He straightened up and they stood awkwardly for a moment, not quite looking at each other. It seemed wrong to leave a grave, even that of a stranger and a Jew, without a word of prayer. But it seemed worse to say a Christian prayer over the man—more insult than blessing, in the circumstances.
At last Jamie grimaced and bending, dug about under the leaves, coming out with two small stones. He gave one to Ian, and one after the other, they squatted and placed the stones together atop the grave. It wasn’t much of a cairn, but it was something.
It wasn’t the Captain’s way to make explanations, or to give more than brief, explicit orders to his men. He had come back into camp at evening, his face dark and his lips pressed tight. But three other men had heard the interrogation of the Jewish stranger, and by the usual metaphysical processes that happen around campfires, everyone in the troop knew by the next morning what he had said.
“Ephraim bar-Sefer,” Ian said to Jamie, who had come back late to the fire after going off quietly to wash his shirt out again. “That was his name.” Ian was a bit worrit about the wean. His wounds weren’t healing as they should, and the way he’d passed out … He’d a fever now; Ian could feel the heat coming off his skin, but he shivered now and then, though the night wasn’t bitter.
“Is it better to know that?” Jamie asked bleakly.
“We can pray for him by name,” Ian pointed out. “That’s better, is it not?”
Jamie wrinkled up his brow, but after a moment nodded.
“Aye, it is. What else did he say, then?”
Ian rolled his eyes. Ephraim bar-Sefer had confessed that the band of attackers were professional thieves, mostly Jews, who—
“Jews?” Jamie interrupted. “Jewish bandits?” For some reason, the thought struck him as funny, but Ian didn’t laugh.
“Why not?” he asked briefly, and went on without waiting for an answer. The men gained advance knowledge of valuable shipments and made a practice of lying in wait, to ambush and rob.
“It’s mostly other Jews they rob, so there’s nay much danger of being pursued by the French army or a local judge.”
“Oh. And the advance knowledge—that’s easier come by, too, I suppose, if the folk they rob are Jews. Jews live close by each other in groups,” he explained, seeing the look of surprise on Ian’s face. “They all read and write, though, and they write letters all the time; there’s a good bit of information passed to and fro between the groups. Wouldna be that hard to learn who the moneylenders and merchants are and intercept their correspondence, would it?”
“Maybe not,” Ian said, giving Jamie a look of respect. “Bar-Sefer said they got notice from someone—he didna ken who it was, himself—who kent a great deal about valuables comin’ and goin’. The person who knew wasna one of their group, though; it was someone outside, who got a percentage o’ the proceeds.”
That, however, was the total of the information bar-Sefer had divulged. He wouldn’t give up the names of any of his associates—D’Eglise didn’t care so much about that—and had died stubbornly insisting that he knew nothing of future robberies planned.
“D’ye think it might ha’ been one of ours?” Jamie asked, low voiced.
“One of—oh, our Jews, ye mean?” Ian frowned at the thought. There were three Spanish Jews in D’Eglise’s band: Juanito, Big Georges, and Raoul, but all three were good men, and fairly popular with their fellows. “I doubt it. All three o’ them fought like fiends. When I noticed,” he added fairly.
“What I want to know is how the thieves got away wi’ that rug,” Jamie said reflectively. “Must have weighed, what, ten stone?”
“At least that,” Ian assured him, flexing his shoulders at the memory. “I helped load the wretched things. I supposed they must have had a wagon somewhere nearby, for their booty. Why?”
“Well, but … rugs? Who steals rugs? Even valuable ones. And if they kent ahead of time that we were comin’, presumably they kent what we carried.”
“Ye’re forgettin’ the gold and silver,” Ian reminded him. “It was in the front of the wagon, under the rugs. They had to pull the rugs out to get at it.”
“Mmphm.” Jamie looked vaguely dissatisfied—and it was true that the bandits had gone to the trouble to carry the rug away with them. But there was nothing to be gained by more discussion and when Ian said he was for bed, he came along without argument.
They settled down in a nest of long yellow grass, wrapped in their plaids, but Ian didn’t sleep at once. He was bruised and tired, but the excitements of the day were still with him, and he lay looking up at the stars for some time, remembering some things and trying hard to forget others—like the look of Ephraim bar-Sefer’s head. Maybe Jamie was right and it was better not to have kent his right name.
He forced his mind into other paths, succeeding to the extent that he was surprised when Jamie moved suddenly, cursing under his breath as the movement hurt him.
“Have ye ever done it?” Ian asked suddenly.
There was a small rustle as Jamie hitched himself into a more comfortable position.
“Have I ever done what?” he asked. His voice sounded that wee bit hoarse, but none so bad. “Killed anyone? No.”
“Nay, lain wi’ a lass.”
“Oh, that.”
“Aye, that. Gowk.” Ian rolled toward Jamie and aimed a feint toward his middle. Despite the darkness, Jamie caught his wrist before the blow landed.
“Have you?”
“Oh, ye haven’t, then.” Ian detached the grip without difficulty. “I thought ye’d be up to your ears in whores and poetesses in Paris.”
“Poetesses?” Jamie was beginning to sound amused. “What makes ye think women write poetry? Or that a woman that writes poetry would be wanton?”
“Well, o’ course they are. Everybody kens that. The words get into their heads and drive them mad, and they go looking for the first man who—”
“Ye’ve bedded a poetess?” Jamie’s fist struck him lightly in the middle of the chest. “Does your mam ken that?”
“Dinna be telling my mam anything about poetesses,” Ian said firmly. “No, but Big Georges did, and he told everyone about her. A woman he met in Marseilles. He has a book of her poetry, and read some out.”
“Any good?”
“How would I ken? There was a good bit o’ swoonin’ and swellin’ and burstin’ goin’ on, but it seemed to be to do wi’ flowers, mostly. There was a good wee bit about a bumblebee, though, doin’ the business wi’ a sunflower. Pokin’ it, I mean. With its snout.”
There was a momentary silence as Jamie absorbed the mental picture.
“Maybe it sounds better in French,” he said.
“I’ll help ye,” Ian said suddenly, in a tone that was serious to the bone.
“Help me …?”
“Help ye kill this Captain Randall.”
He lay silent for a moment, feeling his chest go tight.
“Jesus, Ian,” he said, very softly. He lay for several minutes, eyes fixed on the shadowy tree roots that lay near his face.