#Monsieur Forez

[ladywynneoutlander]

Fan’s Choice Outlander Challenge: Day 13 Cranesmuir Witch Trial or Comte St. Germain and Master Raymond’s Trial for Sorcery

I chose the Sorcery Trial for purely aesthetic reasons. I love Jamie’s rescue at the Cranesmuir, but the overall trial went on too long for me.

[whenfrasermetbeauchamp]

I stood quite still on the threshold, blinking. My meditations on the protocol of Royal disrobing faded into sheer astonishment.

The room was quite dark, lit only by numerous tiny oil-lamps, set in groups of five in alcoves in the wall of the chamber. The room itself was round, and so was the huge table that stood in its center, the dark wood gleaming with pinpoint reflections. There were people sitting at the table, no more than hunched dark blurs against the blackness of the room.

There was a murmur at my entrance, quickly stilled at the King’s appearance. As my eyes grew more accustomed to the murk, I realized with a sense of shock that the people seated at the table wore hoods; the nearest man turned toward me, and I caught the faint gleam of eyes through holes in the velvet. It looked like a convention of hangmen.

…

“We have heard of your great skill, Madame, and your…reputation.” Louis smiled, but there was a tinge of caution in his eyes as he looked at me, as though not quite certain what I might do. “We should be most obliged, my dear Madame, should you be willing to give us the benefits of such skill this evening.”

…

“Regardez, Madame.” The King’s hand was under my elbow, directing my attention beyond the table. Now that the candle was lighted, I could see the two figures who stood silently among the flickering shadows. I started at the sight, and the King’s hand tightened on my arm.

The Comte St. Germain and Master Raymond stood there, side by side, separated by a distance of six feet or so. Raymond gave no sign of acknowledgment, but stood quietly, staring off to one side with the pupil-less black eyes of a frog in a bottomless well.

…

“These two men stand accused, Madame,” said Louis, with a gesture at Raymond and the Comte. “Of sorcery, of witchcraft, of the perversion of the legitimate search for knowledge into an exploration of arcane arts.” His voice was cold and grim. “Such practices flourished during the reign of my grandfather; but we shall not suffer such wickedness in our realm.”

…

“Extensive inquiry has been made,” the King said, turning to me. “Evidence has been presented, and the testimony of many witnesses taken. It seems clear”—he turned a cold gaze on the two accused magic—“that both men have undertaken investigations into the writings of ancient philosophers, and have employed the art of divinations, using calculation of the movements of heavenly bodies. Still…” He shrugged. “This is not of itself a crime. I am given to understand”—he glanced at a heavyset man in a hood, whom I suspected of being the Bishop of Paris—“that this is not necessarily at variance with the teachings of the Church; even the blessed St. Augustine was known to have made inquiries into the mysteries of astrology.”

I rather dimly recalled that St. Augustine had indeed looked into astrology, and had rather scornfully dismissed it as a load of rubbish. Still, I doubted that Louis had read Augustine’s Confessions, and this line of argument was undoubtedly a good one for an accused sorcerer; star-gazing seemed fairly harmless, by comparison with infant sacrifice and nameless orgies.

…

“We have brought here a witness,” he declared. “An infallible judge of truth, of purity of heart.”

I made a small, gurgling noise, which made the King turn to look at me.

“A White Lady,” he said softly. “La Dame Blanche cannot lie; she sees the heart and the soul of a man, and may turn that truth to good…or to destruction.”

The air of unreality that had hung over the evening vanished in a pop. The faint wine-buzz was gone, and I was suddenly stone-cold sober. I opened my mouth, and then shut it, realizing that there was precisely nothing I could say.

Horror snaked down my backbone and coiled in my belly as the King made his dispositions. Two pentagrams were to be drawn on the floor, within which the two sorcerers would stand. Each would then bear witness to his own activities and motives. And the White Lady would judge the truth of what was said.

“Jesus H. Christ,” I said, under my breath.

…

Everything was extremely quiet. Candle smoke hung in a pall near the gilded ceiling, wisps drifting the languid air currents. All eyes were trained on me. Finally, out of desperation, I turned to the Comte and nodded.

“You may begin, Monsieur le Comte,” I said.

He smiled—at least I assumed it was meant to be a smile—and began, starting out with an explication of the foundation of the Cabbala and moving right along to an exegesis on the twenty-three letters of the Hebrew alphabet, and the profound symbolism of it all. It sounded thoroughly scholarly, completely innocuous, and terribly dull. The King yawned, not bothering to cover his mouth.

…

“Just one minute,” I said. “All that you say so far is true, Monsieur le Comte, but I see a shadow behind your words.”

…

“This woman lies,” he said, sounding as definite as he had when informing the audience that the letter aleph was symbolic of the font of Christ’s blood. “She is no true White Lady, but the servant of Satan! In league with her master, the notorious sorcerer, du Carrefours’s apprentice!” He pointed dramatically at Raymond, who looked mildly surprised.

…

“The Holy Bible says, ‘They shall handle serpents unharmed,’ ” he thundered. “ ‘And by such signs shall ye know the servants of the true God!’ ”

…

“That is not all the Bible says, Monsieur le Comte,” Raymond observed. He didn’t raise his voice, and the wide amphibian face was bland as pudding. Still, the buzz of voices stopped, and the King turned to listen.

“Yes, Monsieur?” he said.

Raymond nodded in polite acknowledgment of having the floor, and reached into his robe with both hands. From one pocket he produced a flask, from the other a small cup.

“ ‘They shall handle serpents unharmed,’ ” he quoted, “ ‘and if they drink any deadly poison, they shall not die.’ ” He held the cup out on the palm of his hand, its silver lining gleaming in the candlelight. The flask was poised above it, ready to pour.

“Since both milady Broch Tuarach and myself have been accused,” Raymond said, with a quick glance at me, “I would suggest that all three of us partake of this test. With your permission, Your Majesty?”

Louis looked rather stunned by the rapid progress of events, but he nodded, and a thin stream of amber liquid splashed into the cup, which at once turned red and began to bubble, as though the contents were boiling.

“Dragon’s blood,” Raymond said informatively, waving at the cup. “Entirely harmless to the pure of heart.” He smiled a toothless, encouraging smile, and handed me the cup.

There didn’t seem much to do but drink it. Dragon’s blood appeared to be some form of sodium bicarbonate; it tasted like brandy with seltzer. I took two or three medium-sized swallows and handed it back.

With due ceremony, Raymond drank as well. He lowered the cup, exhibiting pink-stained lips, and turned to the King.

“If La Dame Blanche may be asked to give the cup to Monsieur le Comte?” he said. He gestured to the chalk lines at his feet, to indicate that he might not step outside the protection of the pentagram.

At the King’s nod, I took the cup and turned mechanically toward the Comte. Perhaps six feet of carpeting to cross. I took the first step, and then another, knees trembling more violently than they had in the small anteroom, alone with the King.

…

“Drink, Monsieur,” said the King. The dark eyes were hooded once more, showing nothing. “Or are you afraid?”

The Comte might have a number of things to his discredit, but cowardice wasn’t one of them. His face was pale and set, but he met the King’s eyes squarely, with a slight smile.

“No, Majesty,” he said.

He took the cup from my hand and drained it, his eyes fixed on mine. They stayed fixed, staring into my face, even as they glazed with the knowledge of death. The White Lady may turn a man’s nature to good, or to destruction.

The Comte’s body hit the floor, writhing, and a chorus of shouts and cries rose from the hooded watchers, drowning any sound he might have made. His heels drummed briefly, silent on the flowered carpet; his body arched, then subsided into limpness. The snake, thoroughly disgruntled, struggled free of the disordered folds of white satin and slithered rapidly away, heading for the sanctuary of Louis’s feet.

All was pandemonium.

— Dragonfly In Amber

Photos: outlander-online.com, Season Two, Episode Seven, May 21, 2016

Photo Edit: outlanderhomepage.com, Season Two, Episode Seven, May 21, 2016 (King Louis XV)

Gifs: headoverfeels.com, Season Two, Episode Seven, May 21, 2016 (Claire)

Gif: outlanderhomepage.com, Season Two, Episode Seven, May 21, 2016 (Comte St. Germain)

Book: Dragonfly In Amber, Diana Gabaldon, 1992

Tumblr: October 3, 2018, WhenFraserMetBeauchamp 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿❤️🇬���

WFMB’s Tags: #Outlander #Season Two Episode Seven #S2E7 #Faith #Dragonfly In Amber #Chapter Twenty-Six #These two men stand accused, Madame, of sorcery, of witchcraft #We have brought here a witness, an infallible judge of truth, of purity of heart #A White Lady, he said softly. La Dame Blanche cannot lie #Claire Fraser #Comte St. Germain #Master Raymond #King Louis XV #Monsieur Forez #99 #100318

[outlander-screencaps]

[whiskynottea]

We’ll rise up

Previously  Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12, Chapter 13  Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19

AO3

A/N: So... This is the last chapter of my very first fanfiction story! Yay! A big thank you to all of you who’ve been here, reading and leaving feedback! ❤️

                                                   ~~~~~~

Chapter 20. Leaving Paris Behind

“What is he doing here.” 

If anybody had the skill to mask his surprise and make a whisper sound like a demand, that was Jamie Fraser. His voice was even and betrayed nothing but an eerie calmness that upset Claire even more than his anger would.

Before she had a chance to reply, Frank’s cold voice echoed in the dark. “I should expect it would be you.” 

That much for greetings. Frank’s level gaze was fixed on Jamie, causing Claire’s breath to get caught in her throat. She hoped his foolish male possessiveness wouldn't overwhelm him once more and make him go back on his promise. As helpful as the La Force prison map Frank had procured for her to find their way out had been, they still needed the forged papers for Jamie to leave the city.

Jamie didn’t respond but Claire could see the challenging way he raised his chin and how he stood with every muscle of his body rigid, tense. Instinctively, she stepped in front of him, using her own body as a shield to protect one man from the other. This proprietorial behaviour was getting under her skin, an itch she wanted to scratch until she’d get rid of it. Instead of starting a speech regarding fighting cocks though, she kept her calm demeanour and let them continue their silent confrontation above her head. Moments passed and none of them moved or spoke again. At last, Frank’s hazel eyes found hers.

“I’m glad this madness of a plan worked,” he said and his face softened as he took a step closer. Claire felt Jamie move too, his chest almost flush with her back. 

“For now,” she replied. “We’re not safe yet.”

Frank nodded somberly, his jaw tight. “I’ve got everything you asked for, right here.” 

The soft yellow envelope he was holding was their claim to life.

Claire moved towards Frank, hope filling her chest with each breath she was taking. She heard the iron of Jamie’s manacles whispering behind her a moment before his fingers skimmed against her back in a plead not to increase the distance between them, but she decided to ignore the gesture. They would have all the time in the world later. Her gaze darted from the envelope held between Frank’s long, delicate fingers to his eyes. She felt her vision blurring and blinked back tears of gratitude. 

“I’m not the bigger man, Claire. I’m not,” Frank said, seeing the way her eyes glimmered. “I hope I was…”

“You are,” she replied giving him a smile and used both hands to gently hold his own.

He shook his head. “I hope things were different. I wish you’d have more love for me than for him. I wish you wouldn’t risk your life for that man. But wishes and hopes don’t come to be true, I’m afraid.” 

Frank let out a heavy sigh and lowered his gaze as though to gather his thoughts. Claire opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again, uncertain of what she should say. 

“You need to leave. Now,” Frank said once his eyes found hers again. “Get him and run away.” He tossed the soft envelope in her hand and took a step back. “This will get you out of the city. Don’t stay in France, it’s too big a risk. Go back home.”

Claire took the envelope and held it with both hands. It was true that Frank was giving her the opportunity to a home again, even though this home wasn’t a place but a person. 

“Frank, I don’t know if I will ever get the chance to pay you back for this.” 

Her tears ran free now, hope mingling with their salt, tasting like life. She kept her eyes on his blurred form, on this man she once looked at with so much disdain and fear and who had now came to her aid, came to stand by her side. And in that moment, she wondered whether she could really love him, in another life, if the circumstances were different, if she had never found Jamie. 

“Just, don’t hate me, Claire. Remember this of me and not the man who ruined your life.”

He hadn’t ruined her life. He was just a part of it, a fundamental part who brought her where she was now standing. “I will,” she said simply. “Thank you, Frank. Thank you.”

Frank took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Mr Malcolm,” he addressed Jamie, poised and cold. “I hope I never see you again.”

Jamie seemed to be confused at the name but spoke in a clear, fearless voice. “The feeling is mutual, sir.”

Claire turned around and looked for Murtagh in the shadows. He was looking at her. She nodded once and the man gave her his tacit agreement to proceed with the plan. “Let’s get in the carriage,” she instructed and saw Murtagh urging Fergus forward. “Let’s go,” she repeated to Jamie who was standing still and took his hand. As she did so, she turned back and looked at the lean, tall man who had changed her life twice already. “Take care, Frank,” she said and saw him raising a hand in goodbye. 

A moment later, she had followed Jamie into the carriage and the horses were cantering down the empty street. 

“Care to explain, Sassenach?”

“Explain what, Mr Malcolm?” she smiled and opened the envelope. There was a candle in the carriage and Murtagh hastened to lit it. 

“Is everything as expected?” the man asked with a frown.

“Will anybody explain what you have done to get me out of that hellish place?” Jamie’s words came fast, betraying that he started losing his patience.

“Everything looks fine,” Claire replied to Murtagh after quickly scanning the papers. 

Frank had given Jamie a new identity, one that wouldn’t hold him captured in the city. He’d given him a life back, even though it wouldn’t be the same as before. 

Alexander Malcolm, printer, Edinburgh. 

She knew that Edinburgh wasn’t the same as Jamie’s beloved Highlands and they still needed to find a place to start the printshop, but it was a way out. Away from the lampposts that served as apparatus for hanging people, away from the mayhem of the revolution.

A revolution Claire had waited for years. She’d fought for it to come and then fought when it started. She’d never imagine those people who schemed, and planned and got organized would turn into an inhuman, cruel, and dangerous mob. Lately, Claire felt that they all were tightrope walkers -- one wrong step and the eminent fall would follow. Nobody was safe, and nobody could rely on their connections to prove what they’d offered to fight for the third estate. 

She wished Jamie was never caught as a spy but if protecting an innocent boy who found himself at the wrong place, at the wrong time meant to be a crime, she’d face death by his side. Even if she had to leave behind Louise and all those who might need her help as the revolution got crueller and bloodier. She still wanted the people to win the fight for what was rightfully theirs, she just knew now that war was chaos and pain and she had to protect her own. 

Claire folded the papers and Murtagh blew the candle out. He ruffled Fergus’s curls and the boy gave a small protest but didn’t move away from the man’s side. 

She smiled and turned to look at Jamie. “There are a lot of things to explain,” she said. “But you’re here now and we have time enough for me to tell you everything.”

He still looked worried but wrapped an arm around her shoulders to pull her closer. “A few hours ago I thought that this morn I’d see the sun for the last time.”

And then, she asked him what she didn’t have the luxury to ask before and the question burned her throat like a long-held breath. “Are you alright?”

Jamie shrugged, as though his shirt was tight on his shoulders. “I am now. If you exclude these.” The iron manacles rattled as he raised his hands.

“I can take care of that, Milord!” Fergus offered excitedly and jumped from his place to sit between Jamie and Claire. 

It took a few minutes of tinkering with the lock before the boy starting muttering to himself. He sighed, paused in his attempt to get Jamie out of his fetters, and blinked. 

“Maybe if we light the candle again…”

“We can find a way to get these out later,” Claire said in a soothing voice.

“But I know how to open locks,” Fergus grouched. 

“Mon chou,” Claire said, capturing his hands between hers to stop him. “You’ve done more than enough today. Without you we could have never taken the keys from the prison guard and get Jamie out!”

The boy flashed her a proud, mischievous smile. “The man had no idea, Milord!” Fergus said, grinning at Jamie. “Monsieur Forez was talking to him and I sneaked from behind, took the keys from the hook on his belt, and ran to Milady as fast as I could.” 

Jamie smiled in response and looked at the boy while he explained exactly how he had stolen the keys to his prison cell. That seemed to make Fergus forget his failed attempt with the manacles. 

“Who is Monsieur Forez, Sassenach?” 

“A... friend,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. “Who happens to also be the man who would see to your execution. He’s an official hangman.”

She saw him frown as he took the information in. His fingers started drumming against the dirty fabric of his breeches. “Why would the official hangman risk his life to get me out?” he asked at last.

“Well,” Claire started explaining, “He didn’t risk that much. He had every right to be at the prison and he was with the guard all the time so no one will suspect him. I know the man ten years, and we worked together at l’ Hopital.”

“I see,” Jamie said, eyes fixed on the carriage door next to Claire. “And Frank?”

Claire squared her shoulders. “It seems he’s not the man I thought him to be.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I confronted him --”

“You,” Jamie emphasized, and even though his voice sounded almost normal, Claire could feel him gnashing his jaw so hard his teeth might break. “You went to him?”

“I needed the paperwork and --”

“Have ye gone out of your mind, woman?” he interrupted again.

Claire started to lose her patience. “Jamie, I don’t think you realise the seriousness of the situation. There was nothing Murtagh or your uncle could do and we needed to get you out before the execution. I did the best I could and that included talking to Frank again.”

“Ye should have stayed at St. Antoine!” He lost his temper. “Ye should have stayed away, somewhere safe, with wee Fergus. I asked ye not to risk yer life, not to try to save me! It was the only thing I asked for, Claire.”

Claire looked at him through narrowed eyes. “So that’s what you would do if it was me behind the bars,” she hissed.

Jamie huffed indignantly. “‘Tis not the same.”

“Excuse me but I fail to see the difference.”

“Ye’re insufferable! Ye could have get killed, ye ken that?” 

Claire had opened her mouth, ready for a retort, when Murtagh coughed. “‘Tis not the time now. We’re close to the city checkpoint.”

They both fell silent, the air in the carriage crackling from the tension between them. 

Murtagh tossed a dark red jacket with richly embroidered ends at Jamie and Claire arranged it so it would cover his torso and manacled hands. 

“Lower your face and pretend that you’re sleeping,” she said. Jamie didn’t respond.

The carriage came to a stop and Claire collected all the documents from the empty seat next to her. “Let me take care of this,” she whispered, and then added as an afterthought, “Please.”

They all nodded in response. Claire gathered herself, pushed back her annoyance and the urge to shout at Jamie, and replayed the story they had agreed with Frank in her head. A light knock on the wooden carcass of the wagon and a deep breath later, she was smiling at a long-faced grim man who was asking for their papers.

She spoke quickly, a damsel in distress like the ones Jamie might save in another life. 

Just not in this one, she thought and tried to restrain the grin that almost bloomed on her face with the thought. In this one, he found a woman who was his equal.

She was an Englishwoman, she said, with her widowed uncle, her cousin and her fiance. They needed to go back to England immediately, because her mother, “My uncle’s favourite sister, you know”, she added, gesturing at Murtagh, was ill and “how terrible it will be for Mama to be in bed without me by her side”.

She put a hand on her chest in a display of distress but the quick, shallow breaths she was heaving were very much real. 

The man, tired by her babbling and the late hour, stuck his head into the carriage and looked at the two men and the boy for a few moments. Claire’s heart was beating as though determined to escape the restraints of her chest. 

The man stood back again, eyes darting from the papers to Claire. “Give me a moment, Mademoiselle,” he said, and retreated to the gatehouse. 

It took him more than a moment to cross-check their documents, during which Claire felt her knees tremble and could hear her pulse loud in her ears. 

Frank told her that the city guards had lists of the people who were not allowed to leave the city. But what if they had other lists too, and Alexander Malcolm was in none of them? What if the documents weren’t enough? What if something was wrong with them?

Murtagh had also been concerned about Jamie being just Claire’s fiance, but they didn’t have enough time to forge a marriage contract and prepare new documents for her as Madame Malcolm. Claire Beauchamp would have to suffice. 

She tried to discern what the next moments held from the guard’s face as he walked towards her with the grey-blue sky of dawn behind him. He looked tired, Claire thought for a moment. Everyone looked tired lately. 

“You can go, Mademoiselle Beauchamp,” he said, handing her the documents.

Claire swallowed a wide smile and replied somberly, thanking him and wishing him a good day.

She went back in the carriage and before the horses started again she felt Jamie’s big hand engulfing hers and squeezing reassuringly. 

Murtagh didn’t speak either, only fixed his gaze on her. When she didn’t say anything, he asked. “So, lass?”

“We’re free to go.” 

Jamie ran his thumb across her knuckles but Claire didn’t trust her voice to elaborate on details. She didn’t know if she would laugh or cry and was afraid to feel relief before France was behind them for good. 

The sun painted the sky a bright orange and she refused to take her eyes from the puffy clouds that seemed to stroll on ether, soaking in the sun’s warmth. Murtagh had dozed off with an arm around Fergus’s shoulders and the boy had leaned against him, his small mouth open, his face calm and his long lashes brushing against his aristocratic cheekbones in his sleep. Maybe in England she could give her boy a new beginning, another life. Even if Jamie decided that she was too rebellious for his tastes, she would work as a healer and provide for Fergus as she had done in Paris.

“We had to claim you as my fiance to get you out.” It was the first thing she told him after the long silence in the ride away from Paris and his execution. She kept thinking how she’d announced that he was her fiance without even letting him know first. He had never asked and she had never accepted a proposal to become his wife. “That doesn’t mean--”

“I’ll marry you the moment our feet touch Scottish soil, my Sassenach,” he interrupted. 

“What I mean to say is that you don’t need to. You can go on with your life and you can go on with yours. You’ll be safe now.”

Jamie didn’t speak.

“I think you’ve noticed by now that I’m not the meek and obedient type. I understand that you may want a wife who’ll be better in following instructions. One who will stay put.” 

“Aye,” he huffed a smile and she averted her gaze and set her jaw, preparing herself for his rejection. “That would make everything so much easier, dinna ye think so?” She refrained from replying that if that was the case, he would still be in a prison cell and he would die in a few hours. Jamie leaned in, his mouth close to her ear. “But all I want is ye, Sassenach. All stubborn, clever and brave.” He cupped her face and forced her to look at him. “Will ye have me, Claire?”

She felt drank in the love and adoration she found in his blue eyes. “Yes,” she breathed. “Yes, I’ll have you.”

He kissed her then, and his lips tasted like home and hope. And this was everything Claire had ever wanted in her life.

The End

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Imagine if on the Ridge Claire has a flashback to the war. She finally has the time and space to talk to Jamie fully about her war and the PTSD she's never coped with

anonymous asked: I’d like to see another instance of Claire experiencing PTSD during “Je Suis Prest” or “Prestonpans” explored. I felt that this was a great wrinkle the show added. This time she’s triggered into reliving The Blitz and explains the details of it to a horrified Jamie. Bring the feels!

–“There ye are!”

 Claire glanced up from her work, crushing dried bogmyrtle leaves with her mortar and pestle. She stood up, rubbing the small ofher back, and smiled as Jamie quickly crossed the room to kiss her.

 “Looking for me, were you?”

 He nodded, bending to kiss her again. “Jenny said ye’d bein here. Ian just arrived wi’ the post – and look!”

 Her gaze moved downward to Jamie’s hands – full ofletters addressed to her, with postmarks from Paris.

 “Oh!” Carefully she took the letters, seeing MotherHildegarde’s spidery script on two, Louise’s flowery writing on one, andanother whose penmanship she did not recognize.

 “I wonder why so many came all at once.”

 Jamie shrugged, in that odd motion he’d adopted fromFergus since their time in Paris. “I received a few letters myself – from Ned Gowan,and Colum if ye can believe it.”

 Claire quirked an eyebrow. “I can’t possibly imagine whathe would have to say to you.”

 Carefully he leaned on Claire’s table. “An invitationback to Leoch, if ye can believe it. If he’s to be believed, Dougal is in rareform these days, ranting all about the Stuarts, what with the rumors from Italyand Ireland on the Prince’s whereabouts.”

 Claire sighed. “I say a prayer every day that thatdoddering fool stays in Rome with the Pope.”

 He squeezed her hand. “Well, I dedicate a decade of therosary every day to that very same intention. Canna say I think it time illspent.” Then he bent for one last kiss. “I’m due back to the potato fields. Seeyou at supper.”

 She gripped his shoulder, drawing him close for anotherkiss. “I can’t wait.”

 --

 “Who do you think my mystery letter was from?”

 The candles flickered, casting stray shadows on the wallas Claire brushed her hair in front of the mirror that Ellen MacKenzie Fraserhad brought from Castle Leoch, watching Ellen’s son kick off his boots andsocks.

 “Weel…over the past year ye’ve occasionally heard frompuir Mary Hawkins, and Sister Angelique, and Magnus a time or two.” He unbuckledhis kilt. “And Master Raymond, though I’d recognize his writing.”

 “It was from Monsieur Forez.”

 Jamie froze. “Truly? The hangman?”

 Claire set down her brush and retrieved the letter. “Andsometimes healer. He sent me a particularly detailed case study for a patienthe had recently treated at the Bastille. An especially bad case of congenitalsyphilis, which resulted in early onset dementia.”

 Jamie gulped, and carefully dropped his kilt. “Spare methe details. I dinna want the nightmare, though I’m sure it’s riveting bedtimereading for you.”

 She smiled. “I already started a reply – I can exchange myown story about the MacNab lad I recently treated, the one with the terribleinjury caused by his horse.” She glanced down at the sheet of paper she hadalready addressed to the mysterious man in Paris, picking up her hairbrush. “Doyou know, Jamie – I’ve forgotten where we are in the calendar. What’s today’sdate?”

 “June the sixth,” he promptly replied, gently folding hiskilt and placing it in the wardrobe.

 Claire’s hairbrush sounded so loud as it crashed to thefloor.

 Softly Jamie pried her clenched fingers from the edge ofthe mirror. She had no memory of how or when he had rushed to her side.

 “Claire?” he whispered. “Can ye tell me what’s amiss?”

 He knelt in his shirt beside her, perched tensely on thebench, hands suddenly cool and clammy.

 Finally her troubled eyes found his. “Three years agotoday, I was in France.”

 He nodded, listening.

 “It was called Operation Overlord. We called it D-Day.”She swallowed. “At dawn, more than one hundred and fifty thousand soldiersstormed the beaches of Normandy.”

 “One hundred and fifty thousand!” Jamie exclaimed. “Forjust one battle?”

 “Yes.” Her eyes held his, but her voice sounded so faraway. “They were brought in ships. They waded to the beach, straight into themachine gun fire.”

 “Ye’ve told me of it – guns that fire many bullets atonce.”

 “Yes.” She shivered. “Many of them died. I was attachedto a battalion that landed men on the beach that morning. I was brought ashorethat evening, with the other doctors and nurses. On one of the beaches that hadbeen taken.”

 He squeezed her hands.

 “Bodies were still floating in the water, turning the oceanred. Many more were still on the beach – English at first, and then German aswe moved inland. And once we arrived to build the field hospital…you’ve seenwhat a bullet can do to a man’s face. Imagine multiple bullets hitting a man inthe face and the arms and the belly and the legs at the same time – and that he’sstill alive.”

 “You did the best you could, Claire.”

 She sighed, voice choked. “I’d treated the woundedbefore, in England. But those days in France, following the landing – that wasthe first time I’d seen true combat. The first of many times.”

 Slowly Jamie stood, helped Claire to her feet, then ledher to their bed, where he eased her onto the mattress and took a seat besideher. “I assume the invasion succeeded?”

 She nodded. “It established the Allies’ first foothold onthe European mainland. In ten months it was all over.”

 “Where were you, when the war ended?���

 “Performing emergency surgery on an Army private. Stillin France, though closer to the front with Germany. I’d been moved back as theAllies advanced. Always trailing a bit behind, to stay in step with thecasualties.”

 One soothing hand caressed the bare flesh of her leg,curled up under her shift. “Ye stitch up the men, but it leaves wounds in yersoul, aye?”

 She closed her eyes. “So much death, Jamie. So much thatyou can’t think about it – you just need to focus on the man in front of you.Heal his wounds. Then do the same for the next one.”

 “And when it was all over – ye went straight back toEngland. Nobody gave ye the time to think on it.”

 She pursed her lips. “I don’t know why I’m reacting thisway. I never have before.”

 “Perhaps because ye’ve never had the chance to. This timelast year, we were still…apart, in France. And the year before that – ”

 “I’d just arrived here. Yes. Had other things on my mind,no doubt.”

 He shifted closer to her on the bed. Drew her against hisside. Holding her so close.

 “We’ve learned a lot about grief, you and I, this pastyear at Lallybroch. What do ye keep telling me?”

 Her arms curled around him. “To not push down thefeelings. To let them happen.”

 “Aye.” He kissed the side of her neck. “Let me say thesame to you now, mo nighean donn. Mourn for those men now, if ye wish –I’ll be right here.”

 She turned her head and kissed him, fingers digging intothe fabric of his shirt.

 The fire in their bedroom crackled, and the early summerwind howled outside, and they held each other for a long while.

 “Claire?” Jamie murmured sometime later, snug beneath thequilts, skin-on-skin.

 “Hmm?” she asked drowsily.

 “Three years ago today, I was in France, too – as amercenary. Wi’ Ian.”

 She burrowed against his shoulder. “We were there at thesame time?”

 “We were. And do you know what?”

 “What?”

 “Had you not spent time there – and had I not spent timethere – as difficult as it was, I dinna think we ever would have found eachother.”

 She sighed, knowing the truth of his words. Kissing himwith gratitude.

[magnoliasinbloom]

The Midwife - II

AO3 :: Previously

XVI

“I wish you could make love to me,” I sighed. We lay on the cold stone floor, gazing up at the grey clouds illuminated by a sliver of moon. Jamie’s tartan laid beneath us, providing extra warmth.

Jamie laughed briefly. “Do ye think that would help, mo chridhe?”

“I do.” It was impossible though. Much as I sought and needed his body for comfort, there were passersby, villagers, who came to peer at us like caged animals. A few had thrown in loaves of bread, a stone bottle of ale, a flask of whiskey. It was this that we shared most gladly between us, taking small sips to make it last as long as possible.

I was silent for awhile, when I had another thought. I desperately needed to feel, anything. Something to dissipate the deadness that was taking over my heart.

“Jamie, I want you to mark me.”

“What do you mean?” He raised himself on an elbow.

“If we – we are meant to be executed, I will not go without anything of yours. Something they cannot take from me. Our child will be fostered by another family. Possibly by Dougal himself.” I shuddered in revulsion. “I’d like to go with your mark on me.” I scrabbled about the stone floor, fingers trailing over the rocks until I found a suitable shard.

“I dinna think that will work, Sassenach. But here.” He pulled the edge of his shirt taut, and extracted a small pin he used to fasten his kilt. The guards hadn’t thought to take it from him. I doused the pin in a few drops of whiskey—although it honestly did not matter at this point.

I extended my hand, pointing to the fleshy mound at the base. “Do it, Jamie.” He took my left hand gently, kissing each fingertip before taking the skin between his teeth. He bit and sucked hard, trying to numb the pain as much as possible. Immediately, he scratched out a crude letter J into my flesh. The blood beaded there, a small drop trickling down my wrist. I drew the small wound into my own mouth, to stem the flow.

“Now mark me, mo nighean donn.” I repeated the process on Jamie, a rough-hewn C etched into his skin in the same place as mine—but on his right hand. He pressed both our hands together, the initials meeting. “Blood of my blood, Sassenach. Until our lives shall be done.”

* * *

“Sassenach, wake up!”

I rose groggily from my perch, confused at the loss of Jamie’s warmth. There was a shadow occluding the strips of moonlight that filtered through the bars of the grate. I spied Murtagh’s grizzled face.

I scrambled to my feet, heart pounding with hope. I grabbed Jamie’s hand and squeezed hard, the mark on it throbbing briefly. “What is he doing here?”

“Yer friends have come to our aid.” Jamie squeezed back, then stood beside me as the grate swung open with a mild creak. A rickety wooden ladder was lowered, and a rough hand extended to help us climb. Jamie nodded for me to go ahead first, and I took the hand in mine. It belonged to John MacRea.

“Mistress, I’m that sorry ye were put through this,” he stammered. I pressed his hand in both of mine in reassurance.

“I understand, Mr MacRea. We’re alright now.” I turned to see Murtagh helping Jamie out of the hole, and behind them, several shadows still lingered. Some were horses, I could tell by the stamping and snorting. I stepped back and one of the dark shapes came forward, out into the light of MacRea’s oil lamp. Geillis.

“We couldna let ye die, Claire, no’ after everything ye have done for us.” Geillis gestured behind her and the rest of the shadows materialized. Iona was there, looking triumphant. Next to her, Malva was being held by a burly giant, a hired French mercenary—or so Geillis whispered to me.

“A life for a life, dear Claire. Ye saved my son and myself; I’ll do what I can for ye and yours.” She grasped my arm while the man approached with Malva in tow. Her hair covered half her face, stringy with sweat. Her face was terribly flushed and sickly. “The people of Cranesmuir are so afeard, they will not hold a proper trial. Ye’ll burn, head first into a barrel o’ pitch under a rowan tree, if ye stay. I heard Dougal himself speak to Arthur.”

Geillis pulled me away from the hole, while the Frenchman and John MacRea made Malva climb down, removing the ladder immediately and shutting the grate. I could tell she was fevered just by looking at her. That day we met at the cabin came back to me in a rush, the way she had almost collapsed clutching her side.

Appendicitis. I was sure of it. The chirurgien Claudius Amyand had been the first to successfully save an 11-year-old boy by removing the organ known as the appendix, or so Mother Hildegarde had told us. Monsieur Forez had only just been learning the skill himself. Despite all she’d done, the healer in me wished to help her in some way; at least, to alleviate her pain. Any more than that—I certainly could not save her, from either fate. Malva was as good as dead.

“This woman, Mistress Fraser, should no’ go unpunished for what she did to puir Morag,” Iona spoke up bravely. “The true witch will burn in yer stead.” She held up the corners of her apron, bulging at the sides. “From the cabin—herbs and the like. I shall place them in Laoghaire’s chamber as evidence that ye were framed.” We could all hear Malva’s whimpering from the thieves’ hole. I tried to shut it out of my mind.

“I will have Arthur help manage the town. No doubt they’ll believe ye made James Fraser disappear and turned yerself into the girl.” With these words, Geillis bid Murtagh and Jamie approach with the horses. There were only two.

“Murtagh, you will be coming with us, won’t you?” I pleaded, even as Jamie boosted me onto the saddle before climbing onto his own mount.

“Dinna worry about me, lass. Mistress Duncan will help me settle affairs around here.” He held out a sporran to Jamie, who rummaged quickly inside and produced the marriage contract and my pearls. “I hope ye dinna mind, I went through some of yer things in the surgery and the bedroom.” To me, he gave a sack filled with provisions.

“What will Dougal do?” I asked, tears streaming once more down my cheeks.

“I dosed Dougal and his men with some bottles that ye discarded from the Beaton’s surgery. I dinna think they’ll be able to move—much less ride—after ye for a few days. Give ye a decent head start.” Murtagh grinned impishly and I couldn’t help but smile back. Jamie pulled the bridle of my horse close, while the rest of our saviors stepped back.

“I meant it, Claire,” he said fiercely. He took my face in his hands. “My life is yours. And it's yours to decide what we shall do, where we go next. To France, to Italy, even back to Lallybroch. My heart has been yours since first I saw ye, and you've held my soul and body between your two hands here, and kept them safe. We shall go as ye say.” Jamie brought one hand lower, to cup the not-quite-rounded swell of my belly.

I took a deep breath. “I think I should like to see your farm, and meet your family. Let’s go home, Jamie.”

With a kiss to his palm, I grasped his hand. Together, we rode off at a brisk but careful jog, home to Lallybroch.

[tani-otoshi]

20/11/22 - Marseille, Méta, w/ Loto Retina, Officium

18/08/22 - Toulouse, Le Caméléon

14/08/22 - Rabastens, Staphilofest, w/ QuinzeQuinze

13/08/22 - Madistan festival, w/ QuinzeQuinze, Romain de Ferron

06/08/22 - Cibur, w/ PLS

05/08/22 - Soustons, Disruption Fest, W/ LostSoundBytes, Shity Shed, Merry Crisis, Monsieur Crâne, Crash and Learn, Pls...

16/07/22 - RPM, L'Antre chien et Loup, W/ Macadam & Stalker

13/07/22 - Pont Barret, w/ Debaz

28/05/22 - Paris, Pieg, Roue libre festiva, w/ R Liquid

27/05/22 - Bruxelles, Vivarium festival, w/ Louis Lorrain...

26/05/22 - Le Mans, Le Lézard, w/ Tachicardie, A Travers + Abig

08/05/22 - Grottaglie, Cave Contemporary, w/ N-rgle, JB & SS

06/05/22 - Castellana Grotte, Masseria Attipica,w/Jean Bender & Sacrifice Seul

03/05/22 - Naples, Third Floor, w/Jean Bender & Sacrifice Seul

30/04/22 - Genève, l'Ecurie, w/TRANSITIONLESS,JB & SS

29/04/22 - Lausanne, Cylure, w/TRANSITIONLESS,JB & SS

28/04/22 - Turin, Radio BlackOut, w/ OD BONGO, Jean Bender & Sacrifice Seul

08/04/22 - St Vallier, (demander en mp)

27/03/22 - Bruxelles, w/ Untel

26/03/22 - Lille, Le CCL, w/ Untel

25/03/22 - Dunkerque, Le Mesjpleck, w/ Untel

24/03/22 - Amiens, L’acceuil Froid, w/ Veuve noir, Untel

23/03/22 - Paris, Les Nautes, w/ Untel

25/02/22 - Marseille, L’Embobineuse, w/Jardiland, Alto Fuero, Don Kapot

29/01/22 - Marseille, Double Cosmos, Le Rdc

18/12/21 - Lyon, Le Cluster, w/ Untel, XL.IKS, Bill Vortex ect…

17/12/21 - Dijon, La Quincaillerie, w/Untel, Nina Harker

12/12/21 - St Etienne, Les Arts du Forez, w/ Untel, Dark Mimosa, Romain de Ferron, Candy Crash

11/12/21 - St Jean des Ollières,  w/ Untel, Dark Mimosa, Maibaum, Quanta Calia, Vigilence Bourrasques

10/12/21 - Ardêche, L’Antre chien et loup, w/ Untel, Rivière de corps,

09/12/21 - Marseille, Soma, w/ Untel et Vigilence Bourrasques

10/09/21 - Médoc, Les Fougères /2

02/09/21 - PLateau des Mille Vache, La Loutre par les Cornes, w/ Craie, Somaticae, Dezeffe, Karmen Plage

18/07/21 - Cughan, L’Apl Fest, w/ Jean Bender, Terrine, Carte Noir, Détresse sur la D13, Tachycardie, Violette, Les croisières Dolori, Mix frites…

03/07/21 - Lyon, Ground Zero, soutien à l’Amicale, w/ Danse Musique Rhône-Alpes, Bob, Sacrifice Seul, Hache Tendre, Clarence, Dark Mimosa.

21/06/21 - Marseille, Méta Fête de la mumu

05/06/21 - Nante, Fête de soutiens, w/ Balladur, Raymonde, Maybom, Bears bone Lay Low, Black zone Myth chant, Humbros, Vica Pacheco, Apulati Bien, Somaticae, C_C, Dark Mimosa, 6 RME…

05/09/20 - Médoc, Les Fougères, w/ Rire, Balladur, Miel, Romain de Ferron, Somaticae, El Sodinero.

29/08/20 - Ambert, Mixomatose, w/ Jean Bender, Gifflure, Nico Poisson et Damien Grange.

23/08/20 - Drôme, Vallée Secrète, w/ Dark Mimosa, Vaisso 303, Tarba, Mgr 37, Thug Tieg

13/08/20 - Gigors et Lozeron, La Sye Electric, w/ Dark Mimosa

31/03/20 - Dia Radio, Untel invite PLS et Tani Otoshi

10/11/19 - Crest, Bad Cave, w/ Lynnhood + impro bending (soph, jo)

19/10/19 - Marseille, Secret spot, w/ Tabula Nul, Untel, Miel, Balladur, Somaticae

05/10/19 - Marseille, Secret spot, w/ Dark Mimosa, Mad Processor, Bogoss Lacoste…

21/09/19 - Montpelier, Lieu secret

31/08/19 - Roybon, L’abeille fest, Projet Opale Mekele

27/06/19 - Toulouse, Dada, Opale Mekele & Tani O

21/06/19 - Cughan, Brel Fest, w/ Will Guthry, Toise ‘r noise, Gifflure

20/06/19 - Poitiers, Confort Moderne, Opale Mekele & Tani O

15/06/19 - Genève, Bazarre Festival, Projet Opale Mekele

20/04/19 - Aurel, Le kiosque, w/ Tout est cassé..

19/04/19 - Grâne, Les Clos, Projet Opale Mekele

16/04/19 - Valence, Mistral Palace, w/ Techno Thriller, Lostsoundbytes

23/02/19 - Gigors et Lozeron, CGBC, w/ Abu Kebir Tapes, Stalker,  Disto 

22/02/19 - Genève, L’écurie, w/ Abu Kebir Tapes, Stalker

21/02/19 - St-Etienne, F2, w/ Abu Kebir Tapes, Stalker

20/02/19 - Crest, Secret Cave, w/ Abu Kebir Tapes, Stalker

[witch-huntingexecutioners]

Monsieur Forez is a hangman from the television show “Outlander.” In the show he is seen volunteering at a hospital where he uses “hanged-man’s grease” on patients.

[magnoliasinbloom]

The Midwife - II

AO3 :: Previously

TW: A little TMI, medically... gory, perhaps. Thought I’d throw this warning in if it’s not your thing. Any doctors and midwifes out there, any technical errors in the story are mine and based on internet research. 

X

“Mistress!” The door to my surgery burst open, and a frantic young girl stood at the threshold, panting for breath. I thought she might be injured, and I approached her quickly.

“Are you bleeding? Where are you hurt?” I patted her down gently, but she waved my hands away.

“No, my mistress… Duncan… she sent me for ye. The bairn is coming!”

“Oh, of course!” I doubled back, grabbing the knapsack I kept packed with all necessary implements for childbirth. We raced out to the courtyard, and I stopped briefly to ask one of the kitchen girls to let Jamie and Mrs. Fitz know I was headed for the procurator fiscal’s house. I saw the lady had sent her young maid in the carriage I had advised she not ride. We clambered in and the driver snapped the reins hard on the horses’ backs.

The ride was rough; the maid—Jeanie, she said her name was—and I were flung about the inside of the carriage. I asked the girl questions while we bore the brunt of the ride. When had her pains started? Had her waters burst? Was she feverish? Was she bleeding? Jeanie was terrified, but answered my inquiries as best she could. The pains were strong and regular, and had begun earlier that morning. Her waters had not burst. Mistress Duncan had been sweating profusely, possibly feverish. She had not seen any blood on the sheets.

When we arrived at the fiscal’s house, I bid Jeanie begin boiling water and prepare fresh clean linens. In the bedroom upstairs, I found Geillis thrashing on the bedstead, drenched in perspiration. The room was dark, a fire roaring despite the noon heat, as was customary for some women. I opened a window to let in some air.

“Claire! Thank God ye’re here!” she rasped. I opened the bag of supplies and pulled out cloths, basins, and tools. The bottles of possets and infusions clinked merrily at the bottom. I laid them neatly on the dresser and immediately washed my hands by pouring vinegar on them.

“Good afternoon, Mistress Duncan. Is your husband here?”

“No, he—at the courthouse. He left when the pains began.”

“Is the pain very bad yet?” I asked, pushing her shift above her belly. I reached between her legs, feeling the pudenda.

“What do ye mean, yet?” she cried out.

I smiled wryly. “Mistress, you have not dilated fully. In fact, the opening through which the child will pass is still quite small. It will hurt twice as much before he or she is ready to come out.”

Jeanie came up with a kettle of hot water. I set about steeping willow bark to help ease her mistress’s pain. It was midday, but her waters hadn’t broken. It could be a long time before she was fully ready.

After awhile, Mistress Duncan seemed to relax. I propped her up on a few pillows, trying to make her comfortable, though I knew comfort was a relative thing to her at the moment. I bid Jeanie wipe her face with a cool cloth dipped in rose water. The lady doubled over every once in a while, wailing through the pain of each contraction, then subsiding.

A few hours passed. She drifted in and out of sleep, bone tired even though the real work was not close yet. I checked her with each chime of the church bell. She was not dilating as fast as I would have liked. I suggested she take a turn about the room; sometimes motion would help speed the birth along.

Jeanie and I held her mistress up by the shoulders. With small, slow steps, we took her around the bed a few times. She clenched up with a contraction a couple of times, sweat sliding down her face. When we tried to lay her back down on the bed, she refused to go on her back. Obeying some natural impulse of her body, she drew herself up on her knees on the edge of the bed.

“I need to push!” she exclaimed.

“Mistress Duncan—”

“Geillis!”

“Alright then, Geillis, you cannot push, your waters have not broken.”

She let out a primal scream then, torn with pain that seemed as though she was being ripped in half. A small gush of blood accompanied her scream, staining her thighs and the floor. Something was wrong.

“Help me get her on the bed.” Together, we lifted her onto the mattress. Jeanie stared with wide eyes at the bloodstains, stark red against the creamy linens. She looked very pale. I shook her shoulder, hoping to startle her back into action. “Jeanie! Go get more water please!”

The maid scurried back to the kitchen, while I pushed Geillis’s knees up and feet together. Once in that position, I spread her legs apart, keeping the soles of her feet touching. I reached once more between her legs, and felt around the birth canal. Still too closed. I washed my hands of the streaks of blood; I massaged her stomach gently with lavender oil, pressing gently at her sides. That was when I felt it.

The babe was lying wrong. Its head was high up in the abdomen, which meant he was trying to be born feet first.

I felt a cold dread grip me. This could be fatal for the mother, if not the child as well. In such cases, I knew, often the mother was left to die and then cut open to retrieve the child. But I had apprenticed at l’Hôpital des Anges, with some of the best midwives and chirurgiens, and there was something I knew I could do. Pray God it would work.

“Geillis?” I smoothed the tousled hair back from her sweaty forehead. “The child is coming feet first. This is probably why this is taking so long, and why you haven’t broken waters yet. There is a technique for this kind of delivery, but it will be painful, and there are no guarantees. But it is the best chance you have to deliver this baby and survive yourself. Are you willing I should try?” She was likely in too much pain and terrified to make this a conscious decision, but my duty was to mother and child. I would do everything in my power to see them both safe through delivery.

Geillis doubled over as if in response, crying out with gritted teeth, “Do what ye must, just get him out!”

I called out for Jeanie. The girl walked back in with frightened eyes, as I instructed her to sit behind her mistress and hold her by the shoulders. Geillis lay supine on the bed, and I extracted a tool from my kit. It looked like a steel knitting needle, long and sharp. I doused it with a flask of diluted alcohol and very carefully inserted it inside Geillis’s body. I probed gently, and suddenly there was a gush of liquid and a bit of blood. I had burst her waters in an effort to move the birth along.

I placed my hands on her enormous belly and began to massage it more forcefully, trying one last time to turn the child around. I could feel the head and some jerky motions from within, but the child would not budge. I wiped my face with my forearm; I would have to take harsher measures.

I brewed mugwort tea; Madame de Ramelle used it to induce labor and make angels. I bid Geillis drink a cup, and then waited. Slowly, contractions began again, stronger than before; in this case, I hoped it would help push the baby further down the birth canal so I could attempt the technique used by Monsieur Forez at l’hôpital.

I asked Jeannie to push on Geillis’s stomach, towards her legs. I spread them wide, and introduced my hand gingerly, feeling around. I touched the tiny tips of toes.

“He’s close, Geillis. Try to push with the pain, and I shall have to make a cut, to try and make way for the child’s body. Be ready!” I took a small paring knife from my bag, cleaned it well, and took a deep breath. With the next contraction, I swiftly made a cut on the perineum, and Geillis screamed. I reached for the feet I had felt, and timed with the ongoing contractions, pulled the child out bit by bit. I called out words of encouragement, praying the baby would not suffocate in the birth canal. Jeanie kept pushing on Geillis’s stomach, but her eyes were riveted on the child emerging from her mistress’s body. Soon, we could determine the sex—the baby was indeed male.

I kept my own gaze on the blood seeping from the cut I had made, making sure it did not turn life-threatening. Geillis sat up and with a cry and pushed hard, bellowing and keening. I felt her insides surge, and I quickly placed my hand around the baby’s shoulders. Sure enough, with the force of his mother’s muscles, the head began to emerge and I gently eased it out.

Geillis collapsed back on the pillows while I hurried to clear the boy’s airway, with my finger hooked in his mouth—he had not emitted a sound and his body was limp. Jeanie appeared by my side, clutching clean linens and dabbing at the baby.

“Is it alright? Will he live?” she asked anxiously.

I said nothing yet; I rubbed at the boy’s chest, hoping to induce a response. Suddenly the baby curled in on itself and let out a high-pitched wail. Breathing a sigh of relief, I handed the baby to Jeanie so I could tend to Geillis.

Grabbing the jar of cat-gut sutures, I threaded a needle and swiped at the area with cotton batting to staunch the blood. It wasn’t gushing, which was a good sign. Mindful of the pain she was experiencing, I stitched her up as quickly as possible. Geillis whimpered, but remained still. Jeanie approached and placed the child in Geillis’s arms.

I watched Geillis holding her boy, her previous suffering seemingly forgotten. Her eyes were suffused with joy and warmth, a glow about her face. She cuddled him close, finger tracing the soft features, still swollen and red from the ordeal of birth. I watched with a pang of longing, as Geillis looked up with immense gratitude.

“Mistress Fraser… Claire… thank ye.”

* * *

Back at Leoch, Jamie watched as I washed off the peculiar fecund ocean scent of birth, and I recounted the difficult delivery in a rush of exhilaration. These were the time when I knew what I was meant to do in life, and proud of following in Maman’s footsteps.

“I’m proud of ye, Sassenach,” he said, kissing my forehead. Suddenly I could feel a familiar griping begin in my lower belly. I rubbed my hand gingerly over my stomach, my thoughts turning to some rest and a cup of tea. I sighed, irritated at the intrusion and something else tugging at my heart. My courses meant I was not with child.

I slipped out of Jamie’s embrace with a wan smile. He sensed my mood immediately and withdrew, noting the position of my hand.

“Dinna fash. We have time, Sassenach. I imagine Mrs. Fitz will speak relentlessly on the subject of bairns, and the other women in the castle also, now that we’re officially wed. ‘Tis what they’re accustomed to, but perhaps for us… it will go another way.”

“I always dreamed of a large family.” I traced my fingers over my belly, thoughts full of Geillis and her own child. “Papa and Maman, and then it was just me. I wanted brothers or sisters. To think that I might not be able to have that, to give you that… There’s talk of Maisri, the wise-woman in the forest.”

“Aye, I’ve heard of her. She’s old, old as the hills, folk say.”

“In the hôpital, we learned how to bring children into the world. From Madame de Ramelle, we learned how to stop them from coming. But aid to conceive them in the first place… Perhaps I should pay this Maisri a visit.”

“By the grace of God, we will have a child. To think of ye in childbirth, Sassenach—I can bear pain myself, but I couldna bear yours. That would take more strength than I have.” With another tender kiss, I turned to take care of my courses.

Jamie wrote a letter to Jenny while I searched for the small box where I kept absorbent cloths. When I had moved from the surgery to the bedchamber, I thought I’d brought all my personal possessions with me; but the box was nowhere to be found. Perhaps Mrs. Fitz or one of the kitchen girls had moved it while cleaning.

In a last ditch attempt, I peeked under the bed. I glimpsed a bundle tucked behind the canopy frame. On my knees, I stretched my arm as far as it would go and batted around until my fingers brushed against the object. It was not a box.

“Did ye find it?” Jamie asked distractedly.

I pulled a bundle of branches from under the bed. I turned it over; strange black and red shapes dangled from the tips of the boughs, and the bundle was tied together with a strip of drab brown cloth. The edges of this makeshift ribbon were stiff with rusty red, and as I puzzled over it, the realization came to me. I dropped the bundle with a cry of shock.

The cloth was the edge of my old torn cloak. The stain on it was dried blood.

[magnoliasinbloom]

The Midwife

AO3 :: Previously

XVIII

His head ached something fierce. It felt like the world was rocking sideways, and nausea overtook him. All that sustained him was the thought of her. The cloud of her hair in his nose, the vivid green scent of her, her alabaster skin under his hands that single night they had shared. 

Claire…

Healers do not make good patients. During the first couple of days I tried so hard to rise from my pallet, the nuns pushing me back. There is work to be done, you need my help, I insisted. I had a very high fever, they replied, and was in no condition to even walk, least of all tend the sick. They would manage.

I thrashed on the floor when the burning in my head surpassed coherent thoughts. I sweated through the linen shifts, shivered with chills, and filled the chamber pot constantly. I called out for Maman, for Papa, for Jamie. There were a few heavenly moments when Jamie’s face materialized before me, wrought with unutterable tenderness; he bathed my face with a cool cloth. Then all of a sudden, it became interchangeable with Sister Angelique’s weary countenance. I kept twisting the ring on my finger, a tether to reality.

Through the haze, I learned Mother Hildegarde had survived, and seemed to be on the mend. She was still very weak, and was not up and about but still continued to run the hospital from her sickbed. I, on the other hand, seemed to worsen, although the rash associated with smallpox had not appeared, just like the abbess. My body was wracked with pain; Sister Madeleine fed me basil tea with honey, and apple cider vinegar to combat all my symptoms.

In my most lucid moments, I recognized Malva hovering close, but not daring to approach. I knew Sister Angelique had heeded my warning, and I was rarely left alone. Someone was always near at hand, be it a nun, one of the maîtresses sage femme, or even Monsieur Forez once. But with so many other patients, they could only remain vigilant for so long.

I came to suddenly, dragged from a restless sleep by a wrenching in my gut. I was shivering from the general malaise, and the frigid December wind that whistled through the high windows in the hospital. My fever was rising again. The thin wool blanket was not enough to keep the chill at bay. I could see my breath rise in white puffs. I tried to lift my head, looking for a healer, but I was met with Malva’s grey eyes instead.

“You are still alive, I see.” Her voice was cold, her face impassive. She wound her way around the pallets on the floor, stopping next to me. I wanted to cry out in warning, but my throat was parched, no strength left in me.

I batted my left hand around, ring clinking against the chamber pot. I gripped it as hard as I could and heaved it in Malva’s direction. She yelped and jumped back, but it had been recently emptied; all that was left were shards and the crashing noise I hoped would bring one of the nuns soon.

“Nobody will come,” she said, divining my thoughts. “They are otherwise occupied in the apothecary stores. There was a bit of a mess to clean up. I just wanted to admire my handiwork.”

“You… this is… not because of you,” I rasped. “It… smallpox.”

Malva raised an eyebrow, bemused. “Of course it was me. You left your drinking cup in the refectory. I swabbed it with discharge from another patient. Mother Hildegarde’s, too.”

Discharge… My stomach heaved at the thought, my mind running wild with speculation. Given that I had skipped a few meals before falling ill, it was a wonder that I hadn’t gotten sick before. “Who… did they…”

“Oh yes. The patient died,” she replied with a grin. “Terribly messy end it was.” She kicked the pottery fragments aside, crouching down beside me. “I would like to stay here and watch you die as well, but I think it is time for me to move on.”

“Help.” It was barely above a croak, and I tried to drag myself away from her, but my limbs would not respond. I was fairly weak and thin, muscles wasted from disuse. Malva smirked, and reached out for my hand. Her grey eyes flickered in the lamplight.

“I will just take this before I leave.” She grabbed at my finger, the one with the ring. I made a fist and struck her, but it my touch was like that of a butterfly’s wings against the tiger’s back. Malva laughed outright, but I clutched my fist tight; she tried to pry my fingers apart to pull the ring off, and I tried not to yield. Feverish, perhaps on the brink of death, but for Jamie… for Jamie, I would hold on.

To no avail. Malva wrenched my fingers back and I cried out hoarsely in pain. Finally yanking it off, she held the ring aloft, glinting in the dying candlelight. Her face twisted with anger, derisive and purely wicked. “Will he still love you when you are gone?” she sneered. Her eyes smoldered. Beware of the grey…

Malva slipped the ring into her skirt pocket. She stood, contemplating me on my pallet, both of us breathing hard. She shrugged and walked to the fountain. The water at this time of year was freezing. I thought she might wash her hands to avoid contagion from me, but instead she picked up a bucket meant for cleaning. She filled it with the icy water and came back, pouring it over my body from head to toe. I immediately started shaking, the cold biting my skin. If the smallpox didn’t kill me, la grippe or pneumonia might.  

Through the haze, I watched Malva pick her way amongst the sick and dying on the floor. Her outline silhouetted by the moonlight peeking in the doorway, she left without a trace. All the while, my head roared and my body shivered as though my very bones would break—so did my heart, once more, with one last thought before I slipped into darkness.

Jamie.

End of Part I

[magnoliasinbloom]

The Midwife

AO3 :: Previously

XVI

With an aching heart, I set about helping the remaining healthy sisters keep order about the hospital. Without Mother Hildegarde at the helm, morale was low and the situation desperate. There were barely enough supplies to allow us to help the sick, and the garden in wintertime mostly bare of the most essential of herbs and plants.

I changed back into my workaday clothes, folding the yellow dress into the trunk in my cell. I laid the pearls within the skirts with infinite care, a token of Jamie’s love for me. The silver of my wedding ring gleamed on my finger—that, I would keep with me always.

That first day was the hardest. I could not help my mind wandering back to thoughts of Jamie, of our wedding night. When we had said our vows on the bridge, I had not imagined that we might ever be separated again—least of all so soon. I had pictured us traveling together, enjoying a counterfeit honeymoon of sorts, before facing the challenge of the MacKenzies at Castle Leoch. It was also the thought of him that kept me going through that dark night, cleaning up after patients and cooling fevered brows. I did not think I would ever get the smell of vinegar off me.

Malva kept her distance, the cut on her cheek reminding me (and hopefully her) what I was capable of if she interfered once more. She was morose but helpful, carrying basins of water and cleaning soiled pallets and cloths. Laboring tirelessly with other sisters, I had twice the work, checking on those she tended to when she was gone to make sure she was not hurting them. The ravaging effects of smallpox could last up to thirty days but I would not be able to stay that long.

I endeavored to work as far away from her as possible; I remained close to Madame Bonheur and Madame de Ramelle, who had also been called upon to assist our efforts in the hospital. At dawn the next day, Sister Angelique woke me from a light sleep. I had sat in the sick room, too wary to return to my cell with Malva around. I stirred and was immediately alert.

“Yes, Sister?”

“Cherchez Maître Raymond. We have dire need of febrifuges and he may have a store of dried herbs. We are almost all out.” She handed me the woven basket as though this were any other day. “Ask him to come, if he can.” I stopped to clean my hands as I left, and tied on a new face mask as an added measure.

The streets were devoid of people, most citizens aware of the danger of smallpox and staying away from the convent and hospital grounds. Even Jamie had so far kept his promise. The mere thought of my husband again released an ache in my chest. Keeping busy had been the best remedy for the pain of not having him near. How could I know if he was alright?

I felt a vague uneasiness as I made my way onto Rue de Varenne to Monsieur Raymond’s apothecary shop and met no one on the road. I stepped up to the door, surprised when it did not yield as I pushed. There was no merry tinkling bell; the shop was closed. I noticed that one of the windows was smashed, Exasperated, I tugged my mask down, shoving wayward curls out of my face.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Madonna.”

Master Raymond’s voice cut through the air, and I jumped back, startled. He was peeking out from the alley next to the shop, from an old unused door that was usually boarded up. He looked frail and worn, his old joviality muted.

“Maître Raymond! What has happened?” I cried, stepping into the alley.

“People are frantic. The smallpox, it has spread further into the city. Some came to me for aid, others to destroy. Quel dommage.” His tone was that of a man resigned, but I detected a hint of fire behind his words.

“That is precisely why I am here. L’Hôpital des Anges is lacking remedies, we are tending to many of the sick. Monsieur, we have need of your help—”

“I’m afraid I cannot help you much, Madonna. When illness strikes, remember it is often the healers who are blamed. I am leaving Paris for a time, child, until everything returns to normal. Here, take these.” He held out a parcel wrapped in cheesecloth.

I unwrapped it briefly, and saw willow bark, dried yarrow, basil, calendula, sassafras, and peppermint. “Thank you, monsieur. Is there anything I can do to help you?”

“Rien, ma chère. I will return. I always do. But if I could—a warning. Beware of the grey. Seek the red man.” Maître Raymond crept back inside the shop, with a final, “Adieu, Madonna.”

The red man could only be Jamie. But I could not seek him yet, for I could still carry the disease. With his cryptic warning, I hurried back to the hospital. As I crossed through the garden door for faster access, I spotted a bright cluster of hellebore—the winter rose—on the step, tied with blue ribbon the same hue as Jamie’s eyes. I scooped it up and held it to my nose, face buried in the fragrant blooms. I looked around, but could see no one. I smiled for the first time. Hellebore meant tranquility, protection against lies, scandal, or anxiety. I had wished I could get a message to Jamie, but the city was practically quarantined and I would not risk sending someone that could potentially carry smallpox along with my letter. But I should have known better than to think Jamie would be so patient.

The next day, after an intense battle with Monsieur Forez to discourage him from bleeding patients, I ventured outside for fresh air and solace. There was a small bouquet of cheerful purple pansies. I thought perhaps Jamie was raiding Jared’s garden at Rue Tremoulins; I pictured him cutting flowers and making his way to the hospital to leave them at my door. The image lifted my spirits immensely, even as concern mingled equally with joy.

Still clutching my pansies, I went back inside to have a quick meal of bread and cheese and ale in the refectory. Sister Madeleine found me there, saying Mother Hildegarde was asking for me. Leaving the pewter mug and wooden bowl on the table, I rushed to the abbess’s side. She had been quite delirious the past two days, recognizing no one and speaking in her native German. If she was lucid enough to say my name, I thought it was good news.

Grabbing a clean cloth, I dipped it in water and witch hazel, laying it across Mother Hildegarde’s brow. Her face was not yet stippled with the telltale rash of smallpox. “I’m here, ma mère. Ça va?”

“Claire. What are you doing?” she asked in a rasping voice.

“You asked for me,” I replied, confused. “I am helping the sick.”

“No. You must leave. Your Jamie…”

“He is alright, he understands,” I said soothingly, taking the cloth and dabbing it on Mother Hildegarde’s flushed skin. “He is my husband now.”

A smile flickered on the edges of her mouth. “Je suis heureuse d'entendre cela.” Quick as a blink, her mood change, and she frowned. “I am also sorry I doubted your word, Claire. I know now you were not guilty of what happened with the belladonna or that poor woman.”

“How did you know?”

“God has shown me the error of my ways. I will join Him soon enough in heaven.” Her breathing wheezed, and a chill overtook her voluminous body. She was sweating profusely; she reached up, tearing at her nun’s veil. As it fell away, it revealed a head of closely cropped, iron grey hair.

“Do not say that, Mother, please. I will not let that happen,” I said, my eyes filling with tears.

“It is for God to decide, not us. I wanted to say… I am glad you came to us. Dear Julia and I will watch over you, do not fear…” Mother Hildegarde’s eyes drifted closed, and she fell into a restless sleep. I glanced up, and met Malva’s gaze.

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