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.’