The Winter Sea

The smile that touched his eyes was one she never would forget. ‘Then come with me.’

‘What, now ?’ That was enough to free her from the spell. ‘Oh, John, you know that we cannot. The Bishop never will agree to—’

‘Damn the Bishop,’ was his mild reply. ‘He has no say in our affairs.’

‘And who will marry us, if not the Bishop?’

‘My brother Robert makes his living in the law, and he would tell you that a marriage made by handfast is as binding as a marriage made in Kirk.’

She knew of handfasting. She’d even seen it done when she was but a girl, and she recalled her mother’s explanation that the sacrament of marriage was the only one that did not need a priest, because the man and woman were themselves the ministers, and bound themselves together by their words. Handfast was frowned upon these days, but practised still— an old tradition of a bygone age when priests were not so plentiful, especially in lonelier locations, and the joining of a man’s hand to a woman’s was a simpler thing.

‘Sophia.’ Holding out his hand to her, he said, ‘Will ye come with me?’

‘Where?’

‘’Tis best done over water.’

In the middle of the bridge he stopped, and drew her round to face him, while beneath their feet the water, turned half-golden by the sun, slipped through the shadow of the arch of wood and flowed on without care towards the sea.

They were alone. He took her two hands in his larger ones.

‘I take ye to my wedded wife,’ he said, his voice so quiet that the water sang above it. ‘Now, lass, tell me that ye’ll have me for your husband.’

‘Is that all?’

‘That’s all.’

She raised her gaze to his. ‘I take you to my wedded husband.’ Then, because that seemed unfinished somehow, she invoked the name of God the Father, and the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.

‘I thought,’ said Moray, ‘ye did not believe.’

‘Then it can do no harm to ask His blessing.’

‘No.’ His fingers tightened briefly on her own, as if he understood her need to hold, by any means, this little piece of happiness. ‘No, it can do no harm.’

Sophia looked at him. ‘Are we then married?’

‘Aye,’ he said. ‘We are.’ She heard the pride, and a faint challenge, in his words. ‘And ye can tell that to the countess when she comes to try to marry ye to someone else.’ His kiss was warm, and deep, and too soon ended. ‘That’s for now. The rest will have to keep, else we’ll be late to Erroll’s table.’

So then, thought Sophia, it was done. A touch of hands, words over water, and a kiss, and everything was changed. It was a little thing, and yet she felt the change within herself so very keenly she was sure the Earl of Erroll or the countess would be quick to see it also, and remark upon it. But the evening passed without an incident.

At supper, Moray and Sophia sat in their accustomed chairs, across from one another, and behaved for all the world as if things were the same as they had been that morning, though Sophia feared that, in her effort not to stare and so betray her feelings, she had erred too far the other way, and hardly looked at him at all.

The only person who had taken note was Kirsty. After supper, in the corridor, she caught Sophia passing. ‘Have ye quarreled?’

‘What?’ Sophia asked.

‘Yourself and Mr Moray. Ye were quiet all the meal. Has he upset ye, in some way?’

‘Oh. No,’ she said. ‘He has done nothing to upset me.’

Kirsty, unconvinced, looked closely at Sophia’s flushing face. ‘What is it, then? And I’ll not have ye say ’tis naethin,’ was her warning, as Sophia made to speak.

She wanted desperately to tell, to share some measure of her happiness with Kirsty, but her fear of putting Moray into danger bound her tongue. She summoned up a weary smile and said, ‘’Tis only that my head aches.’

‘And nae wonder, with the walks that ye’ve been taking in all weathers. Ye’ll be bringing on a fever,’ Kirsty chided her. ‘No matter what the bards may say, there’s no romance in dying for a man.’

It was pure instinct made Sophia lift her head. ‘What do you know about my walks with Mr Moray?’

‘Ye can put the blame on Rory. He’s aye seeing things, he is, though he’ll not speak of them to any soul but me, and that but rarely.’

Glancing up and down the corridor for reassurance that they were alone, Sophia asked, ‘And what does Rory tell you?’

‘That yourself and Mr Moray were this evening on the bridge down by the burn, and holding hands, and talking serious. ’Tis why I thought ye must have quarreled after, for ye did not seem, tonight, as if—’ She broke off, as though something had just suddenly occurred to her, and as her eyes were widening, Sophia pleaded,

‘Kirsty, you must promise me you’ll never say what you’ve just said, to anyone. Not anyone.’

‘Ye’ve married him!’ The words came in a whisper, half accusing, half delighted. ‘Ye’ve married him by handfast, have ye not?’

‘Oh, Kirsty, please.’

‘I’ll never tell. Ye needn’t fear I’ll tell, nor Rory, either. But Sophia,’ she said, in a whisper still, ‘what will ye do?’

Sophia did not know what she would do. She had not planned this. It had happened of its own accord, and she’d had little time to think about the future.