Page 102 of Dawnlands

“I suppose she has won,” Mary Beatrice remarked. “I think he loses to her on purpose to give her money.”

The door from the public rooms opened, and one of the ladies-in-waiting came in. “Father Galli asks to be admitted,” she said, curtseying to the queen.

“Of course,” Livia answered for the queen, gesturing that the new priest should come in. “Now here is a friend,” she said to Mary Beatrice. “Here is a comforter.”

The dark-robed man came into the room, bowed to the queen, andthen, as the two women knelt before him, made the sign of the cross over their bowed heads.

“Amen,” they said devoutly.

The queen took a seat, as the priest stood before her.

“I have bad news,” Father Galli said, his eyes on the queen’s pale face. “His Majesty has decided to honor Catherine Sedley. She is to be the Countess of Dorchester.”

Livia gave a shocked gasp, and whirled around to see the queen paler still.

“Why?” she asked simply.

Father Galli shrugged. “I believe she asked for the honor, and he said yes.”

“This is how we create an order of nobility?” the queen cried out. “Some commoner—a woman without a husband even!—just demands a title?”

Father Galli folded his hands inside his sleeves and clasped them as if in prayer.

“How did you advise him?” Livia asked quietly.

He turned to her as an ally. “I made no comment. I thought it best to speak first with Her Majesty.”

The queen turned away from them, her head bowed as if it were she who should be ashamed. She walked to the window and drew back the curtain, leaned her hot forehead against the cool glass. “This is a terrible insult to me,” she observed, her voice drained of emotion. “She was my maid of honor, and now she is made a countess?”

Father Galli bowed his head too. “An insult to us all,” he said. “It’s well known that Lady Sedley makes a mock of us and our faith.”

“I will not bear it.” The queen dropped the curtain and turned back into the room. “I cannot bear it. I cannot bear any more.”

The queen’s musicians in her own presence chamber burst into a dance, and at once the thud of heavy feet dancing drowned out the queen’s voice. “I cannot stand the noise she makes. How loud will she crow when she has ermine on her shoulders and a coronet on her head?”

“If we asked the king to give a lesser honor…” Livia started.

“The papers are already drawn up,” Father Galli said. “He told me to tell you now, before it is announced to the court this evening. It will be in the newssheets by tomorrow. They have set the type.”

“I am going to retire,” the queen said quietly as the thud of dancing feet grew louder as the movement of the dance took the court close to the privy chamber door and then away again.

“To bed?” Livia came towards her. “I’ll come with you. I’ll send for your ladies.”

The queen shook her head with sudden determination. “No, retire from my duty. I am going to leave court, and leave the king, and go to a convent. I always wanted to take holy orders, I always knew I had a vocation. God called me to England, the Holy Father told me to be queen, the King of England chose me as the bride for his brother. But if I cannot be queen in my own kingdom—the chosen companion of my husband and mother of his children—then I shall go to where I want to be. I shall go to a nunnery.”

“You can’t,” Livia said flatly.

Mary Beatrice rounded on her. “I can.” She looked at Father Galli. “No one can stop me taking my vows, can they?” she asked.

“It will jeopardize the King of England,” he told her earnestly. “Without you as queen, how will he get an heir? He cannot hold England to the true faith without a son to inherit. If you abandon him to that harpy, we have lost His Majesty to sin and England forever.”

For once she was defiant. “It’s his choice. You tell him! Tell his new confessor, Father Petre, that he must hold the king to his vows if I am to stay! If he chooses her over me, then I choose God over him. And no one—no one—will blame me.”

BARBADOS, WINTER 1686

Mr. Peabody’s plantation was in St. Thomas Parish, Barbados, half a day’s grueling walk for the slaves, a pleasant ride for Mr. Peabody,who would only leave the tavern as the sun began to set and the day began to cool. It was a trial of endurance for Rowan, who set off, the rope from her hands tied to the waist of one of the black slaves, in the burning sun of two o’clock in the afternoon.

She could not walk for more than twenty minutes without stumbling; the slaves who walked with her, carrying goods for the plantation strapped on their backs or balanced on their heads, waited patiently until she struggled to her feet again. Her feet, softened by the months of sitting in prison, blistered within the hour, and her wasted muscles screamed with fatigue. One of the slaves clapped his own ragged hat on her head to keep the sun from beating down on her bowed neck, but none of them could shade her from the burning sun on her arms, on her legs below her tattered breeches. When there was water in the ditch at the side of the cane fields, they stopped to let her soak her bleeding feet, or scooped water on her neck, but her shirt and breeches dried out in moments as soon as they were in the full sun on the white road.