“Cromwell rules,” Ned confirmed as he and Venner watched Monmouth, wearing his beautiful jacket and followed by a procession of young women, flowers in their hair, garlands round their necks, banners streaming above their heads embroidered with Monmouth’s slogan:FEAR NOTHING BUT GOD. One banner, in lustrous green, read:KING MONMOUTH. The Taunton band marched behind them, tooting a triumphant jig; people were throwing flowers. The citizens and burghers of Taunton offered signed pledges of stores and money.
Monmouth’s army rose to their feet and greeted their leader with cheers. More than twenty girls, led by their head teacher, processed with a drawn sword held up before them like a cross. They came to Monmouth and presented him with a Bible. One after another the girls lined up and each gave the duke a banner they had embroidered in their sewing lessons. As each girl, flushed with shyness and excitement, curtseyed to the duke, he bowed and accepted their banners and handed them to his officers, who unfurled them above his head.
Silently, Rowan appeared at Ned’s shoulder.
“He’s the new Massasoit?” she asked him.
“He is,” he agreed. “Going to call himself king.”
“I thought you were better without a king?”
“I know I was,” he said. “And God knows, an English king has never done anything for you.”
“Sergeant Ferryman?”
Ned turned to see the young volunteer from Amsterdam, William Hewling, with a trumpeter. “Hello, Hewling, d’you want me for something?”
“You’re to escort us to Christopher Monck, Duke of Albemarle.I’m to take a letter, inviting him to come over to our side. He’s at Wellington, waiting for orders from London.”
“Very well,” Ned said without enthusiasm. To Rowan, he said: “You wait here.”
“Can I follow without being seen?” she asked. “Just in case.”
He was so certain that she could be invisible to any Englishman that he shrugged. “As you wish,” he said, secretly glad to know that she would be within hailing distance.
They rode into the town under a white flag for a parley and were sent to Christopher Monck’s headquarters in the local inn. Ned looked around for the back door and a side door as he bent his head to go through the narrow front entrance, but as soon as he saw the duke he lowered his guard. This was not a man who would spring to a sudden attack. The duke was seated behind a table, a full glass of red wine before him, two empty bottles on the floor. His round face was flushed, his mouth downturned.
“You think to insult me with this letter?” he demanded. “You think I am not my father’s son?”
Ned was very sure that he was not.
“His Majesty, King Monmouth, remembering your affection for him—” the trumpeter started his announcement.
“He’s a traitor!” Monck shouted. “And a rebel. No king! He’s not even a duke now!”
“His father’s son,” Ned remarked quietly from the doorway. “A duke of the blood.”
“I’m damned if I’ll say another word to you!” the duke said furiously. “Wait outside and I’ll write a reply.”
Ned bowed and left the room, the trumpeter hard on his heels. Outside, he said quietly to William Hewling: “Take a look around, count the men and see the weapons.” To the guard he said: “Your lord told me to wait by my horse.”
Ned walked slowly down the street to where the horses werewaiting, looking all around him and calculating the numbers and the mood of the troop.
They were underarmed, many of them with nothing more than farming tools. And they were led by a man who—for all that he might be the son of a famous royalist general—was a drunk, and a fearful drunk at that. They looked as if they longed to ask Ned if they might be allowed to go home. By the time the guard came with Christopher Monck’s scrawled reply, Ned was mounted on his horse with young William and the trumpeter at his side, confident that Drunk Monck would never get this militia to stand their ground against Monmouth.
ST. JAMES’S PALACE, LONDON, SUMMER 1685
Livia came into the queen’s room and found her dressed for a journey, a dark modest gown high around her shoulders. She was stuffing her own nightgown into a little leather bag with her missal, her rosary, her Bible, and her pearls.
“Let me do that!” Livia said swiftly.
“I didn’t send for you to pack for me, but to see that you are ready. We have to go.”
“Now? But Matthew has not sent word they are sailing today?”
“We can’t wait! We have to go at once. Monmouth has attacked—oh! I don’t know the names of these towns! Bridport! He’s marched out of Lyme, they couldn’t hold him there, and defeated the Somerset militia—they just ran from him. They left their uniforms and weapons and goods so he has all their ammunition now, as well as everything he brought with him. He’s marching here.”
“Does the king say you are to leave?”