Tidelands

“No, don’t go, don’t go,” the first advisor said. “Don’t be hasty. Don’t take offense. We’re all working, as you are, for His Majesty’s safety. We are safe to name names here. This is our palace; all the servants are loyal. You don’t understand our situation. We’re doing all we can. Just as you suggest, the queen is speaking to all her royal relations, the French king among them; and Prince Charles is calling on all the crowned heads of Europe to protect His Majesty. We’re demanding the freeing of the royal children as well: Princess Elizabeth and Prince Henry. Especially, we have to get the prince out of England.”

“Both children,” James said stubbornly. “They should never have been left behind. She’s only thirteen and living as a prisoner, trying to care for her little brother. Both children should be restored to their mother.”

“Only the prince matters. What if they cram the crown on his head and have a puppet king? He can’t be trusted not to take his father’s throne. Really, you should go to Prince Henry and tell him, he’s to refuse any proposal—”

“He’s eight!” James exclaimed. “Do you think you can give orders to an eight-year-old? What do you expect of a child? He should never have been left in their power.”

“We’re doing all we can here,” the senior advisor repeated. “And we’re concerned for the children too, of course. First the king’s escape, then theirs. We want you to go and watch for us, report back.”

“I promised to go, deliver gold, meet with your man, and come back and report to you. I’m bound to do nothing more,” James said coldly.

There was a brief silence. “I apologize,” the man said who had called him Summers or Avery. “I should not have named you, nor complained of what you have done. Because . . . to tell the truth . . . we’ve got no one else. No one else who can go. We need you to go back.”

“You’ve not been identified as a spy?” the chief advisor said.

“No,” James said unwillingly. “I think not.”

“Then we have to ask it of you. This will be the last time.”

James looked around the table at the anxious faces, felt the familiar mixture of frustration and despair. “Very well.”

“Go back to London, and send us news. We have to know where they are keeping him and what they plan to do with him. We will give your reports to the prince himself and he will take them to the King of France. We will plan a rescue based on what you tell us.”

James bowed his head. “Very well. I’ll go and I’ll report.” He got to his feet.

The chief advisor stood up, and came round the table to put a hand on the young man’s shoulder, then walked with him to the door. “I’m grateful. You will be rewarded. Prince Charles will know your name and what you are doing for his father.”

James glanced sideways, his face tight and closed. “I thank you but I’d rather that nobody named me,” he said. “Not while I am in England passing as a Frenchman, or a German, or something else entirely. It’s safer for my mother and father and for our lands, too, if my name is kept secret.”

“Very well. Report to us. Daily if needs be. And get word to us the moment that you think it is going against him?”

“Oh, that I can do readily,” James said bitterly. “It’s now. It’s going against him now.”

TIDELANDS, JANUARY 1649

In the first cold days of January a fox got into the ferry-house barn and savaged three chickens before the anguished clucking of the flock brought Alinor running barefoot in her shift. As she flung the door open a streak of russet brown dashed out past her. One hen was dead on the floor, one beyond saving—Alinor picked her up and wrung her neck—but the third was bruised and bloodstained, and Alinor put her in a basket and took her into the house, washed the teeth marks on her breast, and kept her by the fireside in a basket. The hens were laying poorly in the cold dark days, so Alinor did not miss the income from the few eggs, but it was still a loss to the smallholding. Even if they could have afforded to lose three hens, Alinor would still have been grieved. She knew each bird by name and took pride in their glossy health.

“I know it’s stupid to weep for a hen, but I can’t forgive that fox,” she said to Alys.

“Tell the Peachey huntsmen where the earth is,” Alys said. “They’d be glad of a good run and a kill.”

“Oh, I couldn’t betray an animal to the hunt.”

Alys laughed. “Then until the resurrection and the life eternal you’ll always be sorrowing for something that’s been killed by something else. I can’t wait to eat her. Are you going to make chicken stew?”

“Yes, of course,” Alinor said. “I’m not such a fool as to not eat fresh meat in winter when it’s come our way. But you’re very hard-hearted for poor Mrs. Hoppy.”

“I’m hungry,” Alys said. “I’m hungry all the time. Aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Alinor said, noting that her daughter, for the first time in five months, was prepared to share signs of pregnancy. “And I need to piss every moment.”