London - Edward Rutherfurd [442]
On Sunday morning Lord St James ate a light breakfast. He still did not know what to do about Carpenter.
At mid-morning he went to church and heard the service. He had hoped it would give him inspiration, but it did not. When he returned to his house he found a polite note from Meredith reminding him that they could not keep O Be Joyful locked up in a dungeon for ever. “At least,” it ended, “I ought to give the poor fellow some water – and some explanation.”
Finally, somewhat past the middle of the day, they finally brought Lord St James news that quite unexpectedly changed everything.
“You are sure?” Meredith asked when Julius told him.
“That is the official news. The question is,” the earl continued, “is it possible? As a physician, what would you say?”
“It’s more than a month early. You say it’s healthy?”
“‘Bonnie’ was the word that was used to me.”
“It sounds,” Meredith weighed his words carefully, “unlikely.” He paused. The two men looked at each other. “She has always miscarried before,” he said slowly, “and the king is now . . . unhealthy. That he should have a ‘bonnie’ son just now seems to me” – he made a face – “convenient.”
O Be Joyful had no idea at all what time of day it was when the door above him opened. As he clambered weakly up into the light he saw not soldiers, but Meredith and Lord St James standing there, smiling.
“I’m sorry we had to keep you here,” the clergyman said. “It was for your own safety. We believe every word you’ve said. And now I want you to go with Lord St James here. We can’t force you, but I think it would be best. You’ll be back in a week.”
“Go with him? A week?” He blinked at them in the light, confused. “Go where?”
“To Holland,” the older man replied. “I’m going to see William of Orange.”
The events of the summer of 1688 marked a watershed in English history, but to refer to them as the Glorious Revolution is rather misleading. There was no revolution; nor was there anything glorious about the business at all.
When, on Sunday 10 June, King James II of England announced to an astonished world that his wife had at last given birth to a son and heir, loyal Englishmen were put into a quandary. If the child lived – and all reports said it was healthy – this baby would inherit the throne. He would also, undoubtedly, be Catholic.
“But we only put up with James,” good Protestants pointed out, “because we knew we were getting William and Mary next.” Indeed, long before this, some of the more concerned Protestants had discreetly approached William of Orange to suggest that he should at least urge his father-in-law to moderate his papist ways – though the cautious Dutchman had preferred not to interfere. This baby boy, however, changed everything.
For Lord St James, already appalled by the revelation from O Be Joyful, and wrestling with his conscience about what to do, the news had been a blow. To others, less loyal than he, it was a call to arms. The Whigs were disgusted; the Tories – who had just seen seven of their Anglican bishops put in the Tower – were thoroughly alarmed. Others too, besides St James, set out for Holland. By the end of the month, an invitation had been sent to William from some of the greatest men in the land: “If you want your kingdom of England,” they told him, “you’d better come and get it now.”
How could Julius, whatever the circumstances, desert the path of loyalty which was his birthright, and break his oath to the king who had even made him an earl? Wasn’t it against all he stood for? Rooted equally deep in his character however was that other, binding injunction received eighty years ago from his father. The rule which, in the end, proved stronger than all the others: “No popery.”
For what really astonished the people of England, what caused Lord St James