The Winter Sea

Moray heard no more than that, for he was sliding back into the darkness. When he surfaced next the pain within his chest was agony. He had to clench his teeth to keep from crying out.

‘There, lad,’ said Colonel Graeme, close beside him. Moray felt a cup pressed to his lips. He drank. The brandy burned, but helped to take his focus from the effort of his breathing. He lay back again, and looked around the room. He did not know where they had taken him—it looked to be a private house or cottage, plainly furnished, with bare walls and floors and curtains of white lace that let the daylight through to touch the wooden chair where Colonel Graeme had been sitting with his feet propped on the bed—the dent still showed upon the blankets. Moray’s gaze, disoriented, fell upon the red coat that was hanging from that chair, and he inhaled enough air to speak. ‘Not mine.’

‘What’s that?’ His uncle looked round, saw the coat, and turned back with a soothing nod. ‘Oh aye, I ken it’s not yours, lad. We took it off the soldier lying next to ye and used it as a blanket when we brought ye from the woods. Ye felt like ice, and that poor laddie had no further need of it.’

He knew that coat. Knew every button on it, he had looked at it so long. ‘He was’—he drew in breath to force the words—‘a Scot. McClelland.’

‘Fighting for the wrong side, from his coat. That’s Royal Irish.’ Colonel Graeme raised the brandy cup again, his wise eyes knowing. ‘Fell to talking, did ye? Well, ’tis sometimes what does happen, though I’m fair surprised he had the wit to talk. Ye saw his legs?’ And glancing down, he read the answer in his nephew’s eyes. ‘What did ye speak of ?’

‘Life. His life. He came from’—Christ, it hurt to talk—‘Kirkcudbright.’

‘Oh, aye?’ Colonel Graeme’s tone held interest as he glanced again at Moray’s face. ‘When I was last at Slains, I met a lass who came from near Kirkcudbright. Bonny lassie, so she was. Ye might have met her?’

Only Moray’s eyes moved, locking silently upon his uncle’s face as Colonel Graeme said, ‘I took it on myself to teach her chess, while I was there. She did fair well at it, her only weakness being she did seek to guard her soldiers in the same way she did guard her king, and did not like to see them taken.’ He was smiling faintly at the memory as he offered up the brandy one more time and said, ‘Had I a lass like that, the very thought of her would make me fight to stay among the living.’

Moray meant to make reply, but he was drifting with the pain again and though he did not want to close his eyes he could not help it.

When he opened them the next time he at first thought he was dreaming that first day again, for there were both his uncle and the king in conversation by the window, with their backs toward the bed.

‘Aye, he is much better now, Your Majesty,’ said Colonel Graeme with a nod. ‘I do believe we’ve brought him through the worst of it.’

The king was glad to hear it, and he said so. ‘I do leave for Saint-Germain within the hour, and it will please me to have some good news to carry to my mother.’

Moray’s voice was weaker than he wanted it, but when he called across to them they heard it, all the same. ‘Your Majesty.’

The young king turned, and Moray saw it really was the king. ‘Well, Colonel Moray,’ he said, crossing to the bed. ‘Are you in need of something?’

Speech still hurt him, but he braved it. ‘Nothing but my sword.’

‘You will not need that yet awhile.’

And Colonel Graeme came behind to put the point more bluntly. ‘Lad, your leg was badly wounded and it never will come right again. Ye’ll no more be a soldier.’

And he knew it. Though his mind might yet resist the truth, his body could not hide it. ‘There are other ways to serve.’ He winced as, rolling slightly to his side, he looked beyond his uncle to the king. ‘I’ve not yet lost my eyes and ears, and both are yours if ye see fit to send me back where I can use them.’

The king looked down at Moray, and his youthful face belied the steady wisdom in his eyes. ‘I thank you for your offer, Colonel, but till I am safely back in Scotland I cannot allow you to return there, with so great a price upon your head.’

‘I do not speak of Scotland.’ Moray winced again and had to wait a moment for the stabbing pain within his chest to pass, before he could go on. ‘The man who fell beside me was an Ulsterman. We talked. I do remember all his stories, all the details of his life. He has no kin.’ He fixed his gaze upon the king. ‘I could become him for a time. Move among the Scots in Ulster. Let ye ken their thoughts and plans.’

He saw the thought take hold. The Irish were important to King James’s cause, and knowing how the Irish Protestants were thinking would be valuable. The king said slowly, ‘You would do this?’

‘Aye. If it will help to speed ye home to Scotland.’

Colonel Graeme interrupted. ‘Think, lad. Think, for this is not a move that should be lightly made. If ye would take this path, then none can learn ye are yet living. Till the king’s return, lad, all your kin and all who love ye must believe John Moray died in that infernal wood, and that is what your mother and your brothers and your sisters will be told.’ His grey eyes serious, he added, ‘And your lass.’

The pain wrapped still more tightly round him, and it came not only from his wounds this time but from a deeper place within his chest, so each breath burned. ‘It is for her sake I would do this. So that we may one day be together.’