Cruel Snow

IV. John

All of forty years had passed since war had brought Lieutenant-Colonel John Hill from his native Kent to the Scottish highlands. He almost felt as at home in Scotland as he did in England, but not quite. For all his time spent in this country, he was still taken aback by her at times, by the bitter chill of her winters and the beauty of her wild landscape.

Not that he could see the landscape at present. The sun had disappeared from the sky, which had turned from a crystalline blue to a deep purple to inky black, all in under an hour. The curtains had been closed in order to keep out any draught that might whistle its way in through the windows, and the fires had all been lit.

John had never appreciated the warmth of a hearth so much as he did on these cold Scottish nights. He no longer remembered how he had managed to cope with life in the highlands when he had been but a lowly foot soldier; he shuddered to think of facing the night without the comfort of his fireplace now.

A knock on the door to his study interrupted John's quiet contemplation, and a footman entered the room, a small but biting breeze creeping in behind him.

'There is a gentleman here, Lieutenant-Colonel, who wishes to talk to you. I told him that he would have to wait until morning, but he says that he has travelled all day — all of sixteen miles, sir — and must travel back in the morning, too.'

To be travelling such distances in these conditions would imply some desperation on the newcomer's part, and so John bade the footman to let the gentleman in. The footman obliged, and moments later, John was joined in his study by another man, though his appearance did not lend itself to the description of 'gentle'.

He was a great brute of a man, tall and wiry, and dressed in the fashion of the highlanders. A mess of hair and a beard covered most of his face, the brow of which was strong, the eyes hard, and the skin weathered and lined. Judging by the grey hair and creases in his skin, the man was somewhat aged, perhaps a decade more so than John himself, but his shoulders did not stoop and he looked far less affected by the cold than John felt even in the shelter of his study. Still, John could not invite a traveller inside without offering them the seat closest to the fire. He stood up and extended one hand in a gesture of invitation to his own chair.

'You must be half-frozen, my good man. Here, please warm yourself.'

The highlander did not utter a word in response to John's offer, but he did take the chair. John cleared his throat.

'I am Lieutenant-Colonel John Hill, governor of Fort William. May I ask who you are?'

There was nothing humourous about his words, but the highlander let out a low chuckle.

'You're very polite for a colonel,' he said, in a tone that made it clear that he was not offering a compliment.

John's mother had always told him that good manners did not cost anything, but he did not feel that pointing this out would earn him any respect with his visitor, who so far seemed to think him more a source of amusement than someone to be respected. John gestured to his footman to bring him a second chair.

'I believe that I asked you for your name, sir.' He kept his voice deliberately even as he spoke. 'Not an assessment of my civility.'

'Aye, that ye did, I suppose,' said the highlander. 'I am Alasdair MacIain MacDonald, chieftain of Clan MacDonald of Glencoe.'

It took John a considerable amount of effort not to allow his mouth to fall open. The Old Fox himself. Though he had not had much to do with the MacDonalds of Glencoe, he knew them from their reputation alone. They were cattle thieves and troublemakers, infamously so, and their chieftain was reported to be as wild and unruly as the young men. If it hadn't been for his mother's insistence on good manners when he was a boy, John might have asked the servants to start locking away the silverware, right there and then. Instead, he only bowed his head in recognition.