Chapter Rating – Soft M for non-graphic married nookie

The Eagle And The Fox

"So, you won't let Dougal within ten meters of me, eh?" I tease Jamie, as I flop tiredly onto our hotel bed, "Brilliant strategy."

He half-smiles, "Weel. It was only that. . ." he sits down next to me and caresses my knee, "D'ye ken how often Dougal actually performs a student's assessment fight himself? Usually it's Angus, oor another trainer fightin' the student, an' Dougal watches, makin' notes as the fight goes along. He's trained hundreds of men in his day, and there must be. . . four. . . no, six – six assessments total, that I'm aware of, that he's actually fought himself. And the last one was me, eleven years ago. There may ha' been one or two since, but I think I would'a heard, if so. It's that notable, Sorcha. It isnae somethin' he does for just anyone. He's good at it, too. The assessment, I mean, no' jus' the fightin'."

I sit up, and lean against his shoulder.

"Tha's why I blamed him sae much for no' kennin' what he was gettin' inta with ye all this time, ye see. He ought tae have kent better. Kent ye better, annyway. Normally he would. That rundown he gave ye taeday, Sorcha – it was spot on. I havenae seen that Dougal in evidence since before ye got here. If there's one man amongst us worth yer time tae fight, it's that Dougal, an' no mistake."

He lifts my hand and kisses it, "An' weel. . . considerin' the talk we'd had jus' beforehand," Jamie continues, "Well. . . I thought fightin' him might be a good thing for ye. A safe space I cannae quite give ye, ken?"

I pout with confusion, "But. . . you can fight, Jamie – I know, I've seen you."

"Oh fight, aye. An' well. But train a fighter?" he shakes his head, "I'm a doctor, mo chridhe – or as much of one as I can be. An' that means I've focused on certain things in my life, and the intricacies of training up soldiers are not among those things. Bandaging up soldiers, aye. Fighting beside soldiers when necessary, aye. But makin' more soldiers? Ye might have a moral objection tae becoming som'un who c'n kill, but I have a moral objection tae making any lad – or lass! - wi' dreams in their heart an' stars in their eyes become. . . become little more than a resource - tae men who think war is a feast, and men are like bread. Because tha's all most soldiers ever are, in war, Sorcha. Et up, used, wrung out, an' then sent away, dead, if they're lucky. I ken that, as well as ye do."

I nod, sadly.

He lifts an arm around me, and pulls me close, "Learning tae defend yerself is one thing. Fightin' when ye need to is one thing. Bein' a soldier is one thing. But makin' it yer job tae reduce people tae numbers, and their loves an' hopes an' hatreds tae levers tae be pushed when needed. . . tha's somethin' else. I couldnae ever separate how I feel about ye from how I treat ye, mo nighean donn. I need our safe space tae even be properly angry wi' ye wi'out pulling away from ye entirely. There's nae way I could slash at ye wi' a deadly weapon in anythin' more than the most prescribed fashion."

"You could practice with me, you mean, but not do the actual instruction?"

He nods, and kisses me gently on the forehead, "I kent Dougal would push ye, as I couldnae hope tae do. An' mebbe ye'd find yer own boundaries that way. Learn yer soul, as he was learning yer skills. I could always step in if things went too far. But I didnae think they would."

I smile, "You must have been worried when he went down, and I jumped at him."

He nuzzles into my hair, "I was, a bit. What happened?"

"The berserker tried to come out."

"Ah."

"I put her in her place."

He cups my cheek, and grins, "I knew ye would."

"And there at the end I brought her out again, on purpose."

He grins even wider, and laughs, "I knew it! I knew it Sorcha!" He gathers me to him, and hugs me tight, "Any woman who c'n invent a place safe enough tae let me beat her arse wi'out annyun getting hurt c'n make places inside her own soul safe enough tae hold pieces of herself secure." He pulls back, then kisses me soundly on the mouth, "I'm proud of ye, Claire."

I stare at him, "You. . . you. . . sly Sawney. . ." I slap his shoulder, "You knew I would. . . that is, that I wouldn't. . . you knew?"

It's official. This man will never stop impressing me.

He nods vigorously, "I ken ye, Sorcha. Like Dougal nevar will. He may think he knows ye now – but ye'er still just numbers and levers in his head. He doesnae ken a thing about ye – no' anything tha' really mattars." He runs the backs of his fingers down the side of my neck, raising tingles all over my body.

And now that I'm over the initial exhaustion, raising something else too. . .

"Do you remember what you said the night of the concert, Jamie? About how dancing was supposed to be as bad as fighting for what it could. . . do. . . to a man?"

His fingers slow, and his voice deepens, "Aye. An' a woman too."

"Well, I think you were wrong there."

"Oh aye?"

"Yes. I think fighting is much, much worse."

I slip into his lap, wrap my arms around him, and kiss him deeply, hungrily, for the first time since last night. It feels like ages. He pushes up the skirt of my dress, and I reach between us to work on the fastenings of his jeans. . .

"We do havetae be at Dougal's for tea-"

"It's not going to take that long, Jamie. . ."

We both gasp, and he grabs my backside with a barely restrained shout.

"By all the gods! I'm the luckiest man alive. . ."

He sinks his mouth into the curve of my neck, and makes doubly certain that it doesn't take that long. . .

Much as I want to just sit and cuddle with him after, I force myself to get up, needing to at least change my clothes before tea.

"What was that thing you called Dougal, Jamie? At the end there. Right before he rode away on Donas."

"Iolaire-bhuidhe?"

I rummage in my suitcase, and don't try to repeat the actual words, "Yes, that."

"It's his fighting name – weel, one of them. It means Golden Eagle."

"And what Angus called him? Feerune?"

"Fireun. Aye. That's the other. It means the same, but it's the more mythic way tae say it. "The True Bird". Scotland's national bird. The golden eagle. Bu' the men call him Fireun because it's easier tae say."

"I'll say it is," I chuckle, pulling out a clean shirt and trousers, shaking them to get rid of the wrinkles.

"Aye, bu' Dougal lets them because Fireun is more prestigious. Iolaire-bhuidhe is the one he chose, tho' – that's why I call him that."

"That's why you called him that, at that moment, you mean? Because he was talking about chosen names and who gets to call who what, and when?"

"Aye."

"And that's why he called you Mac Dubh?"

I take off the Moriston tartan dress, and put it in the bag with the rest of my dirty laundry.

"Aye. That's my fightin' name. Tho' he's no' used it since I finished trainin' wi' him. No one else does either – or no' verry often, annyroad. Bu' I don' mind. Issno' like I actually fight much. . ."

"So you have two fighting names too, then?"

"Eh?"

"The men have called you The Green Man all throughout this trip – and they understand that what you do is just as much of a skill as hand-to-hand, and just as worthwhile as fighting – if not more so. They love you for it, Jamie. And so do I." I throw my arms around him, and kiss him, soft and slow.

Jamie runs his hands over every bit of my exposed skin that he can reach, then gives me a light smack on the rear, "Ye need tae get dressed, mo chridhe. . . oor we really will be late for tea. . .

Dougal's cottage is small, but very clean and comfortable. He welcomes us himself, and leads us into the small back room that has been laid out with our meal. There's a dish of scalloped potatoes, another of buttered carrots, a tureen of mushroom soup, a large pitcher of cider, and, for a centerpiece, magnificently steaming hot from the oven. . .

"Fresh-caught salmon, lass." Dougal smiles thinly at my delighted staring, "Got it from a local fisherman this morning." He proudly serves up our plates, and gestures for us to sit in.

Even here and now, he hasn't any small talk, and so it is left to Jamie to maintain conversation. Fortunately for us all, my husband reads more than novels, and we spend the meal discussing the remarkable amount of published scholarship there has been regarding the local environmental concerns, and if managed forestry would indeed be a better option than a full rewilding effort, and which of the suggested keystone species it would be best to reintroduce to the area first. I make a few contributions regarding the value of food plants, and the importance of wild forage, not just for animal browse, but for Human consumption too, and am pleasantly shocked to discover that Jamie isn't the only one who agrees with me. I find Dougal surprisingly well informed about things like proper broad-spectrum biome management, and good soil nutrient control too. I'm not quite certain he cares, but that he even knows is more than I've come to expect from him.

Very probably he read up on all these things yesterday, in preparation for the speeches he'll make in this town. But, if Jamie and I get to reap the benefits too, so much the better.

We are just finishing a lovely little Bakewell tart when Dougal reaches over to the sideboard, and brings back a bottle of whisky, and three glasses.

He pours an equal portion for all of us, and toasts, "Alba gu bràth."

Jamie and I respond with the same. I take a sip, but even before I do, my nose tells me this particular whisky is too peaty for me. At least at this strength. . . I hand my glass to Jamie. He takes it without interrupting his discussion with Dougal, and adds a small spoonful of water. I taste it, and hand it back. It takes a few passes, but eventually the flavours have opened up enough for my tastes. I touch his hand in thanks.

Dougal watches our whole exchange without a break in his flow of words, but with a very strange expression deep in his eyes.

I am just starting to think that maybe all he wanted tonight was some pleasant company over a meal, when at last he sits forward, and asks one of the several questions I've been expecting him to ask all this time.

"Alright, lass. How did ye ken Sandringham was goin' tae betray us?"

Before I have a chance to answer, Jamie puts a hand on mine, forestalling me.

"No Dougal. We all ken tha' isnae the real question heer."

Dougal raises an eyebrow, not quite mockingly, but close, "Oh, we all ken tha', do we?"

Jamie nods, indicating me, "We do. The real question is why ye let Claire give ye orders, uncle. It doesnae mattar if they were justified or not – if ye didnae accept them, that's nowt. Ye'ev commanded men longer'n some of the men on this trip ha' been alive. Ye ken what it takes tae make a Scotsman do a thing, especially if he doesnae want tae do it. An' I ken ye, uncle. Ye arenae one tae be doing such things as Claire told ye tae do for only the reasons she gave ye – ye'll have needed yer own reasons inta the bargain. Sae why did ye follow her instructions? Start there. Because that's the key tae this, uncle – an' ye ken it."

Dougal shrugs, and takes a casual sip or two before answering. "Weel now, I may no' ha' learned very much in this life. Nae doubt less than I ought. But I did happen tae grow up wi' yer mam and yer aunts, lad. An' if there's one thing in all this world I ken, it's that when a Scottish woman tells ye she's ready, willin' and able tae kill ye, an' that she's no' particularly opposed tae doin' so. . . weel. Ye feckin' believe her." His eyes flick to me for a moment, then back to Jamie, "Words tae live by, lad. Or, more accurately, words tae survive by."

Huh.

Of all the things that passed between Dougal and I the morning after Jamie's and my wedding, I would not have thought the one direct physical threat would be the one that made any impact, but. . . here we are.

Jamie is quiet a long while, considering Dougal's answer. Then he also leans forward.

"Sandringham refused a bribe, didn't he? A bribe from the leaders of the Underground – an' possibly directly from ye. That's how he got control of the money in the first place. He refused a bribe, so ye trusted him with it."

I just barely keep the shock from my face. He figured it out too. Jamie figured it out too. On his own.

This man.

This man.

I am married to this man. . .

Dougal blinks, then slowly shakes his head, in utter disbelief.

"How, lad? How do ye ken all that?"

"I don't." Jamie looks significantly at me.

He does. But he wants me to be the one to explain it to Dougal. But why? We haven't talked much about Sandringham in the past few days, except for this morning. . .

Ah.

"One power peddler knows another," I say, testing Dougal's water.

"What d'ye mean by that, lass?"

There isn't enough recognition in his voice or eyes for me to think he's heard me say that before.

Maybe he has removed the wire from the Rover. . . Or hasn't been using it, anyway.

"She means The Eagle and the Fox, uncle."

Dougal sighs, exasperated, "That's a fable. An' there's half a dozen interpretations, none of which particularly apply here– "

"They all apply here, uncle-"

"All I ken is ye'ed bettar start makin' sense, oor-"

I raise my voice, "If there's one thing I know about politics, it's that you never do anything without an ulterior motive, alright?"

Both men stare at me.

I take a deep breath, center myself, and go back to a normal speaking tone, "When everything you do has weight, it's a waste of time, effort, resources and, frankly, brains, if everything you do only means one thing. You can't be straightforward. There's no time. Because everything is happening all at once, all the time, and it's all so convoluted you don't know for sure what sides exist – let alone which one you're on. You may think you know – but you don't. That's the nature of politics."

I look Dougal straight in the eyes.

"And that's why soldiers make bad politicians. Most of the time, anyway. Honour, justice, freedom – they're all simple things to a soldier. Or understandable things, at least. People might have different personal interpretations, but, to a soldier's mind, there's two sides – one right, one wrong, and any mixups are personal errors, not a fault in the system itself."

I shake my head, "But that isn't how politics work. The first person you learn to lie to is yourself. After that, the rest follows easily. If. . ."

I sigh.

"If all you care about is power."

Who knew being a minor power-salvage vendor on the Rim of Skycity 15 would end up being such a vital part of my life two hundred years in the past?

The universe really does have a strange sense of humour. . .

"Of course Sandringham was going to betray you. Just look at how much it does. Well, first, let's look at how much his refusing a bribe does-"

"But. . . how did ye ken he did, lass?"

I shrug, "He must have done. It's the only explanation. An English oppressor, living in Scotland during the Transitional Period, with the reputation that Sandringham has, and a powerful, secret, underground resistance force trusts him? How? Why? With what? And what for? The only explanation is that he must have proven himself to them somehow. And the only way someone like Sandringham would even get a chance to do that is if he was approached by someone within the movement – someone with power and influence in that movement – someone who was trying to further the cause of that movement."

I look significantly at Dougal.

He meets my gaze, but gives nothing away.

Not yet.

"Now, why would someone like that get anywhere near Sandringham, I wonder? Recruitment? Hardly. There's only two reasons that make sense – assassination or bribery. Well, there's also spying, but no one with as much power and influence as this person must have had could be a spy – spies have to blend in, and this person had to stand out. No. It was murder or money. I guessed money, since the target was clearly still alive and breathing, and walking about at the Burns Night supper without a whisper of a bodyguard. So. A bribe. But he was at the Burns Night supper. No one who accepts a bribe is going to be trusted – not like that – not by a resistance movement. So he must have refused it."

I tap my fingers on the sides of my glass.

"Now, I may not know much in the grand scheme of things, but I do happen to know that no one who refuses a bribe is to be trusted. Ever. There is always something behind doing a thing like that. Even if it is pure morality – which you'd have to go a long way to prove to me is true in Sandringham's case – then what you have there is a moral absolutist. And in politics those are some of the most dangerous people imaginable. They can be trusted. But shouldn't be. Not with power, anyway." I shake my head, "But Sandringham. . . I saw almost at once he was just a poor, plain little nothing of a man, seduced by power and drunk on his own common, homebrew evil. Pitiful, really. Dangerous. But pitiful." I take a sip of my drink. "Now why would a man like that refuse a bribe?"

Dougal's lip twitches, "Why indeed?"

"Well, look at how much it does. It gains your trust, it gains him access to a part of society he'd never have access to otherwise, it gains him some direct political power, and so much indirect political power I wonder that any of the other Underground leaders went along with it. And, above all, it gains him money. Because he's refused a bribe. That must mean he can be trusted with money. Right? Because no one in Sandringham's position could possibly have an ulterior motive, could they? Right, Dougal? Right?"

There is a long pause. Finally, Dougal nods at me.

"I've had Ned on the hunt all week. An' aye. Ye'er right. The money was all tied up in accounts such that only Sandringham could access most of it. If we'd tried tae go ahead wi' our plans he could've stopped us wi' one finger. Or stopped us havin' any sort of proper support, anyway. Doubt he could've stopped the whole operation. But he could have made it a bloodbath. Or ensured it was one for us too, a'tennyrate."

"Was? Could have?" I ask, hopefully.

Dougal smiles, "Ned's a genius, lass. An' we'er one of the most well-connected Clans in all of Scotland. Nae fear. We have control of the money back, or will soon, an' Sandringham'll be none the wiser."

I sigh with so much relief I don't think even Jamie will quite understand it. I put my head in my hands a minute, and just breathe.

That's one thing changed. One thing made better about the past. One big, very important thing.

Will it make the future better? I don't know. But one of the insistent voices clamouring in my head has been silenced at last.

Wherever you are, Lamb, I hope you know I love you. You're the father I always wanted, and never had. . .

"Sae now, lass, what do we-"

"Banrigh-bhàn."

"Pardon?"

My pronunciation wasn't perfect, but I know he understood me. . .

"You keep calling me lass, when you told the men I was Claire, Mrs. Fraser, or Red Sorcha, but only if they earned the latter. Or any other such name I might choose. Well, the men can call me Red Sorcha, when I tell them they've earned it, but I want you to call me Banrigh-bhàn. That's the name I choose. We can call it my fighting name if you want, but just you tell me I haven't earned it. From you. At the very least."

His forehead wrinkles in confusion, "The white queen?"

I shake my head, "The Pale Lady."

"Ah," his confusion clears, followed by a strange mixture of amusement and hesitation.

"And you were just about to ask me what you owe me anyway. Well, I want your respect, Dougal. In private, not just in front of the men. You owe me that much just as a Human being anyway, but if it takes my saving the lives of hundreds of Scots that wouldn't have had proper support at Culloden otherwise, then fine. That's what it takes."

"Took."

The amusement in his eyes grows.

"Pardon?"

"Yes."

He chuckles.

"Dougal, what are you talking about? What are you laughing about?"

He shakes his head, "It's jus' funny, is all, Claire. Y'see, it isnae me ye should be lookin' at, when ye speak of owing, this time. It's auld Simon."

He puts a large manila envelope down on the table between us, and slides it towards Jamie.

"An' he owes ye."