Dawnlands: A Novel

NORTHSIDE MANOR, YORKSHIRE, SPRING 1685

Livia Avery came down the grand staircase of Northside Manor in a tailored black velvet riding habit, her gloved hand lightly on the bannister, the heels of her riding boots clicking on the polished wood. Her husband, Sir James, crossing the stone-floored hall, looked up and noted the letter in her hand and the flush in her cheeks.

So, you finally get your wish, he said levelly. You’ve waited most patiently. It’s been five years since you met the duchess, and now she is queen. I thought you had given up.

She took a little breath. I never give up. She showed him the royal seal.

Is it a royal summons?

We can’t speak here! she ruled and led the way into the library. Large logs smoldered in the hearth; she undid the mother-of-pearl buttons on her dark riding jacket and pulled at the cascade of fine lace at her throat. He observed her beauty with nothing but weariness. She was like the classical statues she had dotted around his house and gardens—lovely to look at, but meaningless to him.

She sat in the great chair before the fire, leaning slightly forward, her face glowing in the firelight as if posing for a portrait. Her hair was still glossy black, the creamy skin smooth on her cheeks, a few light lines around her dark-lashed eyes. She waited for him to take his seat opposite her before she would speak.

I’m all ears, he said ironically.

I am summoned to court, she breathed. James, Duke of York, is to be crowned king, his wife is queen. There is no support for the late king’s bastard. James the Second will inherit without challenge, and my dearest friend Mary of Modena will be queen. She was as exultant as if she had herself persuaded the people of England to crown the unpopular Roman Catholic brother to the king, instead of the adored Protestant bastard son. She writes that she needs me, she is unwell. I will, of course, obey.

Still he said nothing.

You could come with me? I am to be a lady-in-waiting, we could open Avery House? I could get a place at court for you. This could be a fresh start for us.

He cleared his throat. I’m not sure that I want a fresh start. I doubt that I’d want anything you can give me.

Her dark eyes flashed with irritation. You cannot expect me to refuse a royal invitation; it’s practically a command.

He turned his face from her show of temper. Really? I imagine that you could very well refuse. But I am absolutely certain you have courted her—writing every week, sending little gifts, all your engaging tricks—I imagine you have begged her to invite you. And now: she does.

You should be grateful to me…

You can go. He had no interest in what she might say. I will send you in the carriage. I imagine you will live at St. James’s Palace while they rebuild Whitehall. I assume you will return here when they go to Windsor in the summer?

You agree? she demanded.

He shrugged. You may do as you wish. As always. You are aware that the court is famously— He broke off, searching for the right word. Extravagant, he said. Corrupt, he added. Lascivious. But you will not mind that.

She raised her eyebrows as if in disdain; but her face was pale. You can hardly think that I—

No, I believe that you are quite above weakness. I am quite sure you will lock your bedroom door in London as you do here. Perhaps there, you will have reason.

Of course, my reputation will be without stain.

And you should be discreet in the practice of your faith.

She tossed her head. Her Grace—I should say Her Majesty—and I are proud of our shared faith, she said. She will open the royal chapel in St. James’s Palace. She is appointing the Benedictine order—

London will not tolerate Roman Catholics practicing religion in public, he told her. You may attend the queen’s oratory inside the palace, but I advise you not to show off in chapels outside the palace walls. There’s bound to be trouble, perhaps even worse than we’ve had already. Their Majesties should be as discreet, as the late King Charles.

We’re not all turncoats! she flashed.

I renounced my Roman Catholic faith to live my life as an English gentleman, he said steadily. The Church of England is my faith; not a failing.

She thought his whole life was a failure: he had changed his faith; he had betrayed his first love; Livia herself had played him for a fool, and trapped him into marriage for his name and fortune.

I am Roman Catholic, she told him proudly. More so now than ever. All of England will return to the true faith, and it is you who will be in the wrong.

He smiled. I do admire how your devotion increases with the fashion. But you had far better be discreet.

She looked at the fire, the heavy wooden carving of his coat of arms on the mantelpiece, and then to him, her dark eyes melting, a little smile on her lips. James, I want to talk to you about my son.

He settled himself a little deeper into his chair, as if he would dig his heels into the Turkey rug.

Once again, I ask you to adopt him and make him your heir.

And once again, I tell you I will not.

Now that I am bidden to court— she began.

He is no more my son than he was before. And I doubt you were bidden.

He has been educated at the best schools in London, he will eat his dinners at the Inns of Court, he is being raised as an English gentleman by the family that you chose for him. You can have nothing against him.

I have nothing against him, he agreed. I am sure he is being raised well. You left him with a family of high morals and open hearts. He can visit you in London if you wish—but you may not go to the warehouse and see them, his foster family. You may not disturb them or distress them. That was agreed.

She folded her lips on an angry retort. I’ve no wish to see them. Why would I go downriver to a dirty wharf? I don’t wish to speak about them, I never even think about them! It is Matteo! We are talking about my son, Matteo… She put her hand to her heart.

Unmoved, he watched her dark eyes glisten with tears.

I have sworn that unless you make him your adopted son and heir, I will conceive no other, she reminded him. My door will stay locked as we grow old, childless. I will never disinherit my boy. You will never have a legitimate son if you do not first give my son your name. You will die without a legitimate son and heir!

He barely stirred in his chair, though she had raised her voice to him. You do know that I have rights to your body by law? he confirmed. But—as it happens—I do not assert my rights. There was never any need for you to lock your bedroom door. I don’t want to come in.

If you want to live like a priest! she flamed out at him.

Rather a priest than a fool, he replied calmly.

She put her hand to the back of her neck, pinning back one of the dark ringlets that fell over her collar. She made her voice warm and silky. Some would say you are a fool not to desire me…

He looked at the flames of the fire, blind to the seductive gesture. I was led down that road once, he said gently. Not again. And you’re what? Forty-five? I doubt you could give me a son.

I’m forty-two, she snapped. I could still have a child!

He shrugged. If I die without an heir, then so be it. I will not give my honorable name to another man’s son. An unknown man at that.

She gritted her teeth, and he watched her fight her temper. She managed to smile. Whatever you wish, husband. But Matteo has to have a place of his own. If he cannot be an Avery of Northside Manor, then he has to be da Picci of Somewhere.

He can be da Picci of Anywhere; but not here. I have nothing against the boy, and nothing against you, Livia. I acknowledge you as my wife and him as your son. You won my good name when you deceived and married me, but that was my own folly and I have paid for it. Your son will not enter into my estate, but he is free to make his own fortune if he can, or batten off you if he cannot.

If you’re still thinking of her and her child…

His face showed no emotion. I have asked you not to speak of her.

But you think of her! Your great love!

Every day, he conceded with a smile, as if it made him happy. I never pray without naming her. I shall think of her until I die. But I promised her that I would not trouble her. And neither will you.

BOSTON, NEW ENGLAND, SPRING 1685

Ned Ferryman stood on the jumble of quays and piers and wharves of Boston harbor, his collar turned against the cold wind, watching his barrels of herbs—dried sassafras, black cohosh roots, and ginseng leaves—roll down the stone quay and up the gangplank to the moored ship. Six barrels were already stowed belowdecks, and Ned squinted through the hatch to make sure that they were lashed tight and covered with an oilskin.

Beside him on the quayside the master of the ship laughed shortly. Not to worry, Mr. Ferryman, they’re safely aboard. He glanced down at Ned’s worn leather satchel and the small sack of his goods. Is this all you have for your cabin? No trunks?

That’s all.

The cabin boy from the ship came running down the gangplank and scooped up the sack. Ned slung the satchel around his shoulder.

You’ll have heard the king’s dead? the captain asked. I was the first ship to bring the news. I shouted it the moment we threw a line to shore. Who’d have thought a king that lived so wild would die in his own bed? God bless King Charles, lived a rogue and died a papist. His brother James will have nipped on the throne by the time we get home.

Only if they crown him, Ned remarked skeptically. James the papist? And that papist wife alongside him?

Eh—I don’t care for him myself—but what choice is there?

The Duke of Monmouth, the king’s own son, a man who promises liberty, and freedom to choose your own religion.

Born a bastard. And we can’t send a Stuart king on his travels again. We’ve only just got them back.

A rare smile crossed Ned’s stern face. I don’t see why they can’t go again, he said. What has any Stuart ever done for a workingman?

We’ll know when we get there, the captain summed up. We sail with the tide, just after midday. There’s a noon gun.

Aye, I know Boston, Ned said shortly.

You’ve been here awhile? The captain was curious about his quiet passenger, his deeply tanned skin, and his shock of gray hair. It’s a great city for making a fortune, isn’t it?

Ned shook his head. I don’t care for a fortune, stolen from natives who gave all they had at first. I make a small living, gathering herbs. But now it’s time for me to go home. I’ll be aboard before noon.

He turned from the quayside to go back to the inn to settle his slate. Coming from the opposite direction, tied in a line with tarry ropes, were a score of prisoners trailing their way to a ship for the plantations. Ned could tell at once that they were the people of several different Indian nations: the high topknots and shaven heads of some, and others had a sleek bob. Each face showed different tattoos: some high on the cheekbones or some marked straight across the forehead. There were even one or two wearing the proud all-black stain of warpaint: the sign that a man was sworn to fight to the death. They were roped in a line, dressed in a muddle of ragged English clothes, shivering in the cold wind, alike in their shuffling pace—hobbled by tight ropes—and in the defeated stoop of their shoulders.

"Netop, Ned whispered in Pokanoket, as they went past him. Netop."

Those who were closest heard the greeting—friend in their forbidden language—but they did not look up.

Where they going? Ned asked the red-faced man who was herding them, his hands in his pockets, a finely carved pipe clamped in the corner of his mouth.

Sugar Islands. He turned his head and barked: Wait!

Obediently, the line shuddered to a halt.

God help them, Ned said.

He won’t. They’re all pagans.

Dourly, Ned turned away, spitting out the bitter taste in his mouth, when he half heard a whisper, as quiet as a leaf falling in the forest:

"Nippe Sannup!"

He turned at the familiar sound of his name in Pokanoket: Waterman.

Who calls me?

"Webe, pohquotwussinnan wutch matchitut. A steady black gaze met Ned’s. A youth, beardless and slight. There was no pleading in his face, but his lips formed the words: Nippe Sannup."

I need a boy, a servant, Ned lied. I’m going to England. I need a lad to serve me on the ship.

You don’t have to buy one of these, the man advised him. Just shout in the inn yard and half a dozen little white rats will pop up their heads, desperate to get home.

No, I want a savage, Ned improvised rapidly. I collect Indian herbs, and pagan carvings. Things like your pipe—that’s savage work, isn’t it? My goods’ll sell better with a savage lad to carry them around. I’ll buy one of ’em off you now, Ned said. He pointed to the youth. That one.

Oh, I couldn’t let that one go, the man said at once. He’s going to grow like a weed, that one: thicken up, broaden out, going to be strong. I’ll get good money for him.

He won’t last three seconds in the fields, Ned contradicted. The voyage alone’ll kill him. There’s nowt on him, and he’s got that look in his eyes.

They die just to disoblige me! the jailer said irritably. They don’t take to slavery. Nobody’d buy one, if you could get an African. But a slave’s a slave. You’ve got it for life—however long it lasts. What’ll you give me?

Fifty dollars, Spanish dollars, Ned said, naming a price at random.

Done, the man said so quickly that Ned knew it was too much. Sure you want that one? Another pound buys you this one, he’s bigger.

No, Ned said. I want a young one, easier to train.

You hold the pistol while I untie him, the jailer said, pulling a pistol from his belt, showing it to the prisoners, who turned their heads away, as if in disdain. He pressed it into Ned’s hands. If anyone moves, shoot them in the foot: right?

Right, Ned said, taking the heavy firearm in his hand and pointing it at the huddled crowd.

The jailer took a knife out of his boot and slashed through the ropes on either side of the youth, pushing him, still tied and hobbled, towards Ned. He made the trailing ropes into two rough but serviceable loops and handed them to Ned, like the long reins for a young horse, as he took back his pistol.

Ned opened his satchel and counted out the coins. Does he have any papers?

The man laughed. Do cows have papers? he demanded. Do pigs? Of course he don’t. But we can take him to the blacksmith and brand him with your initial on his cheek.

Ned felt the cords in his hand tighten, as the slim youth braced himself against terror.

No need, he said. We sail in an hour. I’ll load him on board now and lock him in my cabin.

Mind he don’t drown himself, the jailer said. They do it the moment they get the chance. Someone told me they think they will rise out of the waves on a muskrat. He laughed loudly, showing his yellow stumps of teeth, rotted by sugar and rum.

Yes, they do think that… Ned remembered his friend telling him the Pequot legend of the making of the world: a muskrat bringing earth from the seabed as a gift of life from the animal to the first woman in the world.

Take a brace? the jailer gestured. You can have another for the same price?

Nay. Ned tugged gently on the rope that trailed from the lad’s tied wrists and led the way to the ship. The boy followed with his shuffling walk. Ned did not look back, no white man looks for his slave, and the boy hobbled behind him.

Ned did not speak to the lad, not even when they were on board. He locked him in the windowless cabin and found the loadmaster and paid for another passage, a quarter price as it was a slave. He refused the offer to chain the boy in the cargo hold and pay for him as if he were baggage. He went back to the inn and bought a few shirts and a pair of breeches for the lad, and then he stayed on deck until the captain shouted, the gangway was drawn in, the ropes cast off and the bell towers and roofs of the city got smaller and smaller until the new city of Boston was just a smudge on the horizon, the sun sinking behind it. Ned stretched his aching back and went through the hatch and down the ladder to the tiny cabins below the deck.

The lad was seated on the floor, his head resting on his knees, as if he did not dare to touch the narrow bunk. When the door opened on Ned, carrying a gimbaled candlestick in one hand, the bundle of clothes in the other, he rose to his feet, alert as a cornered deer. His breath came a little quicker, but he showed no sign of fear. Ned, knowing the extraordinary courage of the Pokanoket, was not surprised. He put down the candle, the counterweight base moving gently with the ship to hold the candle upright.

You know me, Ned fumbled to remember the words of the banned language of Pokanoket. "You called me Nippe Sannup."

The youth nodded stiffly.

Have you seen me in the wilderness? Have I traded with your people?

The boy said nothing.

Have your people traded furs with me? Or gathered herbs for me?

Still there was no answer.

What language do you speak? Ned asked in the forbidden language of the Pokanoket, then he tried again in Mohawk.

I can speak English, the youth said slowly.

What is your people? Ned demanded.

The boy’s face was expressionless, but one tear rose up and rolled down his face. He did not brush it aside, as if the name that might never be spoken was Sorrow. We are forbidden to say our name, he said quietly. "I knew you when I was a child. You were Nippe Sannup, the ferryman at Hadley. My people took your ferry when the Quinnehtukqut was in flood."

Ned felt the familiar sense of longing for that lost time. Fifteen years ago? When I kept the ferry at Hadley?

The youth nodded.

That was a lifetime. You must’ve been a child.

Are we at sea? Is the boat at sea? he suddenly demanded.

Aye.

You will not throw me over the side?

Why would I do that, fool? I just rescued you! And paid a fortune!

You have saved me from the plantations?

Aye, we’re going to London.

The youth gritted his teeth on the terror of another unknown destination. I thank you.

Ned grinned. You don’t look too thankful.

I am. You knew my grandmother, her name was Quiet Squirrel. D’you remember her? She made your snowshoes. D’you remember them? And my mother?

Quiet Squirrel! Ned exclaimed. She did! She did make my snowshoes. And she taught me… She taught me every— He broke off. Is she…

She’s gone to the dawn, the boy said simply. All my people are gone. All my family are dead. Just a few of us were captured alive. The village is gone. You can’t even see the postholes. They burned us out and they plowed our ground. They have made us… He sought for the word. … invisible.

Ned sat down heavily on the side of the bunk. Invisible? How can a people become invisible? He had a sudden, vivid memory of the village of Norwottuck: the houses around the central fire, the children playing, the women grinding corn, the men dragging in a shot deer, the girls carrying long spears loaded with fresh fish. Impossible to think it was all gone, yet he knew it was impossible that it had survived the three years of bitter warfare. And you… He looked at the youth. Were you one of the little lads?

The youth pressed his lips together as if he would hold in dangerous words, but he forced himself to speak. I met you when I was a child of six summers. You used to make me laugh when we crossed the river on your ferry. Back then, I was called Red Berries in Rain.

Ned’s eyes widened; he got to his feet, put his hand under the youth’s chin, turned his face to the light of the candle. Red Berries in Rain? he whispered.

There was a day in his mind, long ago, more than fifteen years ago, when the women had been on his ferry, and they had been laughing at the little girl who had hidden behind her grandmother and peeped up at him with huge dark eyes. You’re a lass? he asked, disbelieving. You’re that little lass?

She nodded. Please… Please don’t give me to the sailors, she whispered.

God’s blood! D’you think I am a beast?

She flinched from his outrage. The jailer gave my sister to the sailors.

I’d never do such a thing! he swore. I’d never—well, you’re not to know. But I have a sister in England! I have a niece! God knows, I’d never…

I said I was a boy, and they gave me a shirt and breeches.

Aye, it’s best. Ned gestured to the patched breeches and old shirts on the bunk. You’d better stay as a lad till we get to England. We’ll say you’re my serving boy.

Thank you, she said. I don’t want to be a girl until I am a girl of the Dawnlands again.

What’ll we call you? he asked. I can’t call you Red Berries in Rain.

It was a mosmezi tree, she offered. You had one growing by your gate. A slight tree with white flowers in spring, and in autumn: red berries? We use the bark for healing?

I remember, he said. But he did not want the pain of remembering the tree at his gate, and the ferry across the river, and the women who had been his friends, and who had walked with him into the New England village, sure of their welcome, with baskets of food and fish on strings. It’s a rowan tree, he told her. We can call you Rowan. And here… He pushed the clothes towards her. You’d better get out of those rags, they’re probably lousy. I’ll get the galley to boil them.

Can I wash? she asked.

He hesitated, knowing that at every dawn, her people would wash and pray, facing the rising sun. They were the People of the Dawnlands, they were the people of the long dark coast that was the first to see the sun every day. Of all the unknown peoples in all the great forests that stretched to the west far away behind them, they were the first to see the first light.

Not like you do at dawn, he told her. But I can get you a jug of water and some soap. He put his hand on the latch of the door.

Shouldn’t I get it? she asked him. As I am your slave? You’re not mine.

She surprised him into a laugh. Aye, I’m not. Come then, I’ll show you the way to the galley and the stores, and around the ship. You should really sleep in the hold, but you’ll be safer in my cabin. You can have the bunk, I’ll take the floor.

No! No! she refused at once. I sleep on the floor. She looked up at him to see if he would smile again. I am your slave. You’re not mine.

I’d never have a slave, he told her. All my life I have believed that men—even women—should be free. I’m going back to England now to help set my countrymen free.

She nodded, following the rapid words and watching his lips, so she saw his smile when it came. But you can sleep on the floor.

Because you have a niece? she asked him with a gleam in her dark eyes.

Because I am old enough to be your grandfather, he said dourly. And as stiff in the morning as frozen laundry on a washing line.

Ned had guessed she would wake before dawn, and he was instantly aware of her, awake but silent. You’ll want to see sunrise, he said quietly into the pitch-darkness.

Can I?

Outside Ned’s door a ladder led upwards to a battened-down hatch. Ned went first, lifted the hatch, and breathed the cold saltiness of the sea air. He put the cover aside, climbed out, and turned to help her, but she was already up on deck gulping in the clean breeze, her arms thrown wide as if she would have the wind blow through her clothes, blow defeat out of her soul.

The sky was lightening all around them, but the sun was not yet up. Ned raised his hand in acknowledgment to the steersman and led the way fore so that they were facing east, facing England. There was a clean bucket on a frosty rope for sluicing down the deck. Ned lowered it into the sea and felt it tug in his hands. He hauled it back in and put it at her feet. Best I can do, he said, and stepped back.

Rowan looked out along the bowsprit to where the horizon gleamed with a cold pale light. She loosened the shirt at her neck; she did not dare stand naked as the ritual demanded, but she splayed her bare toes on the deck and stood tall, swaying slightly at the roll and dip of the ship through the waters. She took a cupped handful of icy water and poured it over her head, over her neck, another full into the face. She tasted the salt and opened her eyes. She whispered: Great Spirit, Mother Earth, Grandmother Moon, Grandfather Sun, I thank you. I pray to the four directions…

Carefully she turned to the four points of the compass, looking out over gray rolling waves east then north, south, and west until she was facing the brighter horizon once more. "I thank you for all my relations: the winged nation, the creeping and crawling nation, the four-legged nation, the green and growing nation, and all things living in the water. Honoring the clans: the deer—ahtuk, the bear—mosq, the wolf—mukquoshim, the turtle—tunnuppasog, the snipe—sasasō. Keihtanit taubot neanawayean."

The head of a silvery sun was rising from the gray faraway waters as she murmured the prayer. She bowed her head and poured more water over her head, her face, her neck, her breast, as the sun rose. She looked towards it, as if it might tell her how she should survive this extraordinary transition in her life, from one world to another, from one life to another, from one country to another. She had no fear. She felt the strength in her feet on the scrubbed wooden deck, the powerful beating of her heart, and the limitless confidence of youth.

ST. JAMES’S PALACE, LONDON, SPRING 1685

If Livia was nervous, as the Avery carriage drove through the rolling deer park and turned into the great arched doorway, she showed no sign. As the coach rattled through the imposing north gatehouse, the wheels echoing loudly on the cobbles, guardsmen saluting the Avery crest on the carriage door, Livia settled her cape around her, tied the silk ribbons on her hat, and straightened the ribbon bows over her shoulders. All she could see were the tall walls of red brick relieved with white pillars and mullioned windows. The carriage halted and the steps were let down. Livia’s grip was firm on the footman’s arm, her step light on the pavement. The lace edging on her hat did not tremble, the smile on her beautiful face was steady. Her tight bodice hid her breathlessness; the thick silk of her gown and her billowing petticoats swished around her as she followed the new queen’s chief secretary into the first court, across the rigidly formal garden, through inner doors and up the stairs. Finally, the chief secretary nodded to two men-at-arms to throw open the double doors of the queen’s presence chamber and announced: Lady Livia Avery, Your Majesty.

The dark-haired queen was seated at the window, looking far younger than her twenty-six years, some fine embroidery in an ivory frame beside her, two maids of honor sorting embroidery silks on low stools beside her and two ladies-in-waiting opposite her. In the corner of the room a lutist and a singer created a gentle warble, enough to mask indiscreet conversations from the hearing of the servants who stood at the buffet of silverware. Queen Mary Beatrice was wearing a deep-red silk gown trimmed with silver lace, cut very low over her breasts and across her arms to show her white shoulders. Her slim neck was loaded with jeweled necklaces, she had diamonds in her ears and chains of diamonds wrapped around her arms. Her dark hair was piled on her head, falling in ringlets to her shoulders. She turned a pale face to the door, but as she saw Livia she lit up. Oh! Livia! My dearest Livia! she exclaimed at once in Italian. You have come! In this terrible weather! You have come to bring the spring!

Livia sank into a deep curtsey and kept her head down, but the queen raised her at once and fell into her arms. She was slight—beneath the flowing embroidered silks Livia could feel a body as slim as a girl’s. Over her shoulder Livia could see the grim faces of the other attendants as they noted the arrival of a new favorite.

"Carissima, the queen whispered. I have longed for you. I will be grateful for all my life that you have come to me. She turned. Are Lady Avery’s rooms prepared for her? she asked. The best rooms, near mine."

Lady Isabella Wentworth rose up and dropped a small curtsey to Livia. Shall I show Lady Avery to her rooms?

No! The queen turned impulsively. I’ll come myself. She paused for a moment, shaken by a cough. You all stay here, she said, catching her breath. Defying protocol, she took Livia’s hand and the two of them followed Lady Wentworth from the presence chamber, through the privy chamber, through the queen’s bedchamber to a gallery of doors for the ladies-in-waiting. One was already painted with the Avery crest. Livia’s dark eyelashes hid the gleam in her eyes at the triumph, but she said nothing and waited for the footman to dart forward and swing open the door. Lady Wentworth stepped back to allow her queen and Livia to enter first.

Livia’s drawing room had a warm fire in the grate, a pair of silk upholstered chairs before it, an expensive rug on the floor. There was a grand mahogany table with six dining chairs under the window so that she could dine with friends and enjoy the view of the privy gardens and beyond them the rolling lawns of the deer park. There were portraits on the walls and a tapestry depicting a white hart being brought down by huntsmen. There were sconces with candles and candelabra on the tables holding pure white wax candles. Livia crossed the room and looked out of the window. She allowed herself to imagine the south bank of the river, far away, due east. The poor wharf, the cargo ships bobbing in dirty water, the little home where she had gladly left her son so that she could rise, unhampered, to this greatness. She was pleased she could not see it—it was too far away—around the broad loop in the river, beyond London Bridge, beyond the Tower, far from the wealth and elegance of the royal palaces, far away from her new life.

Is it all right? the queen asked humbly.

Livia turned. It’s quite all right, she said, smiling. It’s perfect for me.

REEKIE WHARF, LONDON, SPRING 1685

Beyond Livia’s horizon, three and a half miles downriver, on the south bank, Ned stood for a moment to look at the Thames in flow, the waters rushing past the quay, the boats riding high, unladen, in the center of the stream.

On the distant opposite bank Ned could see the river wall was being extended, the mud and pebbles of the foreshore enclosed by great beams packed with stone. The green weeds and water had dried out, the wading birds had deserted it. New buildings, streets, slums, hovels were being built on a tumble of stone and rubble. The city was spreading downriver, making more and more wharves for more and more ships, as if trade itself were a new king who could demand selfish changes to England.

Rowan, close behind him, was dressed as a manservant: shoes and woolen stockings on her feet, wool breeches and a linen shirt and wool jacket under a warm traveling cape. A cap pulled low over her cropped dark hair completed the disguise. Ned led the way down the alley that ran between the warehouse and its neighbor, until he came to a lantern door set into the big wagon gates, which were bolted and closed for the night. Inside the yard, he could hear someone bedding down horses, the splash of water being pumped into a bucket, and the bang of the stable door. He put his hand on the iron ring to open the little door, but she saw him hesitate.

I can hardly go in. I’ve not seen my sister for twenty-five years. I never thought I’d come back.

He turned the handle, opened the door, and stepped through. It was a prosperous yard, swept clean around raised beds of herbs. There were four big horses nodding over the stable doors, and two carts stored in the cart shed. The double doors that led to the warehouse were safely locked, but the door to the kitchen was half-open. Ned could see the cook bending over a new cast-iron stove. She turned as she heard the lantern gate and came to look over the bolted lower door, wiping her hands on her apron.

Is it a load?

No, said Ned. I’ve come to see Mrs. Reekie.

If you want the herbs, I can sell them.

I’m her brother, come home from New England. I’m Ned Ferryman.

Oh, my Lord! she exclaimed and then clapped her hand to her mouth to stifle the oath. Oh, my word! Well! You’re very welcome, sir. Come in! Come in! You should have come to the front door, not in the yard like a carter. Come in, and I’ll tell them you’re here.

She swung open the bottom half of the door and shouted to the kitchen maid to come and take their bags. She went surging into the hall, to the parlor at the front of the house, which overlooked the quay and the river. You’ll never guess who’s in the yard! she exclaimed to the middle-aged couple in the room. You’ll never guess.

The woman rose to her feet. Of course I won’t guess, she said, a tolerant smile on her face. Who’s come at this time of night to the yard gate, Tabs?

Your uncle Ned! the cook exclaimed triumphantly. Who would ever’ve guessed that! Your uncle Ned from the Americas. Large as life and his lad at his side.

Alys went swiftly past her to the kitchen and then checked as she saw the broad gray-haired man, swinging his satchel to the floor, and behind him, the most beautiful boy she had ever seen, dark-haired, dark-eyed, head up, light on his feet as a deer.

Uncle Ned? Alys asked uncertainly. Tabs said you were my uncle Ned? and when he looked up and smiled at her, she said with sudden certainty: "It is you!"

Alys’s husband, Captain Shore, filled the doorway to the hall. Ned Ferryman? he queried.

Alys was in Ned’s arms, hugging him, patting him, pulling back to look into his worn, grooved face. Uncle Ned, God bless you! We never thought to see you again!

I know. I never thought I’d come back. But here I am!

Praise God you’re safe, after such travels!

Amen, amen. My sister Alinor is well? He looked around for her.

Yes—speaking of you only last night. And you know there’s a new king on the throne? Crowned and anointed just last week? King James. Does that mean you’re safe to come home now? And the troubles are all forgotten?

They’re not all forgotten, he said steadily.

You’ve not come back to rise up again? You’re not for the Protestant duke? she demanded anxiously, interrogating his face with a frowning gaze.

Hush, Captain Shore intervened. Come into the parlor, sir. I take it you’re my uncle-in-law, and I am your nephew Abel Shore.

Congratulations, and I’m glad to meet you at last! Ned said. I sent you some buckskins for your marriage bed.

I sleep under them every night, the Captain said. Coziest bedding I’ve ever had. Much needed this winter gone. We’re grateful. And who’s this?

My lad. This is my serving boy: Rowan.

Well, come in, both of you, Captain Shore said. Have you dined?

There’s enough for us all, Alys assured him. The maid can run out to the bakehouse and get a chicken pie. Uncle Ned, I must take you upstairs to Ma at once. You know, she was speaking of you only last night. She dreamed of you, at sea on dark tides.

Aye, I wondered if she’d know I was on deep waters, he said. But you’d better prepare her.

We’ll wait for you down here, Captain Shore said, waving Rowan back to the kitchen. You get warm in the kitchen, lad. And, Uncle Ned, if Mrs. Reekie wants you to dine upstairs with her, sir, you just say the word. Sometimes she comes down for dinner, sometimes she don’t. It’s always her wish, just as she wants.

Ned followed his niece up the wooden stairs to the next floor. To his right was the door to his sister’s room, and to his left the bedroom that Alys shared with her husband, and another door to the smaller spare room. The narrow stairs for the servants’ rooms went up into the eaves of the roof.

Alys tapped on the door and went in, leaving it half-open. Ma, Ned heard her say. Be steady, Ma. I have some news.

I can tell it’s good news from your face, he heard his sister reply.

At the sound of her voice he could not make himself wait any longer. He pushed open the door. It’s me, Alinor. I’m come home.

Alinor rose up from the sofa, her pale face flushed with joy, her hands outstretched to him. Ah, Ned! You’ve come home at last. And in a moment, she was folded in his arms.

Later that night, after a bustle of preparation and dinner and drinking of healths and exchanging news, Ned went to Alinor’s room to say good night and sat on the end of the sofa. I daren’t keep you late, he said. Alys gave me such a scowl. Are you tired?

She put her hand to her chest where her breath came short. I’m too happy to be tired. I always thought I’d see you in this life again, Ned. But I never dreamed you’d come home like a merman out of water, without a word of warning.

I never thought I’d sit at a table with my family again. I’ve been solitary for so long.

But now you’ve got Rowan for company?

He’s just with me for the voyage, he said. I can’t bear to keep a servant, Sister. You know my feelings. I paid for his passage over, but he’s free.

She slid a sideways look at him. Rowan? Named for a tree? Neither girl nor boy but a being from the forest?

He smiled ruefully. Of course, you saw her at once. Aye, she’s a lass. The granddaughter of a woman who was kind to me when I was first in New England. They call themselves the Pokanoket, the People of the Dawnlands. He corrected himself. No. Not anymore. They did. They were the ones killed in the wars, and now their name is forbidden.

Have you escaped one war to wage another? she asked him acutely.

He glanced to her closed bedroom door, as if even in her own house, he was wary of eavesdroppers. Aye, I got a message, he said shortly. Old comrades tell me that the new king is a papist and a French spy. They say that no one will stand for it, the people will rise again and put the Duke of Monmouth in as a new Lord Protector. Another Cromwell. So I came at once. Like an old horse at the sound of the trumpets! To see it happen—the freeing of the people. Once again.

She nodded. It’s true, she said. Captain Shore keeps his own counsel, and we’re far away from St. James’s Palace, but even the merchants’ coffeehouses say that the new king prays like a papist in a foreign tongue, kneels for Mass with his foreign wife, and the court is bought and sold by France. There’s not an honest man among them. And the young Duke of Monmouth is said to be in the Low Countries, building a fleet. They say he’ll come to save us and the Church of England. The country’ll be divided again into royalist against roundhead.

There’ll be a war? he confirmed. Another civil war?

Not for you, she urged. Not for you, who left England rather than be subject to a king. You’ve done enough, Brother. Come to watch if you must. But don’t you risk a beating. You can’t bear that grief again.

His slow smile told her that he regretted nothing. Nay, he said. All my life I’ve thought that God made man and woman, not kings and servants. I was proud to serve under Cromwell to set the men of England free. I was glad we won our freedom. I was sorry we gave it away again. I’d be proud to fight for the men of England once again.

We can’t, she told him. The family can’t. We’ve taken years to build the warehouse trade, and now we have our own ship: Captain Shore’s ship. We’ve bought the wharf next door, we trade in fine things from Sarah in Venice. Johnnie is a writer at the East India Company and Rob is a doctor, he’s put up his door knocker in the City—our Rob! A proper doctor! We can’t throw that away for the king’s bastard. We can’t do it, Ned. You can’t ask it of us—not of the young ones when they’re doing so well. Not of Captain Shore and Alys now they’re settled.

No, no, Ned said quickly, clasping her hand. Not any one of you. I’ll go to Monmouth as a single man, without ties, without family. This is my battle—not theirs. If the Duke of Monmouth takes me into his service, I’ll be Ned Ferryman come from New England to serve my countrymen—and nothing to link the Reekie wharf to me.

You’ll think me chickenhearted, she said ruefully.

He shook his head. I wouldn’t have you lose your home again. Once was enough.

It’s not home, she said quietly, thinking of their house beside their ferry on the tidelands. But it’s a good living.

Course, he agreed. And maybe I’ll come out of this so well that I’ll buy you a house at Foulmire, and you and I will end our days there, watching the waters rise and fall in the harbor, with no lord ruling over us and no king over England, and it’ll be a new dawn.

ST. JAMES’S PALACE, LONDON, SPRING 1685

The newly crowned queen was sick: bleached by the pain in her chest, in her back, cold despite the heaped lambswool covers on her bed. No doctor had been able to cure the cough which came and went with the seasons; the hard-hearted courtiers said it was a weakness of her family, and that she would die before she was thirty. She would see no one but Livia, who lay with her in the bed, as close as a lover, warming her with the heat of her body.

Mary Beatrice could not rest. She spoke feverishly of the conversion of England, of the winning of all the souls to the true faith, with fire if need be. She coughed and said that she must have a son, a son baptized into the Roman Catholic church to cement the conversion, that her life would be wasted if she died of this cough, of weakness, before giving the Holy Father a papist prince of Wales, an heir of the true faith for England.

Livia, too much of a courtier to argue, thought the country had been Protestant for too long to change back again, the church lands sucked into private estates, the abbeys rebuilt as private houses, the nuns married off, the priests vanished. Not even the stones stood where the monks had set them, the relicts of the saints were missing from honored tombs, the pilgrim ways growing grass. The lands dedicated to holiness were growing wheat at a profit. English lords had exchanged God for great wealth, and it would be hard to change them back again.

My son will be crowned by the Pope, the queen predicted. Not like us, in secret.

You were crowned by the Archbishop of Canterbury in Westminster Abbey, before everyone? Livia corrected her gently, thinking she must be delirious.

Of course, we had to go to Westminster Abbey, as the Protestants wanted, but it was an empty show. We were first crowned and anointed in secret, in the Roman Catholic chapel at Whitehall, by the king’s confessor.

Livia was aghast. My dear, you must never repeat that! People would go mad if they found out. They would tear down the palace.

Of course, it is secret, the queen said more calmly. But think of the glory! I am the first queen crowned in the true church since England turned heretic. Think of that! I am the first queen crowned by a priest since the sainted Catherine of Aragon, since Queen Mary.

Because the church changed! England has changed.

I will change it back… Her voice trailed off as she fell asleep, but Livia did not close her eyes. She gazed up at the rich canopy, half dreaming, half planning, as if she could see the future in the golden embroidered sunburst, the circling stars of silver thread, trying to imagine if this queen and king could dominate the country, could remake England. Mary Beatrice stirred in her sleep, and Livia turned to her like a lover and kissed the line of her neck from her ear to her collarbone, pressing herself gently, tightening her hold.

REEKIE WHARF, LONDON, SPRING 1685

Ned, flushed and awkward, waiting for his nephew, Rob, and the family’s foster son, Matthew, to arrive for dinner, felt too big for the parlor at the front of the warehouse, ungainly at the window overlooking the river, awkward at the dining table. In the kitchen, Rowan, equally out of place, was clumsily loading a tray with a bottle of wine and glasses and an earthenware pitcher of small ale.

Take it! Take it! Tabs commanded, sweating over the stove. You’re his serving lad, ain’t you? Serve it!

Rowan abandoned the attempt to claim that she was a serving lad who did not serve, and carried the heavy tray into the parlor.

Here, lad! Put it down before you drop it, Ned said, helping her with the heavy tray as the glasses clinked dangerously together. Neither of us is at ease here.

Alinor, seated at the fireside, smiled at Rowan. I hope you’ll feel at home soon.

There was a knock at the front door.

That’ll be Matthew, home from college, Alys said, emerging from the countinghouse at the back of the hall, her husband, Captain Shore, behind her. Or maybe my brother, Rob, come early.

Ned nodded to Rowan. Answer it, lad.

How? she said, very low.

Just open the door and stand back and bow. Don’t be a gowk.

Rowan threw him an exasperated look, but went to the door and opened it to a tall, slim man aged about fifty years. He handed her his fringed hat and cape without remark and went past her into the parlor. Rowan went to shut the front door when she heard a shout from the quayside—Hold up!

She hesitated, as a long-legged youth of about fifteen came bounding towards the open door, light-footed over the cobbles.

Here—you’re new! he exclaimed. Did you come with my great-uncle Ned? From America?

She nodded as he slipped past her and into the parlor of his home. The door closed on them, and she scowled at her pang of self-pity. It was strange to think that a man who had always appeared so solitary, in his lonely house, beside a cold river in the Dawnlands, should have had all this behind him: family, house, business, on the side of the great river of London; and that she—a girl embedded in her family, born of ancestors from the dawn of time, whose