Walking through the Sheriff Brae they passed the small house where the Presbyterians had lately met—although their congregation had outgrown it and was moving to a larger one. Near the door a little group of people stood, from which an older woman broke away and followed after Barbara and Lily as they passed, and when they came out to the water’s edge the woman drew in closer.
“Mrs. Browne?”
Barbara turned.
The woman, grey of hair and feature, nervously went on, “I heard yer lad skelpt Sandy Fearne. I wanted to say thank ye. He…” Her pale eyes filled with sudden tears. “My husband was condemned to the plantations in the Caribbees two winters past, when he refused to swear allegiance to a Catholic king. And Sandy Fearne, he found the ship to carry him. They sent my husband off in shackles like a criminal.” The tears spilled over, and she wiped them angrily away. “Ye tell your lad he has my thanks.” She half turned, then turned back again and added, “And ye tell him I am sorry for his brother.”
Barbara blinked as though the sunlight hurt. “I will.”
Behind the older woman, a young man, perhaps her son, called out, “That’s enough. I telt ye not to talk to whores.”
The words stung.
Lily’s head went down to hide the redness that had started spreading on her cheeks. She tugged hard at Barbara’s hand. “Let’s go home.”
Barbara said, “It’s all right, they’re gone now. Let’s see the ships.”
“Please. I want to go home.”
Barbara looked at her closely, then bent low and, taking the edge of her apron, wiped Lily’s face. “Never let another person have such an effect on ye. Now, lift your chin. This will not be the first time ye will hear me called a whore. ’Tis what I am.” She said it simply, without shame, and there was stubbornness behind her gaze as she met Lily’s eyes.
Lily’s mind was piecing things together—all the visitors. The men. The times when Barbara was away.
She looked at Barbara silently, and saw how Barbara’s face was set, the way someone might brace themselves against a coming blow.
“D’ye think less of me?” asked Barbara.
Lily shook her head, and without words reached out for Barbara’s warm embrace.
“All right, then,” Barbara said, and straightened. “Let’s go see your ships.”
*
The Catholic King James had fathered three sons by his first wife, and this new prince was his second by Queen Mary. All the others had been taken in their cradle or while young, so Lily prayed hard every evening that the new Prince James would have good health and grow in strength, and live a long and happy life.
But all around the country, as the summer turned to autumn, others prayed for just the opposite.
Among them, it was rumored, were the king’s two daughters—Princess Anne and Princess Mary, who had seen themselves displaced in line to the succession by this new male heir.
Many thought that Princess Mary’s stern Dutch husband, William, Prince of Orange, would make a much better and more satisfactory king, being a Protestant. In fact, some whispered he’d been thinking the same thing himself for some time, and had gathered an invasion fleet already this past spring and was waiting only for an invitation from the English parliament to come and seize the throne.
Still others claimed, when all the dust had settled, that it was the birth of the young prince that was the start of it—that those who were at first unsettled by the new religious freedoms of King James were pushed to breaking point to think this Catholic king might yet be followed by another one.
Whatever the true cause, the match was set alight that summer, and the bitterness and hate that had been building since King James had claimed his throne exploded, leaving only pieces of the world the way it had once been.
Early in November, William landed with his Dutch invasion force of ships and soldiers in the south of England. Many of King James’s troops began to join his side, and William steadfastly refused any negotiation for a peace.
Just as his father had been forced to do before him when the Covenanters threatened, King James sent his wife and newborn child across the sea to France to safety, and then followed when he could. But he did not stay long in France.
Three months afterward, in March, King James had landed with his army on the Irish coast, and raising troops among his loyal subjects there, prepared for battle.
Those men whose sharpest weapons were their words did try to say this was a peaceful revolution, glorious for lack of bloodshed, when the ground in truth would be soaked red with it in days to come.