Page 55 of Dawnlands

The queen and her ladies were at prayer in her oratory, as Father Mansuet, his back turned to them, prepared the Mass at the altar. Incense filled the air, a junior priest censed the room and sprinkled holy water. Livia watched as the queen lifted her face and closed her eyes to the smoke and the water, as if they were a blessing falling on her.

Livia watched the ladies pray, measuring the likelihood of any one of them being sincere. It was Livia’s belief that few would be in the oratory if it were not the fashion of the royal court, the known route for royal favor. The whole country was determinedly Protestant; but the court, following the king and queen, was almost wholly converted. Every appointment that the king made favored his co-religionists, and every lady in the queen’s room either converted to the Church of Rome or was ostracized as a heretic.

Even the army was now led by Roman Catholics. Parliament had granted the king the right to appoint Roman Catholic officers to the army and commanders to the navy, and the Roman Catholic gentry were allowed to arm and lead their tenants. The king had put a sword in the hands of the enemies of the English church, and no one knew where he would stop. The battle, which would come either in the west of England or on London Bridge, would decide whether the king was beheaded on the scaffold like his father, or triumphant as a tyrant: turning the Church of England into the Church of Rome.

They came out of the oratory into the blaze of sunshine streaming through the high glazed windows and walked down the long gallery towards the queen’s dining room for breakfast. The usual crowd was waiting to see the royals go by, a murmur of alarm that the king was missing, a whisper of concern at the pallor of the queen. A few people stepped forward and bowed, petitions in their hands. Livia, as a senior lady-in-waiting, gathered them up with complete indifference to the whispered pleas for help. Then a man bowing to the queen stood erect and caught Livia by the hand. In the sudden shock of recognition, she saw her husband: James Avery.

“James!” she exclaimed. “Oh God! It’s you!”

“And good morning to you,” he said quietly. “I believe that I ordered you to come home?”

Livia saw the queen glance back. “Your Majesty, may I present my husband, Sir James Avery.”

The queen extended her hand and Sir James bowed low. “I am so pleased you have come to court. These are troubled times, we need our friends around us.”

“I was just telling Sir James that I may not leave,” Livia hinted.

“Oh no! I cannot spare her now. Not while…”

“I understand completely,” Sir James said urbanely.

“You may breakfast with us.” The queen led the way to her dining room, where four great tables were laid for the principal officers of her household, the royal confessor and three Benedictine priests, her ladies and their companions.

Livia made sure that her husband was seated near her, as befitted his status, but not so close that he could speak privately, and she took her place near to the queen. Proudly, she did the work of the first lady, serving the queen with the ewer and towel for her fingertips, and folding back her long sleeves to dine.

James bowed his head for the lengthy Latin grace, ate heartily, chatted to neighbors at the table, and rose respectfully when the queen went to her private rooms. Livia went to follow her, but the queen waved her away. “Go and see your husband, I am sure he is eager to talk with you.”

Livia curtseyed, feeling no gratitude at all, and turned back to meet the steady brown gaze of the man she had trapped into marriage. “Shall we walk in the gardens?” she asked.

“We’ll go to your rooms,” he ruled. “You will want to explain to me in private, without interruption.”

Nothing could be less true, Livia thought, as she led the way through the courtiers and up the stairs to her private rooms. A maid was on her knees sweeping out the fireplace. Livia snapped her fingers and waved her away, and seated herself at the table by the window, looking across the gardens.

Sir James stood opposite her, leaning on the back of a chair. “I ordered you home and I sent my carriage,” he said quietly.

“You surely had my letter explaining why I could not come?”

“No, that must have miscarried.” His tone made it perfectly clear that he thought there was no letter.

She clasped her hands. “Oh no! But I was advised by His Majesty himself that it was not safe to travel north until the Earl of Argyll was captured! I have been so anxious for you!”

“I am obliged to you,” he said icily. “But my carriage will have arrived after his rebellion failed, and in any case, it has been days now, since his execution.”

“But then we heard of Monmouth’s advance,” Livia said glibly. “I assumed you would be raising a troop and coming to defend London? Have you not brought a troop with you now?”

He narrowed his eyes. “I can’t raise men in the middle of haymaking and shearing, as everyone knows. And they are militia—local troops. I am required to muster them to defend their homes; not to march them to Somerset.”

“But I thought you would want to?” Livia gleamed at him. “I thought you would want to defend a king of the true faith, against a Protestant rebel? You—who served his father against Cromwell?”

“My wife does not question my loyalty,” he said shortly.

“Then I pray you don’t question mine,” Livia said sweetly.

“But why didn’t you take the carriage?” he demanded. “Why stay in London in danger? It’s not like you.”

“My duty was with the queen,” she said smugly.

“You could do nothing for her! She’s surrounded by guards and nobility.”