The Winter Sea (25 page)

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I
T WAS
, S
OPHIA THOUGHT
, like waiting for the headsman’s axe to fall.

It had been but a day since Colonel Hooke had made a safe return to Slains, looking ill and weary from his days of horseback traveling among the Scottish nobles. And this morning, shortly after dawn, Monsieur de Ligondez’s French frigate, the
Heroine
, had reappeared in full sail off the coast, having kept strictly to his earlier instructions to remain three weeks at sea.

Sophia’s heart felt like a stone within her chest. She could not look at Moray, who sat now in his accustomed place across the dinner table, for she would not have him see the wretched nature of her misery. It was as well, she thought, that all the others were so focused on their conversation that they took no notice of the fact she had no appetite for any of the fine food Mrs Grant had set in front of them—oysters and mutton and wildfowl in gravy, a swirl of rich smells that would normally stir her, but which, on this day, failed to tantalize. Pushing the meat round the plate with her fork, she listened while the Earl of Erroll questioned Hooke about his meetings with the other chieftains.

‘Nearly all,’ said Hooke, ‘have signed their names to a memorial whereby they pledge King James their swords and loyalty, and lay out their requests for arms and aid, to guard his person when he lands. If you will sign it for yourself, and for those others who did give you leave to sign for them, then I will gladly carry it with me to Saint-Germain, and give it by my own hand to the king.’

The earl was sitting back, his keen eyes deep with thought. ‘Who has not signed?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You said, “nearly all” had signed. Who did not choose to put their name to this memorial?’

‘Ah.’ Hooke searched his memory. ‘None but two. The Duke of Gordon and the Earl of Breadalbane, though both did pledge me their support. The Duke of Gordon said he could not in good conscience sign a document that calls upon King James to come to Scotland and so put himself in danger.’

The young earl glanced along the table to where Moray sat, and in a calm, impassive voice, reminded Hooke, ‘I know of many in this country who do risk as much, for lesser gain.’

Hooke nodded. ‘And I’m well aware of that. I tell you only what the Duke of Gordon said to me. ’Twas my opinion that both he and Breadalbane would not sign more from caution than from any great concern about the king.’

The earl shrugged. ‘Aye, well, Breadalbane has kept his head and health for eighty years, and in that time I do not doubt he’s grown too canny to affix his name to anything except his correspondence.’

‘You may be right.’ Hooke cocked a look towards the earl. ‘Do you then share his cautious nature?’

‘If I did,’ the earl said, ‘you would not be here, nor would there be a French ship anchored now below my castle. Do you honestly suppose that, in these times, no one has whispered to Queen Anne of our involvement? It is sure she knows, or does suspect, and only my position keeps our lands from being forfeit. Yet for these past years my mother and my father, heaven rest his soul, and now myself, have ventured all to aid our king however we are able.’

‘And I do know the king is duly grateful.’ Hooke said hastily, as though he realized he had pressed the younger man too firmly.

It was true, Sophia thought. If it had not been for the countess and her son, King James would have found it more difficult sending his agents across into Scotland to raise the rebellion. At Slains they were sheltered and aided. The countess had even brought in, for Hooke’s comfort, an old Catholic priest, who could yet say the mass. For so long now, Sophia had worried for Moray, and what would become of him if he were taken. She hadn’t considered, till now, just how greatly the earl and his mother might suffer if they were to be convicted of high treason.

They would be called to pay, she thought, with more than just their lands. A noble birth had never been a guard against a sharp drop from the gallows—it but made the fall the greater.

From the head of the table, the earl said to Hooke, ‘I will read your memorial, and if I do approve its terms, I’ll sign, both for myself and for the others who do trust me.’ With that settled, he returned to eating, spearing up a chunk of roasted mutton with his knife-point. Casually, he added, ‘I confess I am surprised you did convince the Duke of Hamilton to sign.’

Hooke paused. It was the faintest wobble of his confidence, but still Sophia saw it. Then his features found their place again. He said, ‘When I did speak of those two lords who did not sign, I meant those lords among the ones I had the chance to meet, and speak with. I regret the Duke of Hamilton did not feel well enough to meet with me.’

‘And so he has not signed?’ the earl asked.

‘No.’

‘I see. Well,
that
,’ the earl said, smiling, ‘is no more than I expected.’ He stabbed another piece of mutton. ‘Did my mother tell you we have had a letter from the duke’s friend, Mr Hall?’

Hooke raised an eyebrow to the countess. ‘Have you, now?’

She said, ‘You must forgive me, it did come to us by night, while you were sleeping, and with the arrival this morning of Monsieur de Ligondez, it had escaped my mind. Yes, Mr Hall did write to beg a favor of me, that I tell you he is coming north, by order of the duke, to renew the negotiation with you, and that he hopes you will not leave before he does arrive, and that you will not conclude anything with the rest of us, for he is sure you will be satisfied with the proposals he will bring.’

‘Indeed.’ Hooke’s eyes betrayed his interest. Thinking for a moment, he addressed Monsieur de Ligondez. ‘Well, then, I wonder if you could see fit to cruise off the coast for a few days longer?’

It must, Sophia thought, be rather wearying for the French ship’s captain, forever coming back to Slains and being sent away again, and she would not have blamed him had he told Hooke to be damned, although she privately would not have minded if the ship had kept to sea another month. Whatever thoughts de Ligondez himself might have, he kept them closely shuttered, and with one curt nod, said, ‘Very well.’ He spoke, in English, carefully and slowly, as though forced to think of every word, although Sophia guessed his understanding of the language was quite fluent. He’d been following along with ease, while they had talked—he’d laughed at the earl’s jokes, and his black eyes had shown an admiration of the clever comments of the countess.

And he’d seemed to have a great respect for Moray, who asked Hooke, ‘Ye cannot think the duke will give ye satisfaction now, when he has kept ye hanging in the hedge so long?’

Hooke said, in his defense, ‘I met the Duke of Hamilton when we were both much younger men, and sharing prison quarters in the Tower. I do know his faults, believe me, but I owe him still some measure of that friendship. If he but asks me to remain a few more days that I may hear his own proposals, I can surely do that much.’

The earl replied, ‘Perhaps the duke does fear that your design may find success without him, Colonel Hooke, for I do think that nothing but that fear could make him take such a step as to send Mr Hall to you.’

Moray had read the move differently, and said so now. ‘And has it not occurred to ye, the duke might mean no more than to delay us?’

‘To what end?’ asked Hooke.

‘His lordship has already said, there is no safety here. And many of those men whose names are signed to your memorial would pay a bitter price if that same document were set before Queen Anne.’ His level gaze met Hooke’s. ‘My brother William signed for you, as Laird of Abercairney, did he not?’

‘He did.’

‘Then ye’ll forgive me, Colonel, if I do not hold your friendship with the duke as being worth my brother’s life. Or mine.’

There was a pause, while Hooke at least appeared to be considering the argument. ‘I take your point,’ he said, at last, ‘but I must keep my conscience. We will wait for Mr Hall a few days more.’

And so, Sophia thought, she was reprieved, but her relief was tempered by the knowledge that it was but temporary, time enough to thread a few more days like beads of glass along the fragile string of memories that would be her only joy to hold, when he had gone. For in the end, she knew, the axe
would
fall, and there would be no rider bearing one last pardon to relieve her of the pain of it.

He would not take her with him.

She had asked him, in a foolish moment while they’d lain in bed last night, aware that Hooke’s returning meant their time was growing short. She had been watching him, and trying with a fierceness to commit to memory how he looked, his head upon her pillow, with his short-cropped hair that would have curled itself if he had let it grow, not kept it shorn with soldier’s practicality beneath the wig. She knew the feel of that dark hair against her fingers now, and knew the hard line of his cheek, and how his lashes lay upon that cheek in stillness, like a boy’s, when he had spent himself in loving her and stretched himself along her side, and breathed in gentle rhythm, as though sleeping.

But he did not sleep. Eyes closed, he asked, his voice a murmur on the pillow, ‘What are ye looking at?’

‘You.’

‘I’d have thought ye’d have seen more of me than was good for a lass, these past days.’ His eyes drifted half-open, lazily, holding a smile. ‘D’ye fear ye’ll forget what I look like?’

She could not answer him so lightly. Rolling to her back, she focused on a faint crack that had spread across the ceiling as a rip might run through fabric. ‘John?’

‘Aye?’

‘Why have you never asked me to go with you?’

‘Lass.’

‘I am not rooted here at Slains, I’ve only just arrived, and none would miss me overmuch if I should leave.’

‘I cannot take ye.’

She could feel a crack begin to spread across her heart as well, just like the one that marred the ceiling. Moray reached a hand to touch her hair and turn her face towards him. ‘Look at me,’ he said, and when she did, he told her quietly, ‘I would not take you into France, or Flanders, to a field of war. ’Tis no life for the lass I love.’ His touch was warm against her skin. ‘Before this year is out, the king will be on Scottish soil again, and I will be here with him, and he’ll have his crown, and there will be a chance for you and me, then, to begin a life together. Not in France,’ he said, ‘but here, at home, in Scotland. Will ye wait for that?’

What else could she have done, she thought, but nod, and let him kiss her? For when she was in his arms it seemed the world was far away from them, and nothing could intrude upon the dream.

She would have given much to have that feeling now.

The talk around the dinner table had reverted to the war upon the continent, and how things stood for France, and of the word, just lately come across the water, that there had been a decisive victory for the French and Spanish forces at Almanza.

‘’Twas the Duke of Berwick’s doing,’ Hooke remarked with admiration.

Everyone admired the Duke of Berwick. He was half-brother to the young King James, born to their father by his mistress, Arabella Churchill, and although he was denied, by virtue of his bastard birth, a claim upon the throne, he had, by virtue of his courage and intelligence, become his younger brother’s best defender, and in doing so had earned himself the love and great respect of all the Scots.

The Earl of Erroll gave a nod. ‘You do know that our nobles wish the Duke of Berwick to be put in full command of bringing King James back to us?’

‘It is already known at Saint-Germain,’ said Hooke, ‘and several of the chieftains here did mention it again to me, when we did meet.’

The countess said, ‘He is the only choice, the king must see that.’

‘And I have no doubt the king will choose him, if it is his choice to make,’ said Hooke.

Sophia knew that when the countess smiled like that, it was designed to hide the workings of her intellect from those she meant to question. ‘And who else would make the choice for him?’

Hooke shrugged. ‘The King of France will have some say in it, if he is to provide the arms, and ships, and all the funds for our success.’

‘I see.’ The countess, smiling still, asked, ‘And in your opinion, Colonel, does the King of France desire success?’

Not for the first time, Sophia saw Moray’s grey eyes fix in silence on the countess, with respect. Then, still in silence, his gaze traveled back for the Irishman’s answer.

Hooke appeared surprised. ‘Of course he does, your Ladyship. Why would he not?’

‘Because his purpose will be served as well if England only hears that we do plan the king’s return, for then the English surely will call some of their troops home to guard against it, and the King of France will find it somewhat easier to fight their weakened forces on the continent. He does not need to fight our war. He has but to suggest it.’ She ended her remark by neatly forking up a piece of fowl, as though she had been speaking of some trifle, like the weather, and not making an analysis of France’s foreign policy.

The earl, his voice amused, said, ‘Mother.’

‘Well, ’tis time that someone at this table did speak plainly,’ was her calm defense. ‘You do forget my brother is the young king’s chancellor, and I am well aware that there are those among the French king’s court who, for their varied purposes, would see this venture fail. We cannot think it was an accident that Mr Moray was sent over to us this time, when his capture would have ruined all. We can but thank God Mr Moray has the sense to know when he is being played.’ Her eyes, here, fixed on Hooke’s face with a patience that was motherly. ‘Not all men are so worldly wise.’

The earl leaned forward once again as if to speak, but she held up her hand.

‘A moment, Charles. Before you put your name to this memorial, and risk your head and mine still further, I would ask the colonel if he is content, in his own mind, that the French king will keep its terms, and bring our young king safely to our shores?’

Even Monsieur de Ligondez looked round at Hooke, to wait for his reply. Hooke thought a moment, and appeared to choose his words with care. ‘I cannot give you promises, your Ladyship. I can but tell you what I have observed, and what I feel in my own heart. The King of France has raised young James with his own children, and he loves him like a son. I would not think that, for the sake of politics, he’d risk our young king’s life.’