* * *
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.