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“Yes, I do. I don’t like his mother…”
“That doesn’t matter.” She smiled at him. “You shall always come for Christmas to the Priory and she won’t. She doesn’t like to leave the queen. You’ll see no more of her when I am married to her son, than you do now. And that was only once, Papa!”
Rob felt he was sinking into madness. “I cannot tell you my objection,” he said slowly to her smiling face. “But you must put this out of your mind. I am completely serious, Hester, it can’t happen.”
She flushed, and her eyes filled with tears. “Papa! Don’t say such a thing. I love him. I truly do. And he loves me. I won’t marry anyone else but him. Papa, don’t say such things to me!”
“My darling.” He took her hands, he could not bear to hurt her. “You’re young, you will—”
“Is Mama canceling teatime?” she interrupted him.
“No.”
“Does Mama say I shall not marry Matthew?”
“No, not yet. I have to see your grandfather.”
Her face lightened. “Then I will see him this afternoon.”
“You can see him!” he exclaimed. “But you can’t marry him!”
“As soon as I see him, it will all be all right,” she said.
AMSTERDAM, HOLLAND, SPRING 1688
Once again Ned was walking the cobbled streets of Amsterdam, crossing the narrow bridges, as he had done three years ago—three years to the very month. He could hardly believe that Rowan was not at his shoulder, hard on his heels. He remembered her dismay at the streets that stretched for miles, her contempt for the cozy little houses. He remembered laughing at her when she could not comprehend that people might choose to live indoors, build a house and stay in the same place all year round.
He had thought that he would miss her for the rest of his life, but increasingly, he felt at peace, with a deep gladness that they had been together on such a journey, in step together on a long march. He was glad that she had never left his side, not through voyage nor march nor battle, not even when he had ordered her to go.
Ned followed the directions he had been given to the English tavern in the city, limping a little on the slippery cobbles, but finding his way. He ducked through the low doorway, went down a short flight of wooden stairs. For a moment he paused, remembering the Duke of Monmouth looking up, illuminated by a shaft of light from a high window. He blinked his eyes against the smoke and the darkness of the room, and an English voice said: “God be praised! Is that you, Ned Ferryman?”
It was Robert Ferguson, Monmouth’s preacher. Ned had last seen him praying with the troops for a righteous victory before the battle of Westonzoyland.
“That you, Padre?” he said, his lopsided smile warming his face. “You here again?”
“You here again?” the man repeated, clapping Ned on the back. “I thought you were transported? I thought they picked you up near dead?”
“I was,” Ned replied. “Near dead and then transported. But it’s a hard task to kill an old dog, and now I’ve come home.”
Ferguson drew him towards the table at the back of the room. Ned recognized a few faces from the Monmouth army. They gripped hands, they embraced each other, laughing at the fact that they had met again, naming quickly the men who had been lost.
“Nathaniel Wade was the last man I saw, as I went down,” Ned said, looking round.
Ferguson shook his head. “Turned his coat,” he said shortly. “D’you remember William Hewling? And his brother Benjamin?”
“I knew William,” Ned said. “Met him at Lyme.”
“His sister was whipped off Jeffrey’s coach door, begging for mercy. The two lads were hanged.”
“God send England better lords,” Ned exclaimed. “Or no lords at all.”
“Amen!” Ferguson replied. “Look. Here are some new comrades in place of the ones we have lost.”
“Glad to meet them.” Ned nodded at the handful of men. “What’s the plan?”
“We’re waiting,” Ferguson said. “When King James announces the birth of his son—that’s our signal to rise.”
“We invade?”
