Alinor took up James’s missal and started to spell out the beautiful old words in Latin, not knowing what they meant; but hearing the music of the sounds, knowing that he would have known them by heart, knowing that this was his faith and his God, believing that his child in her belly could perhaps hear them and feeling closer to him now, reading the office for the dying to an old lady, than she had been in all the long weeks that he had been away.
LONDON, DECEMBER 1648
James, not knowing that his prayers were being whispered by the woman he loved, went quietly through the darkened streets of the city of London, keeping to the center of the street, picking his way through the frozen muck and rubbish rather than risk walking close to the dark doorways and shadows. He turned into a grand gateway and nodded to the silent watchman, and then went down the side of the house where a single lantern was hung on a bent nail outside a narrow door.
The door opened easily when he turned the ring of the handle, and he stepped into a stone-flagged corridor, which led to the kitchen one way and to the great hall of the house the other. Before him was a small storeroom with a lighted candle on the table. James went in and seated himself at the scrubbed table.
“You’re John Makepeace?” The man came in so quietly that James had not heard his footfall.
“Yes.”
“Password?”
“Godspeed.”
“God Will Not Fail Us,” the man replied. “Have you come from the queen?”
“Yes. I have this.” James passed a thick letter.
The man broke the seal. “It’s in code,” he said irritably. “D’you know what it says?”
“Yes, I was ordered to memorize it in case I had to destroy it. It instructs you to reach the king and get him to Deptford. There’s a ship waiting for him, a coastal trader, that will take him to France. She’s called the Dilly. If you tell me when it will be, I can send a message to His Highness’s fleet and see that you are met by them, to give you safe passage on the seas.”
“And the two royal children?”
“I have no instructions for them.”
Startled, the man looked up from the sealed letter. “What? Do they understand that the army will never let the children out of the country, if he gets away? He will never see them again? Are they to be abandoned among their enemies? Are we to just leave them here?”
“Those are the instructions,” James said steadily.
The man dropped into a chair and glared at James. “He was supposed to get away at Newport.”
“I know it.”
“It failed.”
“No one knows that better than me.”
“And from Hurst Castle.”
“Hurst?”
“Yes, there too. That miscarried as well. And at Bagshot he was supposed to have the fastest horse in England, but it went lame the day he was to go, and nobody had a second horse. Or a second plan.”
James forced himself not to reveal his contempt for these half-baked plots. “You speak as if it is hopeless.”
“I think it is. My hope has drained away month after month. No one decides what to do and does it. All we can do now is pray that they give him a fair trial and that they listen to what he has to say. That he can put the case for all that he has done.”
“And then?”
“God knows. That’s the madness of failing to get him away. We don’t know what they intend or even if they have any intention beyond shaming him. Will they limit his power as they think best? Or will he agree to hand the throne over to Prince Charles? Is he to live quietly and let his son rule? Will Prince Charles be bound by them? And will both king and prince swear never to raise an army, outside the kingdom or inside it? Parliament won’t stand for anything less.”
“It is to unmake royal power. For him—and for his sons. For all kings everywhere?”
“I think he has no choice. This is the army in power now, not parliament, and they are ill-disposed to the man who killed their comrades, surrendered, and then marched out again. They’re men of action, not endless words. The army is a different beast again. They speak a different language, they come from different worlds.”
“Your orders are to rescue him,” James insisted. “Whatever the case. You can decode and read them; but they’re as I say. I have to take a reply. What am I to tell them when I report back?”
“Tell them I’ll try,” the man said miserably. “But I won’t send a message to you, to tell you when. I won’t fix a date. The fewer men who know, the better.”
“You’re never going to risk him at sea, without the protection of the fleet?”
“What protection? What fleet? Who’s to say the prince’s sailors wouldn’t kidnap him, and sail right back to London to claim the ransom money? They changed their tune once; they’ll do it again, won’t they?”
James recoiled from the man’s bitter cynicism. “You don’t trust the royal fleet? Under the command of the Prince of Wales?”
“D’you think you are the only man in England who has lost faith?”
“I never said I had lost my faith!”
“It’s in your face and in every step you take,” the man said with contempt. “You look like we all do—whipped.”
TIDELANDS, DECEMBER 1648
Alys and Alinor walked along the harbor bank to church on Christmas Day, a hard frost turning the inland water meadows white as snow on their right hand, the harbor frozen like iron on the other. They were dressed in layer upon layer of winter clothes but they had no special ribbons or favors pinned to their capes. The new parliament had ruled that Christmas was not to be marked with any feasting or merrymaking, but must be a day like any day. Red trotted ahead of them and then circled back, the only joyful one.
Alinor looked at the winter sun, casting shadows that underlined every bank and puddle and reedbed on the wet harbor. She wondered if James was with his family, if he were thinking of her. She hoped he was somewhere warm and merry. She loved him so much, she even wished him happiness without her.
The church was cold and plain and bare, and there was no singing and no Christmas carols. The minister preached a sermon announcing that it was the birth of Jesus Christ and that the day should be filled with quiet reflection, that wassailing and Christmas ales and special puddings and roast dinners were nothing but worldly show and greed. The birth of our Lord should be considered reverently and thoughtfully. Godly work could and should be done; it was not a holiday for visiting and dancing and carousing. How would the birth of God be served by people sinning? How should the Lord be greeted, if not by quiet reflection and steady labor?
The prayers for parishioners who were sick or dying went on for long minutes; the cold weather was always hard on the poor of Sealsea Island. Alinor bowed her head and thanked God that she and Alys were well housed in the ferry-house and Rob lived in luxury at the Priory. The minister prayed for the soul of old Mrs. Hebden, buried in frost-hard ground, and invoked God’s aid for other men and women who would not survive the cold season and were going hungry to save their winter stores. The church was freezing, the service dragged on and on, longer than ever, and when the congregation was finally released and spilled out of the porch, it started to snow.
“The dog looks for you,” the minister complained to Alinor as she went past him. “He sits in the church porch and looks for you.”
“He does not harm, he’s a good dog, my brother’s dog.”
“People remark it,” he said.
“It means nothing,” Alinor said quickly. “Just a dog missing his master.”
“It’s ungodly how he attends to you,” the man complained.
“I’ll leave him at home next Sunday. I apologize. He’s pining for my brother.”
“Is Edward still in London?” the minister asked.