Page 11 of Dawnlands

“Where are you going, Uncle Ned?” Rob asked.

“Better that I don’t speak of it here.”

Johnnie was alert to the danger. “You’re not expecting trouble, sir?”

Ned shook his head and said nothing. Rob spoke into the silence: “Uncle, you’ve been away too long. It’s not the same cause, it’s not the same Stuart. Your man Cromwell is dead and buried. The Charles they invited back is dead too, and when his royal brother James took the crown, they shouted Vivat Rex for him! Nobody likes the king’s religion, not many like him. But the country has chosen him. There’ll not be another civil war.”

“Maybe not,” Ned said briefly.

Matthew looked curiously from one determined face to another.

“I promise you,” Rob told his uncle, “the war you fought is over, there will not be another.”

“Better that I don’t speak of it.”

ST. JAMES’S PALACE, LONDON, SPRING 1685

Mary Beatrice was half carried home from the state opening of parliament. Livia received her in her arms at the doorway of her privy chamber, helped her into her chair, taking the crown from her head and passing it aside as if it were nothing in her haste to get the heavy robes off the queen’s shoulders.

“It was too much for you,” she scolded. “I said you should not have gone.”

Mary Beatrice shook her head, sipping wine and water. “It wasn’t the weight of the crown—that was nothing—it was what they said!” she exclaimed. “What he said!”

“Why? What did they say? What did they dare to say?”

Mary Beatrice pulled Livia close so she could whisper. “It was the king himself! He said the most dreadful thing. He told them—we are going to be invaded!”

Livia was stunned. “Invaded?”

“The Earl of Argyll—a most desperate rebel—has ships and men, allied with the Duke of Monmouth, the late king’s son, and they have sworn to overthrow us!”

Livia gave a little gasp. “What?”

“So the king told the parliament. Argyll can call up every Scot in the land. He’s the chief of the Campbells, and there are thousands of them. He’s a bitter Presbyterian—so all the heretics will follow him. And everyone in England loves Monmouth, they wanted the late king to make him legitimate, name him heir instead of us. And now, he and the earl have joined together and landed somewhere in Scotland. They’ll march on London. They’ll muster thousands.”

“But why would the king announce it?” Livia demanded. “Why tell everyone? Won’t they all run to them?”

“He thought he was being clever,” she said uncertainly. “He thought to outwit parliament into giving him everything he wants: the money to raise an army, the right to call out the militia. Parliament are so wicked as to not trust kings: they never allow royal troops. But my husband has triumphed. He has frightened them into giving him new powers. More money to raise his own army. He says it’s a victory for us? He says it’s a victory for all kings.” She looked doubtfully at Livia.

“Well, yes, if his new army can beat the earl and the Duke of Monmouth.”

“Not together! No one could beat them together!” The queen turned from the watching court, whispered that she would go to her bedroom. Livia nodded to the footman to open the doors, carry the queen into her bedroom, and close the door on the anxious faces.

“You must be calm,” Livia urged, kneeling before the queen tochafe her hands, heavy with rings. “You have to be as still as a field for sowing. A son will make us all safe.”

“It’s too late for my baby if Argyll and James of Monmouth march on London. Nothing will save us if the people flock to Monmouth! He was commander of the English army, and they all loved him… even I loved him, we all did… He was the most handsome young man, the most charming, the king’s most beloved son…”

“No, no…”

“And he has a son of his own—a son to be heir to our throne. He has two, he has three! God has blessed him with… I don’t know how many heirs! Protestant heirs. Perhaps God will give him the throne as well!”

“No! No!” Livia felt more and more helpless against the rising distress of the young queen, overwhelmed by her rapid speech, catching her sense of panic. “No! You know you are chosen by God to bring the faith to England. The Pope himself sent you. You’ve only been queen for a month! God would not—”

“Maybe that’s all I’ll ever be! Queen of four weeks! Only four weeks and already there’s an army marching on us. They don’t want us! They hate me!”

“No, they don’t,” Livia said staunchly, completely out of her depth. “And anyway, who cares what the people want?”

REEKIE WHARF, LONDON, SPRING 1685