Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The Governor of the town wished to give a reception for the Prince and his fellow-exiles, and this took place a few days after Lochiel's arrival. The three Camerons were to go, though not their redcoat, of course (which coat was now properly repaired, with new sleeves set in by a tailor of the town.) Lochiel's face showed no sign of the melancholy which Ewen knew assailed him; by now, his Chief was mostly recovered of his wound, but -

“Donald, you will surely come back here once the ceremonial is done?” asked Ewen as they climbed laboriously into the cariole that stood waiting outside their house. “I remember you had little taste for the ball at Holyrood.”

“Yes, have no fear. But I must give the Prince my support at this time.”

Archie, sitting next to his brother, nodded sombrely. “The instant you begin to feel weary, you should leave. You too, Ewen.”

And Archie's clan chief, and his chieftain cousin, nodded obediently.

Holyrood. Ewen remembered, as the cariole clattered its way through the darkening streets of St-Malo, how he had danced there with Alison, in satin and powder, in a blaze of candlelight, amidst a throng of loyal gentlemen and ladies, so many of whom would dance no more. And he would never dance with Alison again; though now, six months after she had turned from him to go to her father, he discovered that he could think of her without pain. They were both different people from the carefree couple who had danced at Holyrood.

At this latest reception, nearly a year after the Holyrood ball, the Prince seemed the least affected of anyone by his disastrous adventure. Ewen was conscious of a slight feeling of discontent at this, and the welcoming speeches being done, and the meal consumed, and the dancing begun, he went in search of Lochiel.  He found his cousin sitting in a little side-room with his face set in the still mask which meant he was in pain.

“Do you wish to leave, Donald?”

“Yes, I believe 'twould be wise. The Prince has plenty of company; he will not feel the lack of mine.”

“Shall I look for Archie?” It had become second nature for him to worry.

“No, 'tis not necessary! I need to rest, that's all.”

“I will go with you. Wait there, and I will call the cariole.” And he went in search of the vehicle. It was such a comedown after the carriage Donald had used in Scotland; still, there was little use in regrets. They had escaped with their lives, after all.

At the door of their house, he climbed down carefully from the cariole, and assisted his chief to do likewise, before paying the driver and despatching him to the livery stables. They went through the narrow hallway and into the parlour, to allow Lochiel to rest before climbing the stairs.

Ewen had expected to see Keith sitting at the fireside in one of the easy-chairs, perhaps reading a newspaper; but there was no sign of him. Ewen was a little surprised – it was not late – but he was not obliged to sit up for them, after all.

He and his cousin sat for a while, idly chatting or sitting in comfortable silence, and since Céline was not present in the evenings, Ewen poured wine for them both. Then, feeling suddenly uneasy, he stood; the anxious days of the voyage had returned to him.

“I'll just go and check that he's all right.” He was off down the corridor beside the staircase, and looked into the room they shared.

It was empty. No, it was deserted. The scarlet coat was still there, but the grey fustian was gone, along with Keith's sword, and there was a letter on the small table at Ewen's bedside.

A minute later, and he burst into the parlour, letter in hand.

“He's done it again!”

Lochiel looked up, startled from his doze.

“What? Ewen, who has done what?”

“He's gone!”

Seeing the letter, Lochiel began to understand. “You mean the Major?”

“Yes. He says -” Ewen gestured with the letter “- that duty compels him to return to his regiment in Flanders; that he has given us no parole; that we have his gratitude, always; that he is sorry -” that it is a privilege to call you my friend. Ewen, I am sorry, but I must go.  “He left money – again! for the sea-voyage, and for Archie's fee. As if we wanted -”

“Wait. He gave you no parole?”

There was a pause. “No. I forgot to ask for it. And since we landed, I've become used to – I simply forgot.” Ewen glared at the letter for a moment, obviously not seeing it at all. “I was going to arrange a prisoner-exchange for him, as soon as Archie said he was fit to travel.”

“And did you tell him this?”

“No! It seemed a matter of course to me.”

“Then 'tis no wonder he has gone! Ewen, what were you thinking of?”

“Nothing, it seems.” He put the letter down, and also the small pile of gold coins that had been enclosed with it. Then he gathered the coins up again. “I'll take these. I might need them.”

“You're going to look for him?”

“Yes! He's not well enough to travel, let alone escape!”  Ewen left the parlour precipitously, and a moment later Lochiel could hear him banging about in the annex room, gathering in haste the items that he would need. “Duncan! Angus!” His voice came imperiously from the foot of the stairs.

“What will you do when you find him?” asked Lochiel, when Ewen erupted into the parlour again.

“Wring his neck!" said Ewen, without hesitation.  "No... I'll bring him back here until he's well enough for the journey. Or if he will not, go with him to the border.”

“And how do you intend to find him?''

That stopped Ewen for a second. “I'll ask at the LeBlancs,” he said, and a few moments later Lochiel heard urgent knocking at the door of their landlords. There was the sound of Céline's voice; meanwhile Lochiel tried to picture what would happen if the LeBlancs could provide no information. Ewen would doubtless set out anyway, and blaze a path across northern France, looking for an enemy who was dearer to him than his brother.

The whirlwind reappeared at the parlour door. “Céline says that she brought some linen in an hour ago, and he was here then. But a while later she heard our door close – you know how we have to bang it shut since the last rain.” He paused, tapping his fingers on the door-frame. “He can't be far ahead. I'll try the livery stables. Donald, I am sorry, but you see I must go, don't you? It's all my fault that he thought he had to do it this way.”

“Yes, you must go. Take care, and let me know as soon as you have news. Godspeed!”

Ewen swooped into the room for a moment, gripped Lochiel's hand in both of his, in gratitude perhaps - or perhaps looking for reassurance as he had done when he was a boy - and departed.

Lochiel found all this very difficult to explain to his brother when he arrived, not that the details of the situation were so convoluted, for they were not.

“Why did they not talk this through days ago?” said Archie, in perplexity.

“I've very little notion. But you know Ewen, chivalrous to a fault, and he would not wish to place the Major in an uncomfortable situation – and the Major is not one for sharing his thoughts.”

Archie glanced down at the letter with pursed lips. He was of the opinion that it spoke worlds – but of course he had had a ten days' voyage on L'Herault with Major Windham, when he was at his most vulnerable. That was not something a doctor could discuss concerning a patient. He let the matter drop.

*

Ewen, meanwhile, with his men in tow, was visiting the livery stables of the town. At the first two he had no luck; at the third, while he hammered on the street door, he fought the impulse to mutter under his breath. Should he have gone to the port first? But no ships, except maybe a privateer, would be sailing at this hour – and a privateer might ask questions that a merchantman would not. Keith would surely prefer to go by land.

Lamplight showed through the cracks of the shutters in the window close at hand.  The street stretched into the dark on either side. Water trickled down the gutters from a light rain that had begun to fall. It was not a good night for a man to be travelling alone; still less a man lately recovered from a terrible wound, and in a hostile country.

A spy-hole in the door opened. Ewen had a sense of a pistol at the ready. “What do you want?”

Ewen explained his mission, and showed a gold coin.  A small hatch in the door slid aside, and the coin passed through. “You'd best come through to the yard, if you really want to hire horses.” The door was, finally, unbarred, and they were into the office.

“He didn't say which road he would take?”

“No, but he had a Flemish accent, so maybe he'll be going that way.”

That was what Ewen expected; Keith was always inclined to go straight for his goal – but the point about his accent was a good one, and perhaps Ewen could track him that way. He was only thankful that Keith's most recent experience of speaking French was in Flanders, and not in an English schoolroom.

He scribbled a note to be taken back to Lochiel, and gave it to young Angus, who departed at a run. Then, with Duncan at his back, he went out to the yard, where an ostler had three horses ready; the best in the stables, or so he'd said. They loaded one with their bags, mounted the others, and walked the horses through the archway that led out to the street, maintaining that cautious walk on its cobbles until these petered out at the edge of the town and they were able to increase their pace.

Ewen could feel the resignation emanating from Duncan. But only once had the man spoken out. “Mac 'ic Ailein, since the Major wishes to be gone, would we not be better to let him go?”

Ewen was not going to share the contents of that letter with anyone but Donald and Archie. “He wishes to be gone, surely. But it does not follow that he needs to go alone. I'll see him safe to the border, or a port if he goes by sea, and when that's done, I'll return.”

“But your wound...”

“Has done well enough until now. The leg will carry me for a few days more.”

The resignation turned to disapproval.

“That is my final word, Duncan.”

They went on at a brisk walk, the moon lighting their way when it looked out from behind the drifting clouds. Its light – that calm, otherworldly light – illumined not only the quiet landscape but the inner landscape of Ewen's being; and he studied this new realisation with some wonderment as they rode. How had he not recognised this feeling before? It had informed all that he had done since Morar; it had been growing, strong as a sapling tree, even before then.

The town was some miles behind. They passed through farmland, and then through a village: winding street, church and inn. At the third such village, Ewen reined in.

“We must stop.” For the sake of the horses, above all. Given the choice, Ewen would have gone on through the night. “That inn will do.”

They turned in under the archway. There were still a few guests drinking late, which was all to the good; the travellers would not have to rouse the house. Half an hour later, he was lying on a comfortable enough bed, wide awake with worry. An hour after that, he was asleep, and the moonlight coming in through the window had left his face - but the knowledge that it had brought remained.

The next day was dull and overcast, and they rode out, in a slow dawn, following news of a dark-haired man who spoke with a Flemish accent. Past orchards of apple and pear they went, the roads busy with carts, taking the harvest to storehouses or to the markets. The villagers were out in force, manhandling great baskets of fruit, the women as strong and busy as the men, and the chattering children kept hard at it too. And now and then, Ewen would stop and ask one or another of the adults: “Did a dark-haired man ride along this way? Did he speak?”

The overcast clouds turned to a light rain, which fortunately was at their backs. And in the dusk at the day's end, with the road stretching down a long slope ahead, was a man on horseback, sword at his side, going slowly with his shoulders set in a weary slump. Ewen, peering, was as sure as he could be of the identity of that figure.

“Duncan, wait here.” Duncan nodded without comment.

Ewen trotted forward, the movement sending sharp discomforts through his injured leg, and brought his horse close to the other - for it was indeed Keith. Ewen felt a huge relief well up in his heart.

Keith had reined in at the sound of the approaching rider, and glanced round; a look of extreme chagrin crossed his features.

“Keith. You didn't have to escape, not this time. It's my fault. I should have said...” Ewen, in his haste, found the words stumbling on his tongue. He peered at Keith's face, set cold under the brim of his hat.

“For God's sake. This is a fine time to tell me.” Keith could not even summon the energy to snap the words.

“I know. I know. Come home.” He gestured vaguely behind him. “We can talk it over at the inn, in the village back there. Just come back with me.” The horses were standing now, but Ewen's stamped a hoof, and another hoof, sensing its rider's distress.

“I will not be diverted from my purpose, Ardroy.”

“When were you ever? And there's no need to call me anything except 'Ewen' – unless it's idiot, or fool. Just come home for now, until you're well enough -”

“It isn't home.”

“I know. It felt like one, for a while - just come back. Just to the inn. We can talk there. It's getting cold.”  Indeed it was, the drizzle and the dusk compounding to make a miserable evening. “And you forgot your coat.” Ewen had packed the uniform coat into his saddlebags, as a kind of talisman.

“My coat.” Keith made a sound of extreme exasperation.  “You want me to come back so you can persuade me, you mean.”

“I can apologise. You can accept it, or not, as you will.”

Keith glared at him, but turned his horse. “The inn, then. I make no promises.”

“Thank God.” He smiled at the Englishman. “Let us make haste, then. The light's going fast.”

*

Duncan led the horses to the stables and disappeared thence to the rambling quarters at the rear of the inn. Now Ewen and Keith, who was wearing his red coat again like a challenge, were facing each other across a remarkably fine meal in the dining-parlour. In silence, for now it came to the point, neither wanted to begin a conversation which, given the hot tempers of both participants, could so easily end in disaster.

“The food is good,” said Ewen, after a while.

“Yes, although the weather is inclement for the time of year,” responded Keith.

They glanced at each other in silence – broken only by the sound of a group of travellers arriving at the inn - and continued to consume their meal.

“Oh, damn it, Ewen, I'm sorry. But I had to do it, you see that, don't you?'

“No, I don't. You're not fit to travel, and you must surely have known that I would not keep you back once you were.”

“As to the first, I'm the only good judge of that.”

“Archie...” began Ewen.

“Has not been discussing my health with you, I trust.”

“No,” admitted Ewen, ashamed that he had even raised the notion. “Not since you were out of danger.”

“I am relieved to learn it. As to your second point, my honour requires that I rejoin my regiment at the earliest opportunity.”

“Your honour is less important than your life!” Ewen knew it was the wrong thing to say as soon as the words left his lips.

And sure enough, “No, it is not!” Keith was really angry now. “You refused to buy your life at the cost of your honour – why should you expect me to do so?”

“Oh, I am sorry, I didn't mean that.” Ewen passed a hand wearily over his eyes. “But you nearly died. I could feel you going. There was so much blood.  I gambled that Archie would be on that ship, and he only just saved you. Don't -” but here his voice faltered and he could not say any more.

Keith waited a few moments, then pushed his plate to one side, with scant regard for the work that Madame Valatte had put into its contents. “Ewen. I am a soldier.”

Ewen looked up again. “Does not King George need all the soldiers he can muster?”

Keith's mouth tilted up at the corner in that irresistible smile of his, and Ewen smiled back as he always did. “That's the first time you've called him that,” Keith pointed out.

“And the last. Well, he may have many redcoats, but I have only one.”

Keith shot him a startled look. But now the conversation, which had taken a promising turn, was interrupted by a group of men entering through the dining-parlour's open door.  Ewen got hastily to his feet, for first through the door was Charles Edward Stuart, followed by several gentlemen familiar from the sea-voyage. Keith also rose, with more studied politeness.

The Prince, of course, was smiling. “I thought I heard a voice I knew, and was I not right, Sir Francis?” Strickland assented, reluctantly. “Ardroy, I did not expect to find you here! Nor you, Major. Nor,” his voice took on a slight edge, “did I expect to hear you speak of King George!” And as Ewen stiffened, he added, “For if you do not wish others to overhear your words, you should speak lower, Ardroy.”

“To my good friend only, who will not hear of any Electors.” Ewen stood very tall and forbidding.

Charles Edward, who was not, after all, an unintelligent man, had noticed how Ardroy and redcoat, without moving at all, had drawn insensibly together. “Ah oui? Well, I suppose I must forgive you, then.”

“I believe, sir, that I have spoken of 'your Prince' from time to time, while in no way allowing you that position in my own mind.” Thus, the redcoat in question.

“Sir, I feel an Arctic blight! Well, we may fairly call it quits, since 'twas done in the name of friendship,” said the Prince lightly.

“You are too good, sir,” said the Englishman, bowing.

The Prince's attention turned to the fire; he stood in front of it, stripping off his gloves, and handed them and his hat to Strickland. “It's a raw evening. Tell me, if I may enquire, what do you do here?”

Ewen's mental response was, We were trying to reconcile after a quarrel when you broke in on us, but luckily Keith was already speaking. “It is past time for me to rejoin my regiment, and I go to wait for an exchange. Ardroy has kindly agreed to go with me.”

“So we are to be deprived your company? Well, that's our loss.” Unseen by the Prince, Strickland looked faintly appalled. “Nay, 'tis true! But if you are bound for Flanders, as I believe you must be, we may travel together for a while. I'm on my way to Versailles myself.”

Versailles. The golden name seemed to hang in the air of the dimly-lit parlour; spread to encompass the inn and the whole village. Still it grew; vast pleasure-gardens swept out over the mundane farmlands, busy with peacock courtiers; and at its centre reigned King Louis, a godlike presence from which all else took its lustre. It put Britain and its small, rambling palaces to utter shame.

“We should not impose on your Royal Highness.”

“There's no imposition!” The Prince left the fire and came to their table, seating himself at it with easy assurance, and motioned to them to be seated likewise. “We are shipmates, after all, and since we're going the same way 'tis foolish to go separately.”

Ewen glanced at Keith, expecting him to rebuff the Prince's suggestion with brusque politeness. But instead, and after a moment's pause, he met a firm nod; amazed, he nodded back, and turned to the Prince.

“Your Highness is more than kind. We will go with you.”

“That's settled, then! If the weather's open, you may travel easy in my carriage. I've little mind to use it if I may ride instead. I'm done with hiding myself! But for you two injured gentlemen, it may save you some pains, for we travel fast. We'll leave at dawn; do you finish your dinner, and we will have ours, and so to our beds.”

Thus abjured, Ewen and Keith resumed their cooling meal, and after they finished it, Ewen composed a note to his cousins, to send back with Duncan to St-Malo come the morning. After that, they repaired to their bed-chambers: both of them too tired to do more than seek their rest, and Ewen, for one, decidedly glad that they had separate small bedrooms.  Further talk would have to wait.

*

The English ice had thawed considerably by the next morning. The Prince himself held out his hand to aid Keith to enter the carriage - “Sir, your wound still demands it, I have no doubt!” Ewen was likewise assisted to step inside, and sat down upon its deep cushions with some appreciation.

They glanced at each other. “This is a comfortable carriage,” observed Keith. “The journey will certainly be easier for us both – and I still believe that you should return to St-Malo, now that I have company."

“I'll go with you to the border,” said Ewen, with finality. “Who knows what difficulties you may encounter along the way?” Not for the world would he abandon Keith in the middle of France. He fell silent as the coachman spoke to his horses and the carriage started with a jerk.

*

What seemed like endless miles later, they drew to a halt in front of the stables of the King of France. In any other country, these would have been a palace in themselves. Here they were an unregarded offshoot of the vast edifice of golden stone and flashing glass, the home and seat of power in this land: Versailles.

The palace was not unknown to Ewen, for he had visited it during his two years in the country, but to Keith, of course, it was completely new, except by reputation. His face was unreadable as they passed gate and colonnade and parterre, the huge building looming all the while on their right, its ranks of windows glowing softly in the approaching dusk. There was the sound of laughter, and of music. The air was a rich admixture of scents.

A liveried servant flung open the carriage door. Keith looked at Ewen, raised an enigmatic eyebrow, and descended. Ewen followed, and the carriage rolled away, its wheels crunching on immaculate gravel. They had arrived.

Off to their right, in a knot of his supporters, the Prince called out, “Henri!”and hurried to embrace a younger version of himself. His brother, who had stayed safely in France in the year of Charles Edward's adventure; still, there was obviously great affection between them.  Strickland, meanwhile, was explaining his and Keith's presence to an upper footman, who seemed to Ewen to regard the weary and travel-stained interlopers with polite disdain. Shortly thereafter, they were whisked indoors – through a very minor entrance – and taken up a back staircase to a warren of small rooms set behind a larger apartment allotted to the Prince.

“This is not quite what I imagined of Versailles,” remarked Keith, standing in the middle of their guest-room. It had a couple of beds alongside one wall, a table and chairs, a dressing-table with basin and ewer, and very little else. “Perhaps I will sleep in your Prince's lesser anteroom instead.”

“We have been shown high enough honour; there are many and many who scheme for this much accommodation,” rejoined Ewen. “And,” making a discovery at the wash-stand, “the water is warm!”

*

The next morning, they found their way to the workshop of the court tailor; one of this personage's lesser underlings appeared, and looked down his nose at them, but undertook to provide more seemly clothes. And for the first day, while Keith dozed on his bed with a soldier's ability to sleep whenever time allowed, Ewen was privy to the discussion of the Prince's immediate future in the rooms across the corridor. Pensions and a mansion were hoped for; but it all depended on what kind of mood King Louis was in.

He was, it transpired, in a good enough mood to invite the Prince to a soirée the following night, and with him, his entourage, which had been so providentially swollen by the addition of Ewen and Keith. So Ewen had perforce to hire court clothes, and a sword, since his own broadsword was completely unsuited to the occasion. Keith, on being invited to accompany them, sighed, but said, “Well, yes, of course!” and went with Ewen to see about hiring a wig and a better hat than his own, though he refused utterly to wear anything but his uniform and his Army sword.

So it was with some confidence that Ewen, following his Prince, who was arrayed in plum-coloured satin with silver embroidery, descended the staircase to the reception rooms.  Their reception was gratifying; they were most graciously greeted by His Majesty, with Madame de Pompadour a dazzling presence at his side, and the ladies flocked to the Prince and hung upon his words; and not a few clustered around Ewen too. But throughout that glittering evening, with its music and dancing and brilliant talk, Ewen was all too conscious that they were there because of failure. They should have been in London by now, with King James, not King Louis, at the heart of the festivities.

Keith, of course, would not have been there. Ewen was also conscious of the blazing scarlet coat which he knew so well, having spent so many hours stitching the first repairs to it. For all the magnificence surrounding him, Keith stood out from the brocaded satin, the lace and the plumes. I am a soldier of King George it stated unarguably for its wearer, and stared down the the peacock colours of the assembled courtiers.

Keith was conducting himself admirably; he conversed with a practised ease that was doubtless learned in his stepfather's house; and now he was being led by the Prince to speak with the Queen herself. But when the musicians struck up a minuet, sedate enough to make Ewen think that his leg could carry him through its entirety, he lost sight of his friend in the swirl of courtiers taking the floor. Instead he turned to a young Comtesse, in a gown of various shades of rose-pink bedecked with pearls and ribbons, with whom he was talking, and offered his arm to join them. She accepted this offer with alacrity. “My pink and your green go very well together, sir!” - and they turned to the end of the room where the King was seated, surrounded by princes of the blood; and with the rest of the dancers Ewen bowed and his partner curtsied to the Royal presence.

The minuet began, and wove its way down the room. Ewen was concentrating on the steps of the dance – had it really been a year since he had done this?  He noticed a slight shuffling-up of the set, as if a belated pair had joined their number. But it was not until he turned to bow to the gentleman now opposite him that he realised who one of that tardy pair was: for there facing him was Keith Windham, very obviously (to one who knew him) enjoying Ewen's surprise.

Ewen completed a rather clumsy bow, straightened up, and walked towards Keith. They waited for the beat of the music, retreated and paused while the ladies curtsied to each other in a flurry of silks and plumes at the corner of Ewen's vision. Then forward again; they caught hands and walked round each other, changed hands and circled in the opposite direction. Ewen was conscious of little else except scarlet coat and gold braid, a hard hand clasping his own warmly, and Keith's lurking smile. Then they loosed their grasp, retreated again to the corners of the set, and bowed to each other.

Now the ladies came trippingly forward, in a rustle of skirts and a tapping of little heels, and as they joined hands in a ring, Ewen saw who Keith's partner was: a woman in ivory silks, embroidered with summer flowers, with tall plumes on her head and a face in which patience and nobility of spirit were writ plain to see; but for now, she simply looked pleased.

Keith's partner was, in fact, Marie Leszczyńska, Queen of France.

Ewen mastered the shock which he knew showed on his face, for Her Majesty was advancing towards him; he bowed, took her white hand, and walked with her round the set, feeling a slight dizziness which had nothing to do with the circular motion. Another pause, while they stood with their clasped hands held high and gracefully between them while the other couples promenaded in their turn; at the next phrase of the music, he exchanged a smile with the Queen, and sent her back to her English cavalier.

The rest of the dance was a blur to him, but he was smiling inside all the way through it, and did not have to think or mind his steps; he felt as though he were floating, and made not a single mistake. He and the Comtesse finished the dance not far from Keith and the Queen; he had been aware of those two bright figures the whole time. Now he and his partner turned back to the centre of the room, as did Keith, conversing easily with Her Majesty before giving her over to Charles Edward, who had come up to claim her.

Ewen was as happy as he had ever been in a ballroom.

The Comtesse was claimed by a young gallant for the next dance, and a while after this, Ewen, happening upon Keith in the press, could see the familiar signs of tiredness in his face.

“Do you wish to go?” he asked quietly, under the cover of the first bars of a gavotte.

“I would be glad to, yes.” Direct as always.

“There are chairs in that room,” and Ewen pointed to a door, “Wait there, and I'll tell Strickland we are retiring.”

“There is no need for you to leave too -”

“There is, for my leg is paining me.”

Keith nodded, and went through the door, through which a row of delicate-looking chairs could be glimpsed, and Ewen went to make excuses for both of them; not that their absence was at all likely to be noticed or remarked on. A few minutes later, he found Keith sitting just inside the door of the anteroom, his arms folded forbiddingly.

“'Tis all done; we have our congé.”

They left the anteroom quietly by the further door, and made their way through a series of chambers of varying degrees of magnificence, with footmen like statues at each set of double doors. Beyond the windows, and the candle-flames reflected in the glass, the night showed dark and mysterious; a distant scatter of lights indicated the presence of the city, but nothing at all could be seen of its buildings. The Palace of Versailles was, as ever, its own enclosed world.

They reached the staircase and essayed its first flight. They had left behind the crowd, and therefore, on the half-landing, Ewen felt they had enough privacy to talk a little.

“I confess I was astonished to see you dancing with Her Majesty!”

Keith smiled. “I note you do not say how unexpected it is to see me dancing at all, still less with a queen.”

“I had not expected it, 'tis true – but of course you would have learned in your step-father's house.”

“I was a competent enough pupil. Dancing and fencing, they're not so unalike. Though I fear I do not aspire to the standards of the French court. I was afraid of a mis-step the whole time – though so gracious a lady would never have remarked upon it.”

They came to the upper landing and paused for a moment, while Keith picked up a taper from a box on a gilt table set there, and lit it at the branched candlestick standing next to it. “In that case,” said Ewen, “I confess that I would like to know why you undertook the ordeal. Did the Queen ask you herself?” But why would the Queen of France, even disregarded as she was, ask an English soldier to be her partner? Ewen was trying to picture this conversation, but failed utterly. “As a courtesy to an enemy, perhaps? She is the soul of courtesy, 'tis true.”

“I found her so, certainly. But she did not ask me; I asked her.” Ewen all but gaped at this information. “It so happened that Madame de Pompadour was advancing upon us. I was in no mood to be enchanted, so I asked Her Majesty to rescue me, which she most gallantly did. Perhaps,” said with an ironical lift of the eyebrow, “it was my inborn charm that made her inclined to do so.”

Ewen gave a sudden laugh, hastily stifled, even though they were now well above the reception-rooms. “I am sure that was it! And may I say that the two of you made a brave picture? Her golden and your red went well together. More folk than just I noticed you!”

“Then I am glad I made no mistakes.” Keith's mouth turned up a little at the corner. Yes, he had enjoyed that dance.

They threaded the ill-lit corridors that led to their room, and Ewen unlocking the door, went in. Both sank onto chairs with some relief. Then Keith reached over and lit the three candles in the candelabrum on the table. “That's better. Well, I'm for my bed when I've caught my breath.”

“I too.” In the meagre light of the candles Ewen glanced at Keith, but he was looking no more than tired; he forbore to ask intrusive questions. He went to fill the basin with water, and removing his coat (or rather, his hired coat) began his ablutions.

“What do you think of Versailles, now that you've seen something of it?” he asked, when he emerged from the towel.

And the response came with a inclination of the head. “'Truthfully? 'Tis gilt and glass and mirrors; showy, but brittle.”

This was too much, even though Ewen had seen Keith narrowly observing the court through the early part of the evening and had half-expected something of the sort from his Englishman. His response came without thinking.

“Yet these brittle people have defeated the stalwart English, and not so long ago at that.” Fontenoy. He regretted the words as soon as they were spoken. Keith had taken a severe wound there, not as terrible as the one Lachlan had dealt him, but bad enough.

Instantly Keith riposted, “'Tis not the first time that we have been given a set-back - yet we've prevailed in the end.”

There was a small pause while they looked at each other, less as courtiers now than as Pict and Roman, measuring each other across the Wall, or border reivers, from their windy hilltops. The air had that sharpness which comes before a thunderstorm.

Then Keith laughed, and held out his hand. “Well, we both deserved that. And I've no wish to start a fight, especially here at the French King's court. I believe I might not win.”

Ewen, who felt at a distinct disadvantage, with a towel round his neck and (he was sure) with his hair sticking to him, was not so sure. “We'll cry quits, then.” He took Keith's hand, feeling it warm in his own, and pulled him to his feet. A pause. He did not let go.  He was remembering the other times they had linked hands, whether in growing affection, or comfort, or in the dance just now. Nor did Keith attempt to loose his grasp, but stood regarding him with a half-smile. Then Ewen said, with the sensation with which he had paused on the creag ruadh before diving off it, “Come to bed, Keith.”

Keith raised his eyebrows. “I note that you do not say Go to bed. Can it be that you mean, with you?”

“Why yes, with me. Did you not make mention, just now, of your irresistible charm?”

“So I did.” Keith's hand tightened on Ewen's and he stepped closer to him, close as he had been in the dance; closer still. They looked at each other for a moment, then, finally, kissed; and all was well; all was very well. Ewen sighed, and put his arms around his Englishman, whose hands travelled up and about his shirted back, and they kissed again.

When Keith stepped back a little, he said, “I will admit that I was not quite expecting that.”

“I could have sworn you were flirting with me, in the dance!”

“Possibly I was,” admitted Keith, “but I thought neither of us would act on it.”

“We've waited long enough to act on it.”

“A year? Do you say that to everyone after a year?”

“Of course I do.” And that brought an answering smile from Keith, and his hand went up and alighted on Ewen's cheek, and they drew together and kissed again.

Then Keith turned half away and put aside sword-belt and sash, shed his coat and began undoing the buttons of his waistcoat in a business-like manner. “Which bed?” he asked. “They're both narrow, and overgrown as you are, I will probably end up on the floor.”

Ewen surveyed them. “We could push them together.”

This was done in a moment, with some perfunctory rearranging of the covers. “Though I warn you, I will not be able to accomplish anything tonight,” continued Keith, now taking his turn at the washstand.

Ewen sat down on the edge of the doubled bed, and pulled off his shoes, and removed the remainder of his clothes. “We have already accomplished a great deal – and I'm tired myself.” He lay down, and shuffled closer to the wall to leave more space, and held out one hand. “Come sleep with me, Keith Windham.”

Keith blew all but one of the candles out, and lay down naked beside him, and drew the covers up.

*

There was some shifting about to begin with, and some murmuring, but they settled down together well enough, and Ewen found himself sliding towards contentment and slumber with a speed that, even in his drowsy state, he found slightly incongruous. But there it was: ever since they had shared the little hut on the shores of Loch Eil he had been familiar with Keith's breathing and the small movements that he made, even though the warmth of his body was utterly new to him. So Ewen slept, though he woke much later to find that his bedfellow was silently demanding more space of him. The candle had burnt low, but he could see the dark shape close beside him, and the rise of a bare shoulder outlined against the dim light. He smiled to himself before dropping back towards sleep: without yielding the required space by so much as an inch, so they lay closer than ever for the rest of the night.

*

They woke in the morning, and found they were no longer quite so tired.

Ewen, turning in the circle of the arm which now lay across him, exchanged a kiss with his bedfellow that woke them both to life in a short space of time. His hands travelled across the soft skin of Keith's shoulder, then his cropped hair, and his strong soldier's body; and then he stopped and hesitated, and traced his fingers down to that long scar that seared around his chest. He pushed the covers down a little way, to see it better.

“No,” mumbled Keith. Ewen made a soft noise of apology. “That's not the sum total of me - any more than this is of you.” Keith's own hand came to rest on Ewen's thigh, where the halberd-thrust that had incapacitated him for months after Culloden had struck home.

They lay like that for a moment, hands on each other's bodies, breathing quiet in the dim light of the shuttered room. Then Keith's hand moved its own length further up Ewen's body, and Ewen all but yelped. “This might be the sum total of you, at this very moment,” Keith mused.

“Did you but know what I want to do to you...” Ewen was trembling.

“We'll see if you can, shall we?”

*

They dressed afterwards, Ewen getting back into his travelling clothes and Keith turning back into the soldier complete. Ewen watched him arranging his sash, and settling the sword-belt over his head; and after that was done to his satisfaction, Keith caught sight of Ewen's expression.

“Ewen, all our silence will be of little avail if you continue to look at me like that. For everyone will know what we are to each other.”

“It's likely that everyone will know soon enough - this is Versailles, after all - and that no-one will care what an enemy soldier and an exiled ally are doing together.”

“Still, let us not give them too many hints,” said Keith, but immediately stepped close to Ewen and took him in his arms, who responded with a close embrace, his head bent down to Keith's shoulder; his redcoat, alive! The long days of worry at sea were behind them, and yet, it was still a marvel to him. His arms tightened.

“There's nothing wrong, is there?”

“No. Everything is very right.”

“Not even the Church's prohibition? You have a more profound faith than I.”

Ewen hesitated. “No, not that. Thou shalt not kill, but I've fought in battles; and no-one is harmed by this. But it is all so – impossible...”

“All the more reason to enjoy it now, while we can.” They held each other closer still. “It was very enjoyable,” said Keith, low-voiced, in Ewen's ear, and this made him smile. For enjoyable it certainly had been, there in the bed just a few minutes since.

*

The petit déjeuner was taken at ten o'clock in the prince's apartment.  Ewen was trying not to look as sated as he already felt. The room was of nicely-graded magnificence, and the prince was in sunny mood. The rest of his entourage (for Ewen had to admit that he and Keith had partly been recruited to swell their numbers) was present, including Henri; except for Strickland, who was absent for the first half-hour. He came in at half-past with an expression part-startled, part-sour, with a sealed paper in his hand.

“Ah, Major Windham,” he said. “Good. I need not go in search of you.” And he handed the paper to Keith, who took it with a word of thanks and an expression of surprise and broke the seal.

The talk flowed on around him, politely. The Prince was considering how he should set up the mansion nearby that had been granted to him, and how many horses he could keep on the pension that went with it. Ewen, meanwhile, was wondering how long his own resources would last, when Keith put down the scented paper with a half-smothered sound of astonishment. Ewen turned towards him with a concern which was instantly dissipated by the expression on Keith's face; amazement, yes, but great satisfaction as well.

To the enquiring silence at the table, he said, “It is an order from the Queen's own hand. I am to be released to rejoin my regiment, with no need to wait for an exchange. I am free to go, whenever I wish.”

He was smiling, and the rest of the company was quick with smiles and congratulations, the more so as the Prince came round the table to shake his hand. “You have made a friend of my mother's countrywoman the Queen! It is generous of her, but only to be expected of so great a lady. Tell me, what is there between you and her? You were dancing with her last night!”

“Little enough, sir, save that I preferred her company to that of Madame de Pompadour.”

“Ah, she'd like that! Well, Ardroy, it seems we are to lose our travelling companion at last.”

Ewen, meanwhile, had been remembering the sight of the son and daughter of Poland, standing with their heads bent close together after that minuet, and further remembered a wave of the Prince's hand towards himself, and wondered whether the Prince was in part responsible for this expediting of Keith's freedom. Was the story of an unlikely friendship even now beginning to make its way around the Palace – or was it simply a gracious gesture from a gracious lady? He would probably never know. For now, he was trying to set his own feelings in order; in short, to bring to the fore gladness on Keith's behalf that he was finally going home, and to stifle the little inner voice that cried, To part so soon!  He glanced at Keith and met a look that said the same. The tide of war that had brought them together was sweeping them apart once again.

But that could not be helped. It was, as he had said an hour before, all so improbable. He put a hand on Keith's arm and said, “I am so glad,” and was rewarded by a half-smile.

The Prince was speaking again. “There's no need for you to depart this instant, my dear sir,” and Keith all but blinked at being thus addressed. “Stay but a night or two more, and I will have horses in plenty which will no doubt take you to your destination faster than any hired nags.” indeed? thought Ewen; or will they be Her Majesty's horses?  “And Ardroy may go with you to bring them back, if he wishes it, and I am sure he will wish it. Do not deprive us of our redcoat before you must! And perhaps you may dance one more time with the Queen.”

Ewen could have kissed his Prince there and then. Fortunately he managed to suppress this impulse, but joined his thanks to Keith's, and in the discussion of routes and overnight stops he navigated through his troubled emotions to a seeming of his usual equanimity.

*

They both preserved that equanimity to the end, though the nights in between were filled with the knowledge that soon this meeting would be over. News of the latest campaigns in Flanders reached them on the road; Keith said once, “I should be there,” and then nothing more on the subject.

Another time, they were sheltering under a tree which had not yet shed all its leaves from a sudden downpour. A little way ahead of them, a river looped its slow way across the flat fields, and seeing fleets of waterfowl upon its pools, something long forgotten came to Ewen's mind. “You remember my foster-father's prophecy.”

“Yes. The fifth meeting.” The hand under his – for they were not within view of anyone else - turned upwards, and gripped strongly.

“I never told you about the boat that took us off Morar.”

“What of it?”

“Her name. She's called the Curr. Or as you would say, the Heron.”

“Ah.” A long exhalation. “What does that mean, do you think?”

“I will take the meaning that the heron has done its work in bringing us together.”

“And that we are now free of the prophecy?”

“I hope so.”

A pause. “So do I.” Their joined hands clasped each other more strongly; and then the rain slackened, and they re-mounted and rode down to the grey stone bridge before them.

The hope that the prophecy was fulfilled and done with sustained him through the parting at the border, as they walked out beyond the last village of France, its timbered buildings fading in the rain behind them. The officer commanding in the village had inspected Keith's letter, returned it to him with a bow and expressions of congratulation, then waved the two of them forward to the point on the road where the last outlying picket kept its watch.  Here Ewen stopped, for he could go no further.

The rain fell in a steady drizzle; the mud of Flanders gleamed under their feet. Ewen was speechless; Keith likewise in little better case. But he said, “Carry my good wishes to Dr. Cameron and Lochiel, I beg. And you, Ewen... always.”

Ewen found his voice. “Yes. Always.” A last handclasp, which held all that they could not say, and then Keith turned and was gone down the road to Flanders.

*

It was five months later. Keith was back with his own battalion of the Royals in Kent, after a brief leave granted him to enable him to visit Stowe House, where the family was ensconced for the winter, and where they heard his story - his brother with excitement, his step-father with concern, and his mother with languid interest. He had begun to see his interlude on board L'Herault and in France as a brightly-coloured but distant cameo, half the warmth and colour in his life compressed into those few fleeting weeks. Here at Dover, once more wearing Charles Edward's cloak, he was kicking his heels, walking the grey bastions of the castle as he had patrolled the walls of many castles in the past; as he had done at Edinburgh, eighteen months before. They had been under siege then, and were so now after the latest reverse in Flanders, though this time the fortress was an entire island; and since the weather was open, from this spot he could see the walls of France, gleaming white between grey sea and grey sky.

But now came an orderly to summon him to the officer commanding, and there he received orders to go up to London. There was nothing in these orders to satisfy any curiosity he might have had, but inactivity was palling on him, and he had his horse saddled without delay.

Up onto the Downs he rode, and thence to the Weald, where ploughing was under way, and the orchards were showing their first pink blossoms. He lay overnight at one of the camps that dotted this corner of England so liberally. In the morning, more chalk hills faced him in a long escarpment which he surmounted before descending their northern slopes to the valley of the Thames and into the buzzing hive of London. There he found his way to an anonymous little office in Whitehall, and there, after waiting a good hour beyond the time appointed, on a comfortless bench, he was called in by a nondescript secretary, a grey man of an appearance that would be difficult to recall within hours of meeting him, but a of kind that Keith nevertheless found instantly recognisable. He felt like a dog with its hackles rising; what would he, a plain soldier, have to do with intelligencers?

But the grey man, ushering him into the office, murmured, “Sir William, here is Major Windham,” and departed. And Sir William was another type entirely; rubicund, stout, and looking very like a prosperous farmer. He was seated against the light of a large window, and was reading a sheet of paper covered in meticulous copperplate handwriting. Keith recognised this tactic for what it was, and stood, irritated but resigned, until Sir William looked up.

“Ah, Major Windham! Sit down; I should not have kept you standing.” No indeed, thought Keith, but took the chair indicated. “I was absorbed in the story of your adventures; that's quite a tale, sir, quite a tale!”

“It certainly seemed so at the time, Sir William.”

“Should you wish to publish your memoirs, they would make a stir!” The pleasantries continued in this vein for an exchange or two more, then Sir William began to elicit more information from Keith than had appeared in his report. “The Pretender's son, did he seem cast down by his failure? Will he try to get French support for another attempt, do you think? What was the mood at Versailles?” And so on; and Keith responded as best he could, for a soldier returning from a spell in enemy territory could do so without loss of honour. But he had very little idea of the import of this conversation.

Until, that is, Sir William turned to another sheet. “Hm. Now. You've bedded your Cameron, it says here; will that continue?”

There was a sudden frost in the room; the silence was broken only by the almost imperceptible sound of Keith's hand falling onto his sword-hilt. Sir William regarded him with an impatient eye. “Come, Major, I was told you were a firebrand, but I merely asked a question. Is it still going on?” His broad fingers tapped on the report - and who the devil had written it?

“I have no way of telling, sir.” Keith's voice was Arctic. “Nor do I see its relevance to this discussion.”

“Oh, it has every relevance. You have shown yourself immune to the charms of the Marquise de Pompadour – and indeed, you've made a friend of the Queen! But I wish to know if you'll continue that way, or if you'll make a fool of yourself over the Pompadour in future.”

Keith was mentally gasping, but arranged his thoughts sufficiently to reply, “I danced with the Queen twice, sir. That is hardly a friendship. I have not spoken with the Marquise beyond an introduction, nor do I have any wish to. As for Ardroy, he is in France and I am here. Whatever we may have been to each other, and I do not confirm your information, there will be little opportunity for further meetings – and may I add that the nature of any such meetings is no concern of yours?”

“Hoity-toity! It is very much my concern. He is still at Versailles, aide-de-camp to the Pretender's son once more – and we have need of an envoy, someone to act as liaison between the French court and our own. Someone who will not fall victim to the charms of the Pompadour. If you'd rather bed the Cameron than her, you may very well be the man. We'd rather it were not a Jacobite, of course – but you've a toehold at Versailles and we need all the advantage we can find.”

“If your envoy is merely to act as messenger, sir, I would accept the position without hesitation. But I have been asked, not so long ago, to spy upon people who have shown me nothing but courtesy. That is how I acquired my reputation as a firebrand. If you can assure me that I would not be required to do that – particularly as regards Ardroy, Dr. Cameron, and Lochiel, I will happily undertake the mission. Though I may add that the Pretender's son has also treated me most correctly.”

“He's a charming fellow, I've heard.” Sir William was struck by a thought. “You've no interest in that direction, I take it?”

Now beyond surprise, Keith regarded him with a fascinated eye. “None whatsoever.”

“'Tis the Cameron or no-one, then? Ha, very commendable, and no doubt wise too, given what I've heard of Versailles! As for the Pretender's son, to be honest he's of little concern now; he's shot his bolt. France is the real enemy. And France is almost at a standstill, despite our latest reversal, and we believe Louis may be willing to consider a graceful exit from the war. Be our messenger for the opening of negotiations. Tell us what anyone may see at the court while you're at it. I make no mention of spying -”

“You have others who can do that, do you not?” Keith gestured at the report of his 'bedding' of Ewen, his ire rising once again.

“Of course we have. But they cannot report on the court at large; they have not the entry. You have that entry.”

“Yet the charge is not much to my liking.”

Sir William' voice rose, and his broad hand thumped down onto the table. “But it is your duty, and I have told you that your Cameron friends are of no interest to us: except that your liaison with Ardroy makes you immune to the wiles of the Pompadour. Will you not listen to me, man?”

“I hear you. I do not necessarily agree with you. And you have a most lenient attitude to what you are pleased to call my liaison.”

“That's the spirit! You are beginning to think with your brain now, not with your – heart. And we all made trial of ourselves at school, let's face it, if not since.”

At school. Yes. There had been – He dragged his mind back to the present, for Sir William was still speaking. “But remember. Since our last reversal, and despite France's waning interest, we should still consider the Jacobites a possible threat.”

Keith all but sighed. “I do not forget that, sir. Nor do I forget that I am a soldier, first, foremost and always.”

The two men exchanged level looks. The battle-lines had been set out; there was perfect comprehension in each gaze. For the space of a few seconds they were both stock-still and silent, while an early fly buzzed against a window-pane. Then Sir William nodded.

“An observant soldier will fulfil our requirements very well. Now, as to your travel arrangements -” and he produced a packet from the heap of papers on his desk, while Keith tried to order his thoughts, which were running riot in several directions at once: he had been noticed again; was going back to France as his government's messenger; and Ewen – to see Ewen again!

He was so abstracted that it came as a shock when, just a few seconds later, as he took the thick packet, heavy with seals, Sir William concluded by saying, “and a mere Major will never do as a courier in such a matter; so, Lieutenant-Colonel Windham, may I congratulate you?”

Keith gave an exclamation compounded of surprise, delight and disbelief. He stared speechless at Sir William, whose expression had an air of distinct satisfaction, for several seconds.

“Well, man, in my opinion 'tis more than deserved! You will be supernumerary to the Royals, of course -”

He made a faint sound of protest. “But I will not have to exchange elsewhere?”

“No, we won't ask that of you, never fear.”

Keith sighed just a little in relief. The regiment was where he belonged.

“But for the moment, you're our courier to the French court, and maybe elsewhere too. But that's in the future. For now, you sail tomorrow; gather your wits, Colonel Windham, and be on your way!”

Keith saluted, and left the office, and shortly thereafter found himself back on the dank London street, which seemed to him, however temporarily, to be paved with gold.

*

Ewen, in his role as aide-de-camp, found himself much occupied with the minutiae of settling the Prince into the house granted him in St-Antoine. His duties were not onerous, but nevertheless took up a fair amount of his time, shuttling him back and forth between Paris and Versailles, seeing to it that the Prince had all as he liked it.

This trivial work was a not unwelcome distraction from all that had been put to one side during his escape and subsequent adventurings in France: the bloody defeat of the cause, the occupation of his homeland, exile, and worry for his aunt, now managing his estate under the hostile eye of the redcoats of the Great Glen. And there was one particular redcoat, of course, to whom his thoughts constantly returned. Where was he now? Had he been at the bloodbath of Rocoux at the end of Autumn? Surely not... One battalion of the Royals had been in Kent, the other in Scotland; but there could be no word from Keith since he had gone down that road in the dusk at the border, nor was there any means of obtaining news.

Ewen was more glad than he could well articulate of the Prince's constant and trivial demands, although he was conscious of a certain impatience now and then. But for now, he had a small income as well as occupation, and a place in his Prince's household; and his cousins had joined him before long. Lochiel, when fully recovered of his wound, had been given command of King James' Cameron regiment, and Archie had taken on the rôle of courier, and was absent for weeks at a time, or when at Versailles, was often closeted with King Louis' ministers.

Today, Ewen himself was at the palace, kicking his heels in an antechamber, having delivered a message to the Queen. Now he was waiting among a ruck of minor nobility to see one of the valets de chambre. But, glancing idly out of the doors of the waiting-room, he caught a brief glimpse of a flash of scarlet.

His heart thumped. He was off out of the crowd of courtiers, standing bored and aimless or exchanging news with the determination of people whose livelihoods depended on it. Their satin and jewels, and their marble and gilt surroundings, went past him in a blur. He was out through the double doors and onto a monumental staircase in an instant.

There he was, on the turn of the stairs above - “Windham!” Ewen was taking the stairs two at a time.

They met on the half-landing and paused there, hands half reaching out, before pausing to scan each other's face. Ewen saw a trace of anxiety in Keith's eyes, which he knew was mirrored in his own. Then the anxiety was gone, driven out by the strength of their embrace. There was a solid sword-hilt digging into Ewen's elbow, and Keith was laughing softly against his neck.

That lasted only a moment, and they released each other and stepped back. For above them was a brief commotion, and around them a stirring of silks and plumes, and a flash of diamonds at the edge of vision. Ewen turned to face the source of the disturbance, and Keith close at his side did the same. There above them was the King of France, dressed for the promenade, pausing in surprise at the top of the staircase with a flock of dukes about him. Ewen bowed, as did the courtiers above and below him, and Keith too, with predictable and absolute correctness.

The King descended the stairs to the half-landing, and paused for the briefest instant. He glanced at the pair before him, and Ewen saw, beside the habitual worry and indecision, a trace of envy as he looked at the two enemies, standing so close together and with, Ewen was sure, the joy of their meeting still hanging in the air around them.

Louis addressed Keith. “I have seen you before, sir, have I not?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. I was present at a soirée last September, a most glittering occasion.” Spoken with a Flemish accent, which made Ewen smile inwardly; the importance that had assumed last year!

“Ah yes! When we were pleased to welcome Prince Charles once more among us.” The unspoken words, “And you danced with my Queen,” echoed up and down the marble stair. “We are glad to see you once more among us, though we do not know the reason for the pleasure of your company.”

“As my government's courier, sire.”

“To tender its submission, perhaps,” came a soft murmur from behind the King. It was difficult to tell who had spoken, for several of the ladies held their fans before their faces; but the Marquise de Pompadour's eyes were smiling.

“No, Madame, nor ever will."  In Keith's reply, certainty and courtesy had equal measure. "Sire, I would be glad to speak with you concerning my mission.”

“Well, well. Perhaps we may spare a moment or two tomorrow, or the next day. For now, we go to promenade in the Park; if you wish, you may accompany the court there.” And the King nodded pleasantly, and Keith bowed, and the royal party continued its way down the stairs.

“That was less trouble than I anticipated,” murmured Keith in an undertone to Ewen.

“You took him by surprise, perhaps! You took me by surprise – oh, Keith, it's good to see you.” Ewen briefly took his hand between both of his own, and let it go, though no-one was looking at them now. “Come with me: you've been given permission to walk in the gardens, and I was waiting for one of the valets, but he will be gone with the rest of them. Tell me of your news” – he held him at arm's length, and looked over his uniform - “Colonel Windham!”

* 

Once in the gardens, by means of lagging a little behind the rest of the court, and choosing their moment to wander off one of the grandes allées, they contrived to find themselves alone. They fetched up in a little hedged enclosure, where they sat upon a stone bench and gazed at a statue of a pretty nymph with a sea-shell, from which issued a fine spray of water.

The March sun was warm on their backs, and the fountain whispered its music. Nothing else could be seen except the tall green hedges, and the gravelled path, and a sky of purest blue arching over them; and the bold colour of Keith's coat outshining all. Not even the nearby palace could overlook them here. Ewen listened carefully. There were no approaching footsteps, no-one close by, no-one except the nymph to know if... But Keith forestalled him by putting a hand on his shoulder and kissing him, to which Ewen responded with energy.

Many a pair of lovers, no doubt, had done this same thing in this secluded spot; few had so many obstacles in their path to togetherness... They sat back, and Ewen took in the sight of Keith smiling sidelong at him, and his heart turned over with joy.

“It is indeed odd,” remarked Keith a while later, “that your foster-father did not foresee this.” He lifted their joined hands from where they lay on the bench between them. “It is not the least unlikely thing of all that has happened to us.”

“'Great service, bitter grief,” and Ewen tightened his hand on Keith's, as he repeated the words of the prophecy. “'As the threads are twisted at the first meeting, so they will always shape themselves' - tell me, when did you first begin to think of me this way?”

“Ewen, you surely know better than to ask me that – but 'I realised astonishingly late' will do well enough for now.” Keith tilted his head back to receive the sun's warmth, and closed his eyes. “It was impossible, after all, and so did not occur to me.”

“So it was for me. And maybe that's why Angus did not see it. We did not know ourselves – we were as much in the dark as he, though with less excuse. Or maybe he simply could not see beyond the Curr, which was surely the ending of the prophecy. We will never know, though, for I certainly cannot ask him.”

Keith opened his eyes, and looked round at Ewen. There was that smile again.

“Maybe he had some inkling. You told me he was puzzled, after all. Maybe he knew enough to... drop a hint... though he did not speak clearly. For if he could 'see' anything at all, it must surely have been apparent to him,” said the Englishman, “that I always liked you.”

END