ST. JAMES’S PALACE, LONDON, SPRING 1685
The king was closeted with the queen in her privy chamber overlooking the gardens, only Father Mansuet, his confessor, and two ladies-in-waiting in attendance. Livia, striking in a gown of dark blue silk cut low across her creamy shoulders, stood behind the queen, her dark eyes on the king’s excited face.
“I shall be master,” he gabbled, his face flushed, his wig pushed slightly askew. “I shall be master in my household and father to the nation. Parliament have given me all I need to dominate this rebellious kingdom.”
“Have they agreed that men of our faith shall be army officers and MPs and justices of the peace?” Father Mansuet prompted, his eyes on his own hands, clasped as if in prayer, before him. “Men of our faith must take power, so we can bring England to God without opposition.”
“Not yet! Not yet! I can’t get our people into the law or into parliament yet. But I have won my own army officered by true believers. Right now, I’ve got only ten thousand men scattered all around the country, in no state to fight.” He laughed excitedly. “But I shall raise an army of true believers and march on Scotland and the Presbyterians myself.”
“No!” The queen spoke for the first time, raising herself from her chair. “You can’t go.”
“Who should lead my army of true believers, but me?”
She compressed her lips on the answer. Everyone knew that the king could not risk his life when he had no heir but girls: first his daughter Mary—ruled by her husband, William of Orange: a dyed-in-the-wool Protestant—and then the Protestant Anne. No Catholic would see thesacred Mass ever again if they took the throne. “What about me?” she demanded. “I was called by God… by God…” She lost her voice. Livia put an arm around her waist, and James looked at the two beautiful dark-haired women entwined like lovers.
“You shall fulfill His will,” he promised.
“Her Majesty will bear a son,” Father Mansuet predicted. “A Roman Catholic Prince of Wales.”
“But how many ships have landed?” Livia asked. “Argyll’s ships?”
The angry glance from the king told her that he had no idea how many ships had invaded, nor how many men they carried, nor how many men had rushed to join the rebellion when they landed.
“And is James, Duke of Monmouth, with Argyll?” the queen demanded.
“I don’t know. I know they’ve got turncoats and traitors. I ordered that William dismiss Englishmen from his army. I don’t want Englishmen marching against France.”
“But if they had done nothing wrong…?” she queried.
“Anyway, William did as I ordered. He dismissed them—and now they’ve gone straight to Monmouth!”
“You ordered that Englishmen should be dismissed from the Dutch army—and they’ve all gone to Monmouth?” she repeated, disbelievingly.
“I had to! I couldn’t have English soldiers fighting the French!” James shouted, covering his mistake with bluster. “King Louis is our only friend in this damned Protestant world! He’s the only one I can count on. He is of the true faith, he has promised me funds to restore the faith to England. We are as one: he and I! We are brother monarchs! We are brother Catholics!”
“But everyone in England hates him!” the queen exclaimed. “And to please him, you’ve given Monmouth an army of experienced English soldiers.”
“I didn’t know they would go to him! I thought they would just come home.”
“They may indeed come home!” she said furiously. “With Monmouth at their head!”
“I’ll be ready for them,” the king swore. “I’ll raise the militia inScotland, I’ll go to the privy council and order them out, right now. I’ll call on the north to arm.” He turned to Livia. “How many men can your husband muster for my cause in Yorkshire?”
“Hundreds,” Livia said firmly.
“I’ll come with you to the council.” Father Mansuet went to follow him.
“Wait!” Livia said to the priest. “Won’t it look as if you are advising the king?”
“Of course I advise him,” he said proudly. “We care nothing that they see it!”
The queen watched them leave and waved the ladies-in-waiting away. She turned to Livia. “Only now is he calling out the militia? Though he has known Argyll was sailing for weeks?”
Livia had no answer.
“And anyway—who will the militia fight for: the king or the duke? Where is the loyalty in Yorkshire?”
“Probably for the Protestant duke,” Livia reluctantly spoke the truth. “All of the Yorkshire spinners and weavers are Protestant, many of them fought before for Cromwell. They’ve faced a royal army before. They have no fear of it, they have no respect. They’re independent men, their own masters, they all follow their own consciences, they obey no one.”