“He'd had enough of Red George and his clergymen,” called a voice from the other side of the cabin. “A priest six and a half foot tall.”

“A magical priest, for he grows a few inches with each telling,” added another voice.

MacLeod raised his voice to be heard. “Uz tells us the priest goes into battle with a great crucifix that he uses like a pike.”

“A Jesuit, no doubt,” Simon said in his dry way. That set the room off again; Catholics, Lily noticed, liked a joke at the expense of their priests, if they did not skirt too close to the truth. Simon especially liked such jokes, perhaps, she reminded herself, because he had an uncle who was a Jesuit.

“Uz Brodie, chased off by a priest,” hooted a small man on the other side of the room.

The reaction was immediate, for Brodie flushed a mottled red and thrust out his chest like an affronted turkey. Indeed, he looked a great deal like a turkey, Lily thought, with a wattle of red skin on his neck and a nose blue with cold and sharp as a beak and quick black eyes.

“You laugh, Clarke, laugh on. But there's no place for priests among fighting men.”

“And why not? I've nothing against priests,” said the small man, who, Lily noticed now, was missing all the teeth on one side of his mouth and, as if to compensate, had a thick red scar where the opposite eyebrow should be.

“You wouldn't like these priests, that I promise you.”

Drew Clarke said, “I was hoping there'd be a priest or two at the garrison. My Jeanne, she has got marriage on the mind, and she'll want a priest to do the job.”

An unfortunate turn of phrase, but it was said and Clarke must wait out the laughter. Then MacLeod unfolded himself from his spot on the floor and raised both hands in the air in a gesture that managed to be both forceful and easy.

“Brodie,” he said. “Tell the whole story, now. Wasn't there a parson too?”

Simon's head came up suddenly. “I've heard of this. A Mr. Brown, who's got the habit of moving laggards into battle by thumping them with his Bible.”

This time the laughter went on for so long that Lily gave up her work for a moment until the worst had passed. Her subject on his stool before her ducked his head but could not hide his embarrassment. He grinned at Lily, sheepishly.

“I take it you had dealings with this Mr. Brown,” she said, going back to her drawing.

“Well, yes,” he said, subdued. “I did. But it was an accident, him falling into the river, I swear it.”

“Bible and all,” said MacLeod. “A sorry accident indeed.”

“And Forsyth? Did you ever get a look at him?” Lily asked, and felt Simon stiffen beside her, as if she had given too much away about her own interests and loyalties.

But none of the men seemed to be unsettled by her question, and instead launched into piecing together what news they had of the campaigns along the St. Lawrence, where raids moved back and forth with regularity and the smugglers had grown bold. Lily listened, but heard nothing of Jim Booke's riflemen or her brother or Blue-Jay, and after a while the conversation turned in other directions.

She had done drawings of most of the men when weariness overtook her and she excused herself, leaving Simon to talk to the men while she retired behind her blanket.

“A fine wife you've found yourself,” she heard MacLeod say to Simon, who made a deep sound in his throat, the one that a Scot made when he was deeply satisfied, but didn't care to say so plainly.

She thought of calling out that she wasn't his wife yet, and that she did not care to be handed off so easily, when another voice spoke up.

“Her brother approves the match?”

“And if he didn't, it's not the brother I'm marrying,” said Simon.

“You're still partners, you and Luke.”

Lily reminded herself that these men were trappers, and would go back to trading furs when the war was done; they weren't so much interested in her marriage as they were in Luke's business affairs, and by extension, Simon's.

“Aye,” said Simon sharply.

“I was just asking, man. No need to bristle.”

“Well, you're talking about his wife's family,” said Uz Brodie. “A man's got a right to be prickly about something like that. Especially a man married to Luke Bonner's sister.”

“I heard tell she was pretty,” said another voice, one Lily couldn't put a face to. “But she's all hair and eyes. You'd have to shake the bed sheets to find her. I like more meat on the bone, moi.”

There was an ominous silence, and Lily imagined that Simon had fixed the speaker with his most displeased look, for the man muttered an apology.

“No offense,” he said.

“Not if you keep a civil tongue in your head,” Simon answered.

Fully awake now, Lily listened closely but heard nothing more about herself. Gradually she drifted off to sleep, only to wake and find Simon sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Am I too thin?” she asked him.

In the near dark she could not see if he was smiling, but his voice told her that he was.

“Slender,” he said. “And finely proportioned.”

“You've got no complaints, then.” She was angling for compliments, of course; too late she remembered that such tactics never worked with Simon Ballentyne and in fact took her just where she would rather not go.

“One,” he said. “I'm cold, and tired.”