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“He says we shall die as martyrs on the steps of the altar in our own oratory.”
Livia checked her irritation. “And what about Argyll?”
“He could be at Highgate Village for all we know, and nobody sent a message because they are all welcoming him!”
“We take our ship now?” Livia was conscious of a cold dread in her belly.
“It is ready? It is waiting for us?”
“Yes.” Livia became aware that she was nodding, nodding and nodding, without speaking. “It is loading to leave, I expect we can make them go early.” She thought that in a life of great gambles this was the greatest stake she had ever put on the table, and by far the worst odds.
The queen turned to her little writing desk. “The deeds,” she said, handing over a folded paper. “I told the king that you were faithful to me, that you would see me safely to my mother, Duchess Laura, in Rome. I told him the manor was to be your reward. He has signed it over to your son. The deeds for Foulmire Priory, in the name of your son.”
Livia took the folded document, heavy with seals, into her hand and slid it into her capacious draped sleeve. She curtseyed. “I thank you,” she said. “My son thanks you for your favor to us.”
“If we are defeated and Monmouth is king, it will mean nothing.” The queen shrugged. “Everything will be his, and the people will walk through my rooms, they will have bonfires in the garden and stable their horses in my oratory—” Her voice rose but she forced herself back into icy self-control. “So when we are gone, someone will take it off you. This may be a scant reward for your service. But send a message to your son. I want to leave now.”
“Within the hour,” Livia said quietly, curtseyed, and left the room.
She sent her maid running to Lincoln’s Inn, and another to get a boatman to wait at the privy stairs at Whitehall. She did not dare use the Avery coach for such a secret journey but had a sedan chair wait for the queen at the garden door, and then she tapped again at the door tothe privy chamber and went in. Mary Beatrice was on her knees with the royal confessor, Father Mansuet. When the queen kissed her rosary and rose to her feet, Livia mutely held her cape and wrapped her up.
“God protect you and guide you, my child,” the priest said.
“And you, Father,” she said. “Will you go into hiding?”
“I will stay with the king,” he said. “Till death.”
“I’m ready,” the queen said to Livia.
The chair was waiting at the gate; the queen, shrouded in a veil, stepped inside and the chairmen took up the poles. Livia pulled a veil over her own head and nodded to her maid to follow her. Livia walked beside the chair through the park. At every step she thought someone would recognize her and call out to her; but it was a hot sunny morning and those few people who were walking had taken seats in the shade of the trees or returned to the cool of the palace. Livia, sweating in her gown and traveling cape, kept pace with the chairmen through the park, through Whitehall Palace grounds, avoiding the builders, to Whitehall Stairs and the river.
Matthew was at the head of the water stairs, his pupil’s hat crushed in his hand, pacing one way and then another, scanning the garden. When he saw the chair, he froze. Livia was pleased that he did not bound forward; but waited until they came up to him.
“Don’t bow!” she snapped, as the veiled queen stepped from the chair and took his hand.
He nodded his head and, without a word of greeting, helped the queen down the water stairs to the waiting wherry. The boatman steadied the boat as the two women got in, and Matthew followed them. Many veiled women had come and gone up and down the privy stairs since the Stuarts had been restored; the boatman had no curiosity. Matthew ordered him to set them down before London Bridge, where the skeleton heads of earlier rebels grinned through the rotting flesh. The tide was rushing inland—the turbulent river was too strong, pouring between the wide piers of the bridge. Matthew helped the queen up Pepper Alley Stairs, over the road, and guided her down Tooley Stairs, to call a new wherry on the other side.
“Horsleydown Stairs,” Matthew told him, and the man leaned forward and pulled hard against the incoming tide.
Livia helped the queen climb the stairs from the river, and Matthew carried their bags as they walked along the quay to Reekie Wharf. The three of them had to weave around goods, crates, sacks, and barrels on the quayside, and avoid lumpers and porters.
“Is that the ship?” Livia whispered to Matthew, recognizing the little warehouse and the familiar smell of the Neckinger drain.
He glanced at theSweet Hoperiding low in the water, fully loaded. “Yes,” he said. “That’s her.”
At the front door, Matthew turned to his mother. “Please will you wait here?”
“Of course not,” she said simply. “We’ll go straight inside.”
REEKIE WHARF, LONDON, SUMMER 1685
Livia walked in as if she owned the place, ushering the queen into the front parlor and seating her in the best chair. “Tell Alys we are here,” she ordered her son. “And find Captain Shore and tell him we wish to sail on the next tide.”
Matthew flushed, bowed to the queen, and left the room. He found his foster mother in the countinghouse, seated on her high clerk’s stool, her head bowed over the books. She looked up in surprise as he came in.
“Ma,” he said shortly.
“Matthew! I didn’t hear the door.” She took in the sheen of sweat on his face and the grim look of his mouth. “What’s the matter? Here in the middle of the day? Are you sick? Are you in trouble? What is it?”
