The Winter Sea

‘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.