#uitlander

@thatsoccercoach asked: Ok, I know Uitlander just barely ended but I already need more. Will we ever get to meet Baby Fraser?

@missclairebelle asked: Hopeful ficlet request: A peaceful first holiday for Uitlander J&C&Bairn&Company. 😭😍

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Uitlander

Previously…

Coda

Thursday, February 15, 1827

With gratitude to @cantrixgrisea for this beautiful banner!

Jamie Fraser carefully turned his shoulders to slip inside the barn, and stood in the doorway to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

 “How is she doing?”

 Brian and Murtagh crouched on the ground, straw clinging to their sleeves, gently rubbing the mare’s heaving sides. “It will be a while yet. First foals always take the longest. As you know.”

 He did know.

 Just three weeks before, Rupert and Angus had come crashing into this very barn, out of breath, shouting that he had to come to the house.

 Claire’s birth pains had come very unexpectedly – in the middle of the day, as she stood alone in her small stillroom, leaning over the table Jamie had made for her, grinding herbs. She had dropped an earthenware bowl – and Janna, working nearby in the kitchen, ran over immediately after the crash. Claire was doubled over, clutching her lower back in pain, warm fluid pooling on the tile floor beneath her skirts.

 Later, Claire hadn’t been able to recall any details – save Janna’s strong, steady hands guiding her out of the room, her voice frantically calling out in Cape Dutch. And then Suzette and Mistress Crook at her side, helping her climb the stairs. And then Elin’s warm, kind, soothing voice and hands, stripping her of her clothes and gently pushing her onto the soft mattress in her bedroom – covered with the worn but clean layers of sailcloth canvas Elin always brought to a birth.

 Later, Elin told Claire how she hadn’t stopped crying, upset and shocked and so, so scared that the baby was too early (at least one month early, based on Elin’s own estimates) and would not survive. How she had had to tell Claire it was all right to scream when the pains came. That she didn’t need to hold it all in – making her taxed body even more tense.

 And how she had finally relaxed only when Lamb had brought Jamie to the room, and he crawled onto the mattress behind her. Holding her. Bracing her against his chest. Murmuring soothing words into her sweaty hair.

 “I just hope the two of you are right – that there’s only one foal in there.” Jamie smiled, eyes adjusted to the darkness. Gently cradling his twin sons, each swaddled in his own cloth sling across their father’s chest. “For all the years Mama has been a midwife – she couldn’t even tell Claire was carrying two babies!”

 It had been a surprise to everyone in the room where Leo and Sander Fraser had entered the world. The baby’s red head had brought relieved smiles to all. Suzette and Jamie cleaned him, while Elin kneaded Claire’s weary belly to deliver the afterbirth – only to catch her second grandson instead. Jamie felt his ears still ringing with Elin’s surprised shout, as Janna darted to her side to quickly swaddle the brown-haired baby.

 They hadn’t properly been named until much later, when Claire and the babies had been washed and the proud new parents gazed at their two miracles, safely tucked in bed together.

 Leo – for his fiery hair, and for being the firstborn of Jamie’s lioness.

 Sander – after Jamie’s middle name of Alexander, and in tribute to Alexander Randall, who had brought Claire to the Cape.

 Brian laughed. “I’m sure of it this time, lad. I’ve delivered twins before – it’s dangerous for both the foals and the mare, but not impossible. Trust me when I say that that isn’t the case here.”

 One of the babies snuffed against his wrap.

 Jamie smiled. “I trust you. Now, if you’ll excuse me –”

 “There you are!” Claire appeared at Jamie’s side, her herb basket slung under one arm. “I can’t tell you how liberating it’s been to not have two little boys hanging off of me all morning.”

 Jamie smiled. “Considering that they’ve been doing nothing but sleep, I don’t see what you’re making such a fuss about.”

 Claire shook her head. “Are you introducing them to all of the animals?”

 “It’s never too early to start. They’ll inherit this place one day – it’s in their blood.”

 Claire tipped back her sun bonnet and stood on her tiptoes. Jamie happily met her lips with a kiss.

 Then the mare stamped, and Murtagh stood, and quickly Jamie ushered his family out into the afternoon sunshine.

 “I think it should be back to the house for all of us.” Claire adjust the bonnet, shielding her face from the sun. “Mistress Crook is almost finished with dinner. And I don’t want to be out here too much – Jan said he saw the lion pride this morning. They’ve got more cubs now – he wants to make sure no person or animal is out after dark.”

 Jamie took his wife’s hand and squeezed it as they returned to the main house. “They have better sense than to bother us here. When we’re happy, they’re happy. It’s how it should be.”

 Claire turned to look at Jamie – Sander and Leo, sleeping peacefully – the house and barn of Noord Toring – and the mountain standing silent sentinel over it all.

An Outlandish Scavenger Hunt!  #LLScavengerHunt

9. Create a poster advertising Outlander fan fiction

 @gotham-ruaidh It is for you!☺

Fanfic Writers Director’s Cut - Invite readers to come into your ask box and ask for the “director’s commentary” on a particular story, section of a story, or set of lines. Or, send in a ⭐star⭐  to have the author select a section they’ve been dying to talk about!

–

Hi @thefraserwitch! Thanks for your fantastic question!

Well, it honestly all started out as a joke.

During the early chapters of Uitlander, before **SPOILER** Alex Randall dies of his illness - many readers were speculating over how to get Alex out of the way, so to speak, so that Jamie and Claire could be together.

One of the more hilarious ways people suggested Alex be “got rid of” is that he would be attacked and eaten by lions.

The lovely and witty @cantrixgrisea even drew some fanart along these lines:

Now, I had written all of Uitlander before I’d posted it - and I knew there was no chance that Alex would be killed off by a lion.

But I did have an idea - what about writing a few interludes from the perspective of the lion pride that lives on the Fraser estate? Surely they would be aware of the family living in the house; what would their perspective be?

So, that’s how the handful of interludes with the lion pride came to be.

Why end the story with them?

To be honest, it was so, so hard for me to say goodbye to these characters. I struggled with how to end the story properly, with Jamie and Claire and their family. But then I realized - why not say goodbye to the Frasers by showing how even the lions knew that all was well?

All is well with the lions and their new cubs, just like all will be well with Jamie and Claire. Their story parallels Jamie and Claire’s story. They watch over the family, and keep them safe. This was my way of saying to everyone - I’m not formally ending the story, but I *do* want you to know that Jamie and Claire get the happy ending that they so richly deserve.

Not to mention, Cantrix created some truly lovely graphics during the course of Uitlander’s publication, also featuring the lions. She is a true gem in our fandom, and the fact that she took the trouble to make so much amazing art for Uitlander, means more to me than I can ever express.

Fanfic Writers Director’s Cut - Invite readers to come into your ask box and ask for the “director’s commentary” on a particular story, section of a story, or set of lines. Or, send in a ⭐star⭐  to have the author select a section they’ve been dying to talk about!

–

Thanks for the question, MCB!

In my original outline for Uitlander, there was a chapter where Alex took Claire out to visit his mission church. So that she could see firsthand what he was building. See for herself just how isolated she would be. Really think hard about whether she was doing the right thing, for the right reasons, and what the chance was that she would survive more than a few years - between the Xhosa and the lions and disease.

I decided to not write Claire visiting the church, but rather write more scenes where Alex tells her about the church. Claire still draws the same parallels - it’s far, and isolated, and she wouldn’t be able to rely on Alex to protect her. But by her not going to see it for herself, makes the whole idea of the church much more abstract. Makes it less real. 

{{Uitlander, Afrikaans for "foreigner" (lit. "outlander")}} Claire Beauchamp arrives on the shore of the Cape Colony in December 1825, destined for what she believes will be a quiet life in a colonial backwater. Within hours she realizes that life in South Africa is anything but predictable.

Prologue

Chapter 1: Arrival

Chapter 2: The Road

Chapter 3: Noord Toring

Chapter 4: Dialogue

Chapter 5: Wounds

Chapter 6: Town

Chapter 7: School

Chapter 8: Christmas

Chapter 9: Epistle

Chapter 10: Chains

Chapter 11: Chaos

Chapter 12: Aftermath

Chapter 13: Navigation

Interlude - The Lion Pride

Chapter 14: Preparations

Chapter 15: The Wedding

Chapter 16: The Cottage

Chapter 17: Joy

Chapter 18: Peace

Chapter 19: Rhythm

Chapter 20: Making Waves

Chapter 21: The Visitor

Chapter 22: Family

Chapter 23: Caution

Chapter 24: Action

Chapter 25: Plan

Chapter 26: The Fort

Chapter 27: Freedom

Chapter 28: Recovery

Previously…

Chapter 26

Freedom

Monday, August 14, 1826

 Years later, when Claire looked back on her visit to the fort, she couldn’t remember any specific part of the long journey to the end of the cell block. Murtagh was there, of course, to help fill in the details. Mostly she remembered the scents (dampness, moldy hay, stale urine), the sounds (men coughing, men shouting, rats skittering), the lack of proper light that resulted in an uneasy half-darkness in the cells.

 But she could – and would always – remember Jamie.

 Face darkened with dirt and dried blood, hair dulled with sweat and grime. Clutching his left hand protectively against his chest. Huddled in the corner of a dark, dank, filthy cell.

 “Fraser?” Sir Fletcher squinted through the bars.

 “What do you want?” Jamie sighed. “Leave me be.”

 “Jamie.” Why did her voice sound so strong? “Jamie. It’s me – Claire.”

 A rustle – then Jamie groaned as he stood upright, staggering toward the bars.

 “C-Claire?” His right hand gripped the bars, his left hand still curled against his filthy shirt. Greedily Claire reached through the bars and twined her fingers through his. Immediately his thumb found and circled her wedding ring.

 “Claire?” His voice rough, his hand clammy. “Why are you here?”

 “I had to see you.” She couldn’t quite find his eyes in the half-light of the cell block; she didn’t want him to see her welling tears.

 “You must leave,” he rasped. “Now. It’s not safe for you here.”

 “I’m trying to get you out of here.”

 “What do you mean?”

 Sir Fletcher cleared his throat. “There seems to have been a mistake – you’re to be moved to a different area of the prison. Your wife brought it to my attention.”

 Then he stepped forward, keys clanging in the long hallway. Almost as if on cue, the prisoners locked in the adjoining cells murmured – then approached the bars like sleepwalkers, one by one.

 Sir Fletcher opened the door to Jamie’s cell and stepped in to grab Jamie by the arm. Blocked by Sir Fletcher’s body, Claire couldn’t see what caused the soldier to gasp.

 “Mister Fraser – whatever happened to your hand?”

 “You can ask Captain Randall,” Jamie growled, “the next time you see him.”

 Murtagh tried to keep Claire back – but she darted around Sir Fletcher’s scarlet coat to see for herself.

 Her heart sank.

 Jamie’s left hand had been smashed, or crushed – the fingers lay curled all against each other at unnatural angles, one nail was missing, and the entire hand was swollen and black with old and new blood.

 Instantly at his side, Claire cradled her husband’s hand – feeling the tension so strong in his body.

 “Did Randall do this to you?” she demanded.

 Finally she could see his eyes – tired, but strong. Locked with hers.

 “Captain Jonathan Randall held my hand under his wagon and ordered the soldier driving the wagon to move forward.” Jamie’s voice echoed off the damp stones in the cell – confident. Strong. True. “My hand was crushed. As a citizen of the Crown, I wish to lodge a formal complaint.”

 Sir Fletcher, to his credit, gaped.

 Claire squeezed Jamie’s right hand, swiftly bringing it to rest on her belly – showing him that she and the bokkie were safe, infusing her – their – strength into him.

 “Did you hear him, Sir Fletcher?” Still holding Jamie’s hand, Claire turned to face the officer straight on. “It is unacceptable that this awful event occurred four days ago and not one word has made its way from the cells to your office. Do you know that our family has ties to the Governor?”

 “We do indeed.” Now Murtagh stepped around Sir Fletcher as well, resting one hand on Jamie and the other on Claire. “Ye ken what that means, aye? If we lodge a complaint wi’ him, then it canna be ignored. It will go all the way back to London.”

 “Yes,” Jamie chimed in. “Won’t that go on your permanent record, Sir Fletcher?”

 “You know what the right decision is,” Claire added. “Immediately release my husband into our care. He needs medical attention – you can see that yourself. We promise to bring him back for his appointment with the magistrate.”

 A prisoner in the cell directly to the left of Sir Fletcher banged on his bars. “Let ‘im out, mate! ‘E’s a good man.”

 “Aye,” another piped up, somewhere beside Claire. “He stood up to that mad bastard Randall. Don’t tell me ye don’t know what that bugger is capable of.”

 Sir Fletcher straightened, then hustled Jamie – and by extension, Claire and Murtagh – down the corridor, turning left, pushing through a door – and then out into the blinding mid-day sun.

 Jamie blinked, like the newborn foal Claire had helped him deliver a few weeks before. He was even filthier than she had thought – but he was whole. Standing on his own two legs. Gripping her hand so tight.

 Sir Fletcher raised his chin, mopped the sweat dripping from his brow. “Go.” His voice was low, angry. “Go away from here. Go back to your farm. I’ll figure out what to tell the Captain when he returns. But go. Be back in five days.”

 “Thank you, Sir Fletcher.” Claire bowed in the soldier’s direction, but Murtagh was already pushing her and Jamie toward the fort’s entry gate.

 She didn’t look back.

 Five minutes later Murtagh helped her into the wagon that Rupert and Angus had been minding, sitting under the shade of an acacia tree across the street from the fort. Then Murtagh and his sons helped Jamie climb in, beside his wife. Rupert slapped the reins on the horses’ backs, easing them into a quick trot through the Cape Town’s quiet streets.

 In the back of the wagon, Jamie and Claire held each other close. He stole kisses, she used her handkerchief to mop the dirt and dried blood from his brow and cheeks and chin. Stunned with love and admiration for each other.

 “You saved me,” he whispered.

 “It’s not over yet,” she replied.

 “It doesn’t matter. You saved me. All on your own.” With his good hand he wiped her tears away; she had wrapped his injured hand in Angus’ shirt, the boy preferring to go cold during the ride back so that Jamie’s hand could be protected.

 “I had help.”

 “You saved me,” Jamie repeated. “You did it on your own. I owe you my life. You are so, so brave, Nebhongo. How can I ever repay you?”

 She kissed the tip of his nose. “You’ve given me this most amazing life. That’s all I will ever need. All that we will ever need.”

 He darted in for a long, long kiss.

Previously…

Chapter 27

Recovery

Thursday, August 18, 1826

 “I’ve got it, Claire – please sit. You’ve already done so much.”

 Claire raised her eyebrows but acquiesced, sinking to rest on the bench nestled on one end of the back porch, the lion-tooth knife in her pocket digging into the side of her thigh. Eyes full of worry as she watched Jamie balance their dinner plates with his good hand – the injured one, wrapped tightly in bandages, holding the dishes steady as he carefully padded through the back door and into the kitchen.

 She stretched out her legs and sighed, hands running over the now-perceptible swell of her belly.

 Four long days since Jamie’s return to Noord Toring.

 Four nights since she had carefully repaired the damaged bones and tendons in his crushed hand, Jamie dead asleep with a mixture of laudanum and whisky, Elin at her elbow and passing scalpels and sutures and raw whisky to cleanse the wounds, Uncle Lamb and Jan holding down Jamie’s body as Brian and Murtagh guarded the front door, muskets in hand.

 Three days since Jamie, still groggy but alert, had gone over his case front to back with Uncle Lamb, preparing his defense for the hearing that was still scheduled for Friday morning. Diligently reviewing the pages and pages Lamb had prepared in his beautiful penmanship, laying out Jamie’s case – and detailing the litany of misdeeds committed by one Captain Jonathan Wolverton Randall.

 The six Catholic prisoners who had died under mysterious circumstances while he commanded a garrison at Fort William, in the Scottish Highlands. The transcript of the disciplinary hearing where the garrison doctor had testified that the men all displayed pre-mortem signs of sodomy, and that their deaths, while at first glance accidents or suicides, were entirely avoidable. A copy of the order effectively banishing Randall to command the fort at the backwater down in the Cape; a copy of the petition of complaint to the House of Lords in Westminster, signed by a Duke of Sandringham to effectively expunge the Captain’s record and make him fit for command once more.

 “But who is this Duke, and why is he so powerful?” Jamie had frowned as he sat straight against the headboard of his and Claire’s bed, injured hand lying on his lap, his good hand wound tightly around Claire’s shoulders.

 Lamb had sighed and removed his spectacles. “From what I’ve learned – he is pompous, perpetually in debt, and an all-around rake.”

 Claire had shifted so that Jamie’s good hand rested on the baby. “But why would he want to protect Randall?”

 Now Lamb had pinched his eyes shut. “It can’t be proven, but it’s believed that Randall once did this Duke a very large, unspecified favor. There are also rumors that they are lovers.”

 At the foot of the bed, Elin had gasped.

 “Just rumors, mind you. Nothing can be proven. But Sandringham went to Cambridge with a man high up in the Foreign Office, in London. He was able to pull the appropriate strings for Captain Randall.”

 “A damn good thing Claire came to her senses and didna marry one of the brothers,” Murtagh had murmured from his perch in the window, watching the front of the house.

 The crux of Jamie’s defense was not that he was innocent of breaking the colony’s law against aiding slaves – his guilt in breaking that law could be proven beyond the shadow of a doubt. Rather, Jamie deserved his freedom due to the unjust punishment he had received – on top of the grave bodily injury he had suffered – at the hands of a fundamentally unfit and cruelly negligent officer, whose conduct was wholly unbecoming of his station. And who, it could quite successfully be argued, should never have been granted such a command in the first place.

 Three days they had rehearsed what Jamie would say – how Lamb would represent him, at the hearing – and how Jamie and Claire would need to act when Randall entered the room.

 “You know it will be all right, Claire?”

 Jamie had returned from the kitchen to sink against her on the bench, his good hand automatically finding hers, thumb and forefinger tracing her wedding ring.

 “I don’t want to lose you again,” she whispered. “Or to see you come to any more harm. I know we are on the right side, but I can’t help but fear that it won’t be enough. That what Uncle Lamb will say will be too much of a sensation for the magistrate.”

 He turned to kiss her temple. “With Lamb’s authority, and my hand – it should be enough. The Fraser name is very respected.”

 “If – if they were to flog you tomorrow…” she swallowed. “I will be there. Right there, with you. And I will tend you, right away. I’ll bring my medical box just in case.”

 “No.” His voice had a sharp edge to it – and he turned now to face her directly. She couldn’t help but meet his gaze – her eyes terrified, his eyes burning.

 “No,” he repeated. “It won’t happen. I would never allow that to happen to me – and I would never allow you to be a part of that. I hope to – ”

 “JAMIE!”

 Within half a breath, Jamie jumped to his feet, blocking the path between Claire and the kitchen door.

 “JAMIE!” It was Janna – Janna racing from the kitchen.

 Oh Christ.

 “A carriage is coming,” she panted. “Rupert and Angus saw it up in the tower, and Angus just barged into the sitting room to tell us.”

 In a heartbeat Claire was on her feet, hand clutched tightly in Jamie’s as he pulled her into the house.

 “DA!”

 And somehow Brian was there – Elin, too – meeting them in the hallway, pushing them up the stairs.

 “…Exactly as we had planned. You’ll be in the master bedroom because it locks. Claire will be safe.”

 Jamie nodded as he followed his mother up to the landing, then down the hall to the Laird’s Room – the room that, God willing, he and Claire would occupy one day.

 Elin rustled the deep pockets of her skirt and produced an ancient iron key. “Ready?”

 Claire couldn’t speak, but followed Jamie inside; Elin handed her son the key, kissed his cheek, and shut the door. Jamie bolted the door and then locked it from the inside, just as the carriage ground to a halt outside.

 Feeling as if she was not in control of her own body, Claire floated toward the big bay window and peered through the lace curtain.

 The handsome black carriage was escorted by four redcoated soldiers. A man in deep navy livery darted from his seat at the back of the carriage to the dirt of the drive, opening the door to reveal –

Previously…

Chapter 25

The Fort

Monday, August 14, 1826

Three or four days remained until Governor Grey returned from his tour of Port Elizabeth.

 Two days had passed since Brian Fraser’s return, in the middle of the night. Bruised and hungry and tired, but whole.

 Claire could wait no longer.

 Uncle Lamb stayed behind at Noord Toring, drafting in his beautiful handwriting the brief he would personally deliver to the Governor. It would take time to lay out the evidence of Jack Randall’s misdeeds, uncovered by the mysterious network in a series of letters which Lamb had carried in his waistcoat pocket all the way down to the Cape – the insurance policy which the Fraser/van der Meers were so glad he had thought to prepare.

 Lamb had been tight-lipped about the specifics of the letters – only that it pertained to the years Randall had spent commanding a garrison in the Scottish Highlands. Vaguely she remembered Alex and Frank discussing their eldest brother’s time there – in the context of how much he had disliked it, and the barbarity of the people there.

 But this morning – no need to dwell on those thoughts. For she was crossing the drawbridge surrounding the fort, built in the shape of a five-pointed star by the Dutch almost two centuries before. Lips pursed, head held high as she passed under the entry arch and stepped into the expansive parade ground, the dust not yet settled from that morning’s exercises, the silent shadow of Table Mountain yet another sentry in the distance.

 Within five seconds, two soldiers – resplendent in their scarlet coats – materialized from the shadows. One wore the insignia of an officer.

 “What business have you here?”  

 Murtagh stiffened at her elbow. Ready to strike.

 Claire straightened her back and lifted her chin. “My name is Claire Fraser. My husband, James Fraser, is being held prisoner here. I wish to see him.”

 The younger officer spoke first. “Have you made an appointment, madam?”

 “I wasn’t aware I needed to. I can’t imagine that very many prisoners receive visitors.”

 The officer stepped a bit forward. “Please ignore this soldier, madam. I am Sir Fletcher – commander of the men stationed here, in Captain Randall’s absence.”

 Claire’s heart floated up her backbone. “He’s not here?”

 “I’m afraid he’s not – this morning he took some men to visit the naval station at Simon’s Town, but he should be back by tomorrow. Is there a chance you could return then? Speak with him directly?”

 Murtagh bristled; Claire swallowed.

 “I’m afraid I can’t wait that long, Sir Fletcher. My husband has been held here for four days, and his family has been unable to make contact. We have not even received an official written statement describing the nature of his arrest – surely you’re aware that that’s a violation of the law?”

 Sir Fletcher tilted his head – taking in all of Claire (and her dour companion) for the first time. Young; head covered in a respectable bonnet; clad in a pale yellow dress that was neither plain nor ostentatious. Eyes and chin fierce, set, determined.

 “Madam – may I ask you to repeat your name?”

 “Claire.” Her voice was strong, confident, true. “Claire Beauchamp Fraser, of the Noord Toring estate. Brian and Elin Fraser’s estate. This is my kinsman, Murtagh Fraser. My husband’s name is James.”

 A hawk – wings glossy black in the morning sunlight – wheeled over the empty parade ground.

 “Private Foster?”

 The younger soldier blinked in surprise, but saluted his superior.

 “If you’d be so kind as to show Mistress Fraser into my office…I’ll be there shortly. It seems there has been yet another misplacement of paperwork.”

 Sir Fletcher bowed and turned on his heel to cross the parade ground, boots crunching on the gravel.

 Private Foster coughed, then gestured toward his left – and a door about twenty paces from the main gate.

 “This way please, Mistress Fraser, Mister Fraser.”

 Gently Murtagh pushed Claire ahead, and she lifted her skirts, careful of the patches of mud.

 --

 “He was arrested four days ago?” Sir Fletcher squinted at the sheaf of papers scattered across his desk, before fishing in his breast pocket and finding a beautiful pair of gold-rimmed spectacles.

 “Yes, very early in the morning of the eleventh of August.” Claire smoothed her hands on her dress – her wedding dress, the dress Jamie had told her matched the color of her eyes when he had helped her out of it, that magical first faraway night in the cottage. Softly she reached to the underside of her wrist – confirming that Jamie’s lion-tooth knife was snug in the bit of linen she had wrapped like a bandage right at the edge of her long sleeve.

 “Let’s see…ah. Here is the report.”

 Sir Fletcher’s spectacles magnified his eyes to almost double their natural size; she would have laughed, had her heart held even the slightest amount of joy.

 “You’re correct…here he is, James Alexander Kuntze Fraser, aged twenty-three. The charge sheet reads subversion…looks like your husband was illegally trespassing on a farmer’s land and was witnessed to be facilitating the escape of a slave.”

 Claire pressed the back of Murtagh’s hand, willing him to be silent.

 “He was arrested along with my father-in-law, Brian Fraser. But Brian was returned to us a few days ago.”

 “That’s what it says here…that the elder Mister Fraser was released due to lack of evidence. And James is being held…this can’t be right. He’s being held at the end of the cell block. That’s wholly inappropriate.”

 “What do ye mean, inappropriate?” Murtagh seethed.

 Sir Fletcher’s magnified eyes comically blinked as he looked across his desk at Murtagh. “It’s an inappropriate location for a prisoner arrested for this type of crime. Prisoners kept at the end of the cell block are those set for execution – that’s where the gallows are.”

 “And what would be the proper punishment for this crime?” Claire worried her wedding ring with her thumb, resting her other hand on the baby.

 “Flogging, usually. Fifty lashes. But all cases go before a magistrate, who hears the evidence, considers the man’s defense, rules on the man’s guilt or innocence, and only then decides the appropriate punishment.” Sir Fletcher sat back in his chair and removed his spectacles, rubbing suddenly tired eyes. “We may be far from London, Mistress Fraser – but I assure you, here we follow both the letter and the spirit of the law.”

 “I appreciate your assurances, sir. Has my husband gone before the magistrate yet?”

 “He has not – but he will in five days time.”

 “And if his guilt is determined – when will his punishment be delivered?”

 Sir Fletcher spread one hand on the thick, dark wood of his desk. Absently Claire observed that his pinky ring bore a large fleur-de-lis.

 “Justice waits for no man, madam – it is usually immediate.”

 Claire took a deep breath. “I understand that this is entirely unorthodox, Sir Fletcher – but I would like to see my husband.”

 The solder waited a long time before answering. Tense silence suffused the room; idly, Claire thought that the Dutch had constructed the fort magnificently well, as she could hear no sound from neighboring rooms or even from outside on the parade ground.

 “Madam, I can assure you that I’ll see to your husband’s welfare myself. I will promptly move him to a different area of the prison.”

 “With respect,” Murtagh piped up, voice hoarse with feeling. “We both want to see him. No’ that we dinna trust ye – it’s the other soldiers here we dinna trust.”

 “And with respect,” Sir Fletcher replied, “I do not believe that you are fit to walk about the prison in your delicate condition, Mistress Fraser. I am happy to take Mister Fraser – ”

 “I am assuredly not delicate, meek or obedient,” Claire interrupted, heedless of her manners. “I came here to see my husband. I will not leave this fort until I have done so.”