Plaidy, Jean - Royal Sisters: The Story of the Daughters of James II

He did not enjoy good health, and this was the reason he had not been a member of the Council. Strange that an old man like Danby clung to office; and a young one like Shrewsbury pleaded ill health in order to stay out of it.

They had been children together for he was only a few years older than Mary, but there was a stronger bond than age and similar environment between them. When Mary had been a child she had constantly heard scandals about her father’s affairs with women and there was one—the case of Margaret Denham whose husband had murdered her because of her association with James—which had shocked her deeply. Shrewsbury had suffered a similar shock when his mother’s lover, the Duke of Buckingham had killed his father in a duel because of his mother; and then created a scandal by living openly with her.

Both Shrewsbury and Mary had been deeply affected by the adulterous intrigues of their parents. Mary had sought companions of her own sex until marriage with William had made her build up an ideal so that she convinced herself that she adored her husband. Shrewsbury wanted to shrink from the world of intrigue and responsibility, which was difficult for a man in his position. He had become abnormally interested in his health and whenever a situation from which he flinched arose he would invariably become ill and make this the excuse of his retirement from it.

This was what had happened when William announced his intention of leaving England for Ireland. Shrewsbury, contemplating those who would have been his fellow councillors, had no wish to be in office; and to the chagrin of William and the disappointment of Mary he had pleaded “the comfortless prospect of very ill health.”

And now here he was, looking serious but determined; and the most attractive man Mary had seen—since she last saw him.

“Charles!” she cried affectionately.

He knelt. “Your Majesty.”

“Rise and welcome. I am pleased to see you. You are in better health?”

“Your Majesty, I could not lie abed while you are in such straits. I have come to offer you my services in whatever capacity you wish to use them.”

She began to smile; she was beautiful when animated and as the strain of the last days dropped from her she was young again.

“That makes me very happy,” she said. “I have great need of friends whom I can trust.”

Meanwhile William had arrived in Ireland. He was more melancholy than usual, for the climate did not suit his health, being even more damp than that of England. He said grimly to the Earl of Portland, who had been Bentinck, that he would give much to be back in London, even Whitehall; and having tested this climate he wondered why he had ever cursed the other.

Portland replied that he must guard his health; it was all important that he should not be sick at this juncture.

William nodded grimly; his hemorrhoids were very painful after so many hours in the saddle, but riding was good for his asthma—or would have been in a better climate.

“You should rest more frequently,” chided Portland.

“There is no time for resting. You know that well, Bentinck. We must go with all speed to Belfast to take over from Schomberg. How long do you think the army can hold out with inadequate food, and with all the disease there is among them? What do you think they are saying of a King who stays in London while they fight his battles for him. They may not like me—these English; but to see me here, fighting with them, one of them, will put heart into them, I promise you.”

Portland smiled at him affectionately. Many would be astonished that William could be almost garrulous in his company when he merely snapped out a word or two with almost everyone else.

“You will do it,” he said. “More than that you’ll conquer Ireland.”

“I have to. If not, James will be back in England. There are many who won’t have him and many who will. That will mean bloodshed, Bentinck. We don’t want it. That is why I have come to Ireland to stop his chances of ever making a bridgehead from here to England. I may die in the attempt, but at least I am going to put everything I have into driving him right off this island.”

He began to cough and hastily put a kerchief to his mouth. He tried to hide it, but not before Portland had seen the blood. Portland snatched it from him and anger blazed from his eyes.

“Again?” he demanded.

“Come,” said William lightly, “you forget your manners, Portland.”

Portland looked at him, and the anger was there to hide the tears. All the love which was between them was visible in that moment and neither attempted to hide it, for it would have been useless. This was Bentinck, the friend of boyhood who would be the friend until death; who had nursed his Prince through small pox and caught the disease himself by sleeping in his bed in the hope that he would divert something from the Prince to himself, as he might have stood between him and an attacking lion.

Portland wished he had not shown petulant jealousy of young Keppel whom William had favored more and more since Elizabeth Villiers had asked for a place for the boy; William wished he had not often neglected Portland for the young page.

“I shall insist that you rest before going on. You must at least do that.”

“Dear Bentinck,” said William softly, “I shall insist that there be no delay. Do not grieve for my ailments. God, man, they have been with me all my life. When I was in my cradle they despaired of my life; but I kept it. Those who loved me have been despairing since while those who hate me have been hoping; but I’m not going yet. I have decided to stay alive.”

He leaned forward and touched Bentinck’s hand.

Again they looked at each other, defenses down. For as long as they lived there would be love between them. Bentinck knew it; William knew it.

It must be for a long time, prayed Bentinck.

Ulster was shouting its joy and relief.

He was a little man with a long hooked nose dominating a pale face; he was without personal attractiveness; he suffered from undignified illnesses; he was ungracious in manner; but when he was conducting a campaign he was a great leader; and these men who were so in need of inspiration saw in William that nobility which Mary had discovered and which had made her accept her marriage as an ideal one.

At Loughbrickland, William concentrated his troops; and from there they marched south with him at their head.

And they sang as they went; and their feet kept time with the music; and their eyes were on that small but inspiring figure on horseback whom they were certain could lead them to victory.

“Lilliburlero bullen a la!” they sang.

In battle he was intrepid; because his body had always served him ill he treated it to a certain amount of contempt. Death had no terror for him. Bentinck scolded that he took unnecessary risks; but he only shrugged his shoulders and continued to take them. He was not a man to enjoy life so wholeheartedly that he held it dear, he said; and he had not come to Ireland to let the grass grow under his feet; he was going to settle this matter once and for all.

He was growing more and more certain of success.

“They have some good Frenchmen on the other side,” he told Portland, “but they are few and the majority of James’s army are Irish who are untrained and too emotional. We’ll have them running never fear.”

By evening they had come to the River Boyne on the opposite bank of which Lauzun, the French commander, had taken up his stand. His position was strong; he had made entrenchments and he had the river between him and the enemy.

Schomberg was worried, believing that they should wait before attacking, but William wanted to go quickly ahead into battle.

They rested for the night and the next morning as William breakfasted on the bank some Irish sentries saw him, and guessing him to be an important personage fired at him and his party.

One man and two horses were killed. In dismay William’s friends closed about him but not before a shot had grazed his right shoulder blade.

Portland was beside him, white faced and trembling.

“My time has not yet come,” William assured him. “This must be dressed quickly, for I am in a hurry.”

The wound was dressed and when Portland anxiously inquired if it were painful William retorted: “I have suffered much pain in my life, I can endure a little more.”

“Postpone the battle. Rest awhile. Schomberg feels we should not go into action yet.”

“Battles are rarely won by postponement, Bentinck. We have the superior force. Let us use it now before the enemy have time to strengthen themselves.”

As soon as his wound was dressed he mounted his horse and for the rest of the day went about his affairs as though nothing had happened. He was determined that everything should be ready for battle the next day.

That evening at nine o’clock he called together his generals and there was a council of war. His plan was to cross the river the next day and attack. There was opposition but he overruled it, and as soon as day broke on that 1st of July Schomberg with Portland beside him made a crossing of the river and at Slane Bridge they found a regiment of Irish guards whom they quickly beat. Lauzun had placed his own countrymen at the Pass of Duleek to prevent the right wing of the English army making a crossing; so the left and center of the force had only to face Irish Catholics.

As William made the crossing he called to his men to remember they were fighting for the Protestant religion: and they plunged into fierce battle.

The Irish went down before them. Schomberg fell, fired at in mistake by one of his own men; but William fought on; and James, who was watching from the Hill of Donore began to understand that this son-in-law whom he disliked was one of the greatest generals of his day; and that though courtiers might turn shuddering from him, soldiers rallied to him and fought as they would only for a great leader.

“Your Majesty.” It was a voice at his elbow and he knew what would be said before the words were spoken.

“It is time?” asked James.

“There is not a moment to be lost,” was the answer. James turned away; he had lost the battle; now it remained to save his life.

His horse was waiting.

“To Dublin, Your Majesty.”

“To Dublin,” he repeated.

He took one last look at the battlefield. The bitter truth was becoming clearer with every moment.

The Battle of the Boyne would soon be over, with victory for the Orangemen.

It was more than a bloody battle; it could be the end of hope. William of Orange was in Ireland to drive out James II and he would not rest until he had done it.

The only hope now was help from France.

But first he must think of preserving his life.

Shrewsbury at her side; William victorious in the decisive battle of the Boyne; James fled to Dublin and to France!

“Thank God,” prayed Mary, “he is safe. Thank God they are both safe.” If her father would stay in France and live there peacefully; if William would come and take over the task of troublesome government. But that would come, for the tide had changed.