now in front of him, leaning down to look into his face. Her own was alive with interest and concern. “James?”

  “Aye. James.” He clenched his teeth as the doctor dug a little harder, clicking his tongue.

  “Diego,” she said, smiling at him. “That’s what it would be in Spanish—or Ladino. And your friend?”

  “He’s called Ian. That’s”—he groped for a moment and found the English equivalent—“John. That would be…”

  “Juan. Diego and Juan.” She touched him gently on the bare shoulder. “You’re friends? Brothers? I can see you come from the same place—where is that?”

  “Friends. From…Scotland. The—the—Highlands. A place called Lallybroch.” He’d spoken unwarily, and a pang shot through him at the name, sharper than whatever the doctor was scraping his back with. He looked away; the girl’s face was too close—he didn’t want her to see.

  She didn’t move away. Instead, she crouched gracefully beside him and took his hand. Hers was very warm, and the hairs on his wrist rose in response, in spite of what the doctor was doing to his back.

  “It will be done soon,” she promised. “He’s cleaning the infected parts; he says they will scab over cleanly now and stop draining.” A gruff question from the doctor. “He asks, do you have fever at night? Bad dreams?”

  Startled, he looked back at her, but her face showed only compassion. Her hand tightened on his in reassurance.

  “I…yes. Sometimes.”

  A grunt from the doctor, more words, and Rebekah let go his hand with a little pat and went out, skirts a-rustle. He closed his eyes and tried to keep the scent of her in his mind—he couldn’t keep it in his nose, as the doctor was now anointing him with something vile-smelling. He could smell himself, too, and his jaw prickled with embarrassment; he reeked of stale sweat, campfire smoke, and fresh blood.

  He could hear D’Eglise and Ian talking in the parlor, low-voiced, discussing whether to come and rescue him. He would have called out to them, save that he couldn’t bear the captain to see…He pressed his lips together tight. Aye, well, it was nearly done; he could tell from the doctor’s slower movements, almost gentle now.

  “Rebekah!” the doctor called, impatient, and the girl appeared an instant later, a small cloth bundle in one hand. The doctor let off a short burst of words, then pressed a thin cloth of some sort over Jamie’s back; it stuck to the nasty ointment.

  “Grandfather says the cloth will protect your shirt until the ointment is absorbed,” she told him. “By the time it falls off—don’t peel it off, let it come off by itself—the wounds will be scabbed, but the scabs should be soft and not crack.”

  The doctor took his hand off Jamie’s shoulder, and Jamie shot to his feet, looking round for his shirt. Rebekah handed it to him. Her eyes were fastened on his naked chest, and he was—for the first time in his life—embarrassed by the fact that he possessed nipples. An extraordinary but not unpleasant tingle made the curly hairs on his body stand up.

  “Thank you—ah, I mean…gracias, señor.” His face was flaming, but he bowed to the doctor with as much grace as he could muster. “Muchas gracias.”

  “De nada,” the old man said gruffly, with a dismissive wave of one hand. He pointed at the small bundle in his granddaughter’s hand. “Drink. No fever. No dream.” And then, surprisingly, he smiled.

  “Shalom,” he said, and made a shooing gesture.

  D’EGLISE, LOOKING PLEASED with the new job, left Ian and Jamie at a large tavern called Le Poulet Gai, where some of the other mercenaries were enjoying themselves—in various ways. The Cheerful Chicken most assuredly did boast a brothel on the upper floor, and slatternly women in various degrees of undress wandered freely through the lower rooms, picking up new customers with whom they vanished upstairs.

  The two tall young Scots provoked a certain amount of interest from the women, but when Ian solemnly turned his empty purse inside out in front of them—he having put his money inside his shirt for safety—they left the lads alone.

  “Couldna look at one of those,” Ian said, turning his back on the whores and devoting himself to his ale. “Not after seein’ the wee Jewess up close. Did ye ever seen anything like?”

  Jamie shook his head, deep in his own drink. It was sour and fresh and went down a treat, parched as he was from the ordeal in Dr. Hasdi’s surgery. He could still smell the ghost of Rebekah’s scent, vanilla and roses, a fugitive fragrance among the reeks of the tavern. He fumbled in his sporran, bringing out the little cloth bundle Rebekah had given him.

  “She said—well, the doctor said—I was to drink this. How, d’ye think?” The bundle held a mixture of broken leaves, small sticks, and a coarse powder, and smelled strongly of something he’d never smelled before. Not bad; just odd.

  Ian frowned at it. “Well…ye’d brew a tea of it, I suppose,” he said. “How else?”

  “I havena got anything to brew it in,” Jamie said. “I was thinkin’…maybe put it in the ale?”

  “Why not?”

  IAN WASN’T PAYING much attention; he was watching Mathieu Pig-face, who was standing against a wall, summoning whores as they passed by, looking them up and down, and occasionally fingering the merchandise before sending each one on with a smack on the rear.

  He wasn’t really tempted—the women scairt him, to be honest—but he was curious. If he ever should…how did ye start? Just grab, like Mathieu was doing, or did ye need to ask about the price first, to be sure you could afford it? And was it proper to bargain, like ye did for a loaf of bread or a flitch of bacon, or would the woman kick ye in the privates and find someone less mean?

/>   He shot a glance at Jamie, who, after a bit of choking, had got his herbed ale down all right and was looking a little glazed. He didn’t think Jamie knew, either, but he didn’t want to ask, just in case he did.

  “I’m goin’ to the privy,” Jamie said abruptly, and stood up. He looked pale.

  “Have ye got the shits?”

  “Not yet.” With this ominous remark, he was off, bumping into tables in his haste, and Ian followed, pausing long enough to thriftily drain the last of Jamie’s ale as well as his own.

  Mathieu had found one he liked; he leered at Ian and said something obnoxious as he ushered his choice toward the stairs. Ian smiled cordially and said something much worse in Gàidhlig.

  By the time Ian got to the yard at the back of the tavern, Jamie had disappeared. Figuring Jamie would be back as soon as he rid himself of his trouble, Ian leaned tranquilly against the back wall of the building, enjoying the cool night air and watching the folk in the yard.

  There were a couple of torches burning, stuck in the ground, and it looked a bit like a painting he’d seen of the Last Judgment, with angels on the one side blowing trumpets, and sinners on the other going down to hell in a tangle of naked limbs and bad behavior. It was mostly sinners out here, though now and then he thought he saw an angel floating past the corner of his eye. He licked his lips thoughtfully, wondering what was in the stuff Dr. Hasdi had given Jamie.

  Jamie himself emerged from the privy at the far side of the yard, looking a little more settled in himself. Spotting Ian, he made his way through the small knots of drinkers sitting on the ground singing and the others wandering to and fro, smiling vaguely as they looked for something, not knowing what they were looking for.

  Ian was seized by a sudden sense of revulsion, almost terror: a fear that he would never see Scotland again, would die here, among strangers.

  “We should go home,” he said abruptly, as soon as Jamie was in earshot. “As soon as we’ve finished this job.”

  “Home?” Jamie looked strangely at Ian, as though he were speaking some incomprehensible language.

  “Ye’ve business there, and so have I. We—”

  A skelloch and the thud and clatter of a falling table with its burden of dishes interrupted them. The back door of the tavern burst open and a woman ran out, yelling in a sort of French that Ian didn’t understand but knew fine was bad words from the tone of it. Similar words in a loud male voice, and Mathieu charged out after her.

  He caught her by the shoulder, spun her round, and cracked her across the face with the back of one meaty hand. Ian flinched at the sound, and Jamie’s hand tightened on his wrist.

  “What—” Jamie began, but then stopped dead.

  “Putain de…merde…tu fais…chien,” Mathieu panted, slapping her with each word. She shrieked some more, trying to get away, but he had her by the arm and now jerked her round and pushed her hard in the back, knocking her to her knees.

  Jamie’s hand loosened, and Ian grabbed his arm, tight.

  “Don’t,” he said tersely, and yanked Jamie back into the shadow.

  “I wasn’t,” Jamie said, but under his breath and not noticing much what he was saying, because his eyes were fixed on what was happening, as much as Ian’s were.

  The light from the door spilled over the woman, glowing off her hanging breasts, bared in the ripped neck of her shift. Glowing off her wide round buttocks, too; Mathieu had shoved her skirts up to her waist and was behind her, jerking at his flies one-handed, the other hand twisted in her hair so her head pulled back, throat straining and her face white-eyed as a panicked horse.

  “Pute!” he said, and gave her arse a loud smack, open-handed. “Nobody says no to me!” He’d got his cock out now, in his hand, and shoved it into the woman with a violence that made her hurdies wobble and knotted Ian from knees to neck.

  “Merde,” Jamie said, still under his breath. Other men and a couple of women had come out into the yard and were gathered round with the others, enjoying the spectacle as Mathieu set to work in a businesslike manner. He let go of the woman’s hair in order to grasp her by the hips, and her head hung down, hair hiding her face. She grunted with each thrust, panting bad words that made the onlookers laugh.

  Ian was shocked—and shocked as much at his own arousal as at what Mathieu was doing. He’d not seen open coupling before, only the heaving and giggling of things happening under a blanket, now and then a wee flash of pale flesh. This…He ought to look away, he knew that fine. But he didn’t.

  Jamie took in a breath, but no telling whether he meant to say something. Mathieu threw back his big head and howled like a wolf, and the watchers all cheered. Then his face convulsed, gapped teeth showing in a grin like a skull’s, and he made a noise like a pig gives out when you knock it clean on the head and collapsed on top of the whore.

  The whore squirmed out from under his bulk, abusing him roundly. Ian understood what she was saying now and would have been shocked anew if he’d had any capacity for being shocked left. She hopped up, evidently not hurt, and kicked Mathieu in the ribs once, then twice, but having no shoes on, she didn’t hurt him. She reached for the purse still tied at his waist, stuck her hand in, and grabbed a handful of coins, then kicked him once more for luck and stomped off into the house, holding up the neck of her shift. Mathieu lay sprawled on the ground, his breeks around his thighs, laughing and wheezing.

  Ian heard Jamie swallow and realized he was still gripping Jamie’s arm. Jamie didn’t seem to have noticed. Ian let go. His face was burning all the way down to the middle of his chest, and he didn’t think it was just torchlight on Jamie’s face, either.

  “Let’s…go someplace else,” he said.

  “I WISH WE’D…done something,” Jamie blurted. They hadn’t spoken at all after leaving Le Poulet Gai. They’d walked clear to the other end of the street and down a side alley, eventually coming to rest in a small tavern, fairly quiet. Juanito and Raoul were there, dicing with some locals, but gave Ian and Jamie no more than a glance.

  “I dinna see what we could have done,” Ian said reasonably. “I mean, we could maybe have taken on Mathieu together and got off with only bein’ maimed. But ye ken it would ha’ started a kebbie-lebbie, wi’ all the others there.” He hesitated and gave Jamie a quick glance before returning his gaze to his cup. “And…she was a whore. I mean, she wasna a—”

  “I ken what ye mean.” Jamie cut him off. “Aye, ye’re right. And she did go with the man, to start. God knows what he did to make her take against him, but there’s likely plenty to choose from. I wish—ah, feck it. D’ye want something to eat?”

  Ian shook his head. The barmaid brought them a jug of wine, glanced at them, and dismissed them as negligible. It was rough wine that took the skin off the insides of your mouth, but it had a decent taste to it, under the resin fumes, and wasn’t too much watered. Jamie drank deep and faster than he generally did; he was uneasy in his skin, prickling and irritable, and wanted the feeling to go away.

  There were a few women in the place, not many. Jamie had to think that whoring maybe wasn’t a profitable business, wretched as most of the poor creatures looked, raddled and half toothless. Maybe it wore them down, having to…He turned away from the thought and, finding the jug empty, waved to the barmaid for another.

  Juanito gave a joyful whoop and said something in Ladino. Looking in that direction, Jamie saw one of the whores who’d been lurking in the shadows come gliding purposefully in, bending down to give Juanito a congratulatory kiss as he scooped in his winnings. Jamie snorted a little, trying to blow the smell of her out of his neb—she’d passed by close enough that he’d got a good whiff of her, a stink of rancid sweat and dead fish. Alexandre had told him that was from unclean privates, and he believed it.

  He went back to the wine. Ian was matching him, cup for cup, and likely for the same reason. His friend wasn’t usually irritable or crankit, but if he was well put out, he’d often stay that way until the next dawn—a good sleep
erased his bad temper, but ’til then you didn’t want to rile him.

  He shot a sidelong glance at Ian. He couldn’t tell Ian about Jenny. He just…couldn’t. But neither could he think about her, left alone at Lallybroch…maybe with ch—

  “Oh, God,” he said, under his breath. “No. Please. No.”

  “Dinna come back,” Murtagh had said, and plainly meant it. Well, he would go back—but not yet a while. It wouldn’t help his sister, him going back just now and bringing Randall and the redcoats straight to her like flies to a fresh-killed deer…He shoved that analogy hastily out of sight, horrified. The truth was, it made him sick with shame to think about Jenny, and he tried not to—and was the more ashamed because he mostly succeeded.

  Ian’s gaze was fixed on another of the harlots. She was old, in her thirties at least, but had most of her teeth and was cleaner than most. She was flirting with Juanito and Raoul, too, and Jamie wondered whether she’d mind if she found out they were Jews. Maybe a whore couldn’t afford to be choosy.

  His treacherous mind at once presented him with a picture of his sister, obliged to follow that walk of life to feed herself, made to take any man who…Blessed Mother, what would the folk, the tenants, the servants, do to her if they found out what had happened? The talk…He shut his eyes tight, hoping to block the vision.

  “That one’s none sae bad,” Ian said meditatively, and Jamie opened his eyes. The better-looking whore had bent over Juanito, deliberately rubbing her breast against his warty ear. “If she doesna mislike a Jew, maybe she’d…”

  The blood flamed up in Jamie’s face.

  “If ye’ve got any thought to my sister, ye’re no going to—to—pollute yourself wi’ a French whore!”

  Ian’s face went blank but then flooded with color in turn.

  “Oh, aye? And if I said your sister wasna worth it?”

  Jamie’s fist caught him in the eye and he flew backward, overturning the bench and crashing into the next table. Jamie scarcely noticed, the agony in his hand shooting fire and brimstone from his crushed knuckles up his forearm. He rocked to and fro, injured hand clutched between his thighs, cursing freely in three languages.