Free Lord John and the Hand of Devils by Diana Gabaldon Page A

realized they were heading now for the village. There was a six-foot stone wall in the way; he could only hope the horse noticed it in time.
    He did; Karolus skidded to a stop, divots of mud and withered grass shooting up around him, sending Grey lurching up onto his neck. The horse reared, came down, then turned sharply, trotted several yards, and slowed to a walk, shaking his head as though to try to free himself of the flapping rope.
    Legs quivering as with ague, Grey slid off, and with cold-stiff fingers, grasped the rope.
    “You big white
bastard
!” he said, filled with the joy of survival, and laughed. “You’re bloody marvelous!”
    Karolus took this compliment with tolerant grace, and shoved at him, whickering softly. The horse seemed largely over his fright, whatever had caused it; he could but hope Tom Byrd fared as well.
    Grey leaned against the wall, panting until his breath came back and his heart slowed a bit. The exhilaration of the ride was still with him, but he had now a moment’s heed to spare for other things.
    At the far side of the churchyard, the torches were clustered close together, lighting the fog with a reddish glow. He could see the digging party, standing in a knot shoulder-to-shoulder, all in attitudes of the most extreme interest. And toward him, a tall black figure came through the mist, silhouetted by the torch glow behind him. He had a moment’s turn, for the figure looked sinister, dark cloak swirling about him—but it was, of course, merely Captain von Namtzen.
    “Major Grey!” von Namtzen called. “Major Grey!”
    “Here!” Grey shouted, finding breath. The figure altered course slightly, hurrying toward him with long, stilted strides that zigged and zagged to avoid obstacles in the path. How in God’s name had Karolus managed on that ground, he wondered, without breaking a leg or both their necks?
    “Major Grey,” Stephan said, grasping both his hands tightly. “John. You are all right?”
    “Yes,” he said, gripping back. “Yes, of course. What has happened? My valet—Mr. Byrd—is he all right?”
    “He has into a hole fallen, but he is not hurt. We have found a body. A dead man.”
    Grey felt a sudden lurch of the heart.
    “What—”
    “Not in a grave,” the captain hastened to assure him. “Lying on the ground, leaning against one of the tombstones. Your valet saw the corpse’s face most suddenly in the light of his lantern, and was frightened.”
    “I am not surprised. Is he one of yours?”
    “No. One of yours.”
    “What?” Grey stared up at the Hanoverian. Stephan’s face was no more than a pale oval in the dark. He squeezed Grey’s hands gently and let them go.
    “An English soldier. You will come?”
    He nodded, feeling the cold air heavy in his chest. It was not impossible; there were English regiments to north and to south of the town, no more than an hour’s ride away. Men off duty would often come into town in search of drink, dice, and women. It was, after all, the reason for his own presence here—to act as liaison between the English regiments and their German allies.
    The body was less horrible in appearance than he might have supposed; while plainly dead, the man seemed quite peaceful, slumped half sitting against the knee of a stern stone matron holding a book. There was no blood nor wound apparent, and yet Grey felt his stomach clench with shock.
    “You know him?” Stephan was watching him intently, his own face stern and clean as those of the stone memorials about them.
    “Yes.” Grey knelt by the body. “I spoke to him only a few hours ago.”
    He put the backs of his fingers delicately against the dead man’s throat—the slack flesh was clammy, slick with rain, but still warm. Unpleasantly warm. He glanced down, and saw that Private Bodger’s breeches were opened, the stuff of his shirttail sticking out, rumpled over the man’s thighs.
    “Does he still have his dick, or did the she-thing eat it?” said a low voice in