Kings of the Boyne

by Nicola Pierce

  Gerald sighed.

  Falling into step behind their comrades, Jacques allowed a few minutes to pass before asking quietly, ‘Did you not know that even women die in wartime?’

  Instead of answering Jacques’ question, Gerald said, ‘An old woman was killed in our camp last year, outside Derry.’

  Swiping at a persistent fly that threatened to land on his nose, Jacques guessed, ‘She was a Protestant, yes?’

  Gerald looked at his friend impatiently. ‘No! I mean, yes, I suppose she was. I don’t know. Is that really the point?’

  He kicked the ground, understanding that Jacques would not answer such a silly question, because the woman’s religion was the entirely the point. Of course it was.

  Gerald tried to explain his feelings. ‘She was desperate for food. Some of the men saw her picking seeds out of horse manure and decided that she must be a witch. I did nothing when they surrounded her. I said nothing when they taunted her, stabbed her and shot her dead. I just stood and watched, exactly as I did just now.’

  He walked ahead of Jacques, not wanting the Frenchman to defend their fellow soldiers.

  Jacques let him go. He understood the boy’s struggle. This year marked his tenth as a soldier in King Louis’ army, the busiest army in the world. He reckoned that the life of a soldier was a simple one as long as you followed orders. Let someone else struggle with their conscience about troublesome matters like this. The death of that pretty brunette and her friend was the commander’s doing, not his.

  The Frenchman made sure to keep Gerald in sight. He understood the boy’s confusion. Perhaps he even welcomed it. Wasn’t it good for an old hand like himself to be reminded that war was a horrible business?

  Chapter Two

  King James in Dundalk, 1690

  The flames of the candles flickered against the canvas walls of the tent, continually throwing shadows and shapes into light and then into darkness again. King James watched them without interest. Every now and then the tent dented and belched, or so it appeared, as the wind pummelled it from outside.

  The king had had an early supper, some chicken that was a little tough, cold potato, followed by fruit and a glass of sweet wine. Since then he had not moved from his chair, only moodily staring into space. His servants had no choice but to ignore the gloomy expression on his face. Certainly they were not allowed to ask what was wrong. The only thing they could do was clear the table, spirit away the dirty dishes and see that his bed pan was placed between the sheets of his bed to heat it up.

  The Comte de Lauzun, His Majesty’s advisor, waited impatiently for the servants to leave. Eventually they were left in peace, allowing Lauzun to ask, ‘Is something troubling you, sire?’

  The king clicked his tongue against his mouth, saying moodily, ‘That is rather a stupid question, even for you.’

  Lauzun, who had already written in confidence to his own king, Louis, in France, to complain about James’s temper, sought to keep the atmosphere peaceful. ‘My apologies, Your Majesty. But of course!’

  The Frenchman felt as gloomy as the king, but he had to keep his real feelings hidden. His job was to keep James happy and focused on getting the English throne back. Catholic France simply could not have William, that Dutch upstart, as a Protestant king of England, Ireland and Scotland.

  If King Louis XIV was going to rule all of Europe – and that seemed to be an ambition of his – he needed Britain as an ally, a Catholic ally to help him to crush the Dutch vermin. Therefore, Lauzun surmised, the upcoming battle in Ireland was not James’s alone. It was France’s, too.

  James had been slow to understand what was motivating the hordes of Irish soldiers who rushed to join his army. In Dublin Lauzun saw how the crowds cheered James, throwing up their arms in welcome. Flowers were strewn on the ground before the king’s horse while, here and there, bewildered babies were held up and cajoled into waving their pudgy fists.

  Lauzun understood the reason for the ecstatic welcome in Dublin. The Irish were not really celebrating James as their king. No, indeed. They were celebrating James as a Catholic on the throne of England, who had the power to return their riches and privileges to them. The comte smiled as he remembered the blush on James’s cheeks. The king had sweetly flicked his wrist at the people, in acceptance of their goodwill … even love. Those crowds had turned his head. Mais oui, the Irish are clever, yes?

  God knows it was their fault that James insisted on going north to the besieged city of Derry. What folly it had been, to imagine that those mulish Protestants would change their minds about him, on seeing him arrive in person at their gates. As long as he lived, Lauzun would never forget that awful day. Because, instead of opening their gates and their hearts to him, the king was actually fired upon; one solitary gunshot that killed the boy beside him and shook the king’s stubborn confidence that he would be embraced by all.

  ‘So, is there any change in our situation?’

  It sounded as if it had taken the king a supreme effort to ask his question which was followed by a deep, shuddering sigh.

  Lauzun shook his head sadly, saying, ‘No, sire.’

  Although there was the fact … ‘Only that, Your Majesty, the Williamite army is definitely in trouble. The dead are being carried off every day in dozens, maybe even more than that.’

  King James was unimpressed, only allowing himself to surmise, ‘I suppose that is one good thing about this dreadful climate and landscape. It is fighting our battle for us.’

  Lauzun shrugged, unwilling to state his true opinion one way or another. They had been stuck here for weeks overlooking the Williamite camp. Naturally, every single Jacobite had assumed there would be a clash of arms, to send William’s most experienced commander, the elderly Duke of Schomberg, and his army scurrying back to Hell, or wherever they had come from. Lauzun waited to be told to prepare for a fight, but that order never came. It was downright peculiar.

  Lauzun sent a letter back to Louis, in which he was free to rant:

  My Lord, if you could see how we are being used – that is to say, not used. The men polish their guns, sharpen their swords and pikes, and I can only assume that they are mimicking the actions of the enemy who are camped in a sort of ditch.

  As you can imagine, the weather is as bad as it can be, and the only battle taking place is between the men and clouds of flying midges that bite into any exposed flesh. At least we are camped in superior grounds, somewhat higher than the enemy. I fancy their proximity to the ditch is making them the perfect meal for the biting insects.

  Schomberg is just sitting there while his army loses men day after day. Our physicians tell me that the Williamites are also being carried off by disease, owing to the wet climate and muddy ground. There is scarcely a decent tent amongst them. And we just sit here watching their misfortune unfold.

  Meanwhile, King James sulked, or that is how it seemed to his companions. Inwardly, he comforted himself with the thought that just because he had lost one battle in Derry did not mean he would lose the war.

  This is what James believed he was waiting for – an almighty confrontation with William of Orange, the Dutch king who had stolen away James’s English crown, an adversary who was both his nephew and his daughter Mary’s husband. James could see no other way to resolve and bring about his rightful return to the throne.

  James was on a mission; his Catholicism was like a torch with which he intended to banish the darkness from his nation. God knew what he had suffered so far and the difficult sacrifices he had made. How many friends had his change of faith cost him, not to mention his family, his own precious blood, his daughters, Mary and Anne.

  Never would he have guessed that at this late time in his life he would be living in a tent in the middle of an Irish nowhere. But if this was what God needed him to do then what choice had he? There is nobody in this world who can truly understand what a wronged king has to put up with. Yet, wasn’t Jesus also forsaken by all he knew? I should be proud to bear his cross o
f isolation.

  James did acknowledge that he was blessed with a loving wife in Mary Beatrice, who prayed every day for his safe return.

  Young and beautiful, she had fulfilled all the king’s requirements when he went looking for a second wife after poor Anne, mother to Mary and Anne, passed away. Oh, he knew how he was spoken about in court – how they whispered that he began his search for a new wife before poor Anne’s body was cold in her grave.

  He chose to ignore the gossip. A future king did not have time to dwell on the past. Anne was dead, and he urgently needed a son, a Catholic son that would inherit the throne after he was gone. Otherwise, the throne would pass to his eldest daughter, Mary, a staunch Protestant. This is what separates royalty from the masses: one must always think of the future. And plan for it.

  In no time at all, he was peering at painted portraits until he came upon the likeness of the fifteen-year-old Catholic Mary Beatrice of Spain.

  Despite their differences, regarding Church and faith, James’s new bride and his Protestant daughters, Mary and Anne, became friends, in the beginning. There was lots of giggling and girlish parties with dressing up in funny costumes to put on plays for family and friends.

  Who could have foretold just how much things would change?

  After disappointing her husband with a daughter, Mary Beatrice had a second opportunity to provide the next heir to the throne. James assumed that she spent those long months praying as hard as he did because, in the end, their wish was granted. But was it really worth it?

  There are some folk who would advocate taking care in what you wish for just in case you get it.

  James would never forget that day as long as he lived. That tiny boy – James Edward Francis – was the best news his father had had in a long time. Because of his new son, King James now had a Catholic heir; and because of his new son, King James was no longer on his throne.

  His enemies’ reactions to the newborn were a little more dramatic than James had expected. His Protestant Dutch son-in-law was invited … invited … to invade England, making it necessary for James to flee, first sending his wife and baby to France and following on himself later.

  It was Lauzun who escorted Mary Beatrice and the child to the safety of King Louis’ castle, and that’s why the comte was here now in his most official capacity. James looked at the Frenchman in front of him. True, he owed Lauzun a lot, but he did not particularly like him, suspecting that the young comte would rather be back in sunny France drinking fine wine and gorging on chocolate.

  As James listened to the rain outside and rubbed his hands together to keep them warm, he had to admit that perhaps to be back in France would be no bad thing at all.

  He sighed. ‘If I only had five or six more French battalions, then we should drive the Duke of Schomberg out of Ireland.’

  Since there were no Irishmen nearby, Lauzun was free to shrug his agreement: ‘Mais oui, Your Majesty. Mais oui.’

  Chapter Three

  Waiting Around in Dundalk

  ‘This is Hell!’ declared Jacques as he wiped his nose on his sleeve. A greasy lock of dark hair fell over his eyes and he testily pushed it to the side.

  ‘No,’ grinned Gerald. ‘This is still Dundalk, I think!’

  Jacques refused to laugh. ‘What in God’s name are we doing here, growing older by the day?’

  Gerald tried to cheer his friend up with a compliment: ‘Your English is much improved.’

  ‘Pah!’ was the sour response.

  The truth of the matter was that they were good and stuck, all of them, in the middle of nowhere.

  Gerald and Jacques were sitting around their small campfire that spat angrily thanks to its wet ingredients. All its energy was put into the spitting so that there was little actual heat coming from it. The miserable fire was just one of hundreds in the Jacobite camp.

  Gerald did his best to ignore the dampness from sitting on the wet ground. There was an unpleasant chill around his backside any time he moved so he tried to keep still.

  They had been joined by a handful of colleagues, all troopers ready to fight for King James or, at least, they had been when they arrived weeks earlier.

  Jacques’ mood was dipping into frustration and impatience, and boredom: ‘What are we waiting for? Why do we not fight, is that not why we are camped out here in the rain?’

  Everyone agreed that it was a fair question, but no one had an answer to it. King James was somewhere out there in his tent and he must have his reason for not attacking the Williamites, mustn’t he?

  Michael O’Dwyer, an older, red-faced man from Tallaght, near the city of Dublin, began to peel a potato with his dagger. He ventured his theory: ‘Maybe James does not like to take advantage of Schomberg’s men that are dying away like May flies. His conscience might forbid him from launching an attack.’

  Jacques yelped, ‘But he is at war. You cannot feel sorry for the enemy. It is nonsense.’

  Michael eyed Jacques to see if he was being insulted. If the Frenchman really wanted a fight, he would be happy to oblige him … if he was being insulted.

  Sensing trouble, Gerald spoke up, ‘Well, perhaps he is waiting for help, you know, more reinforcements. Maybe Louis is sending more men and horses?’

  Some of his listeners shifted on their wet patches of grass; there were not enough rugs to go around and they preferred to keep their jackets on than spread them beneath their buttocks. The worry was that they were all being insulted as a group of proud Irishmen. Jacques wisely made no comment on this practical explanation. He sniffed instead.

  Michael O’Dwyer, however, was able to appreciate the truth behind Gerald’s words. ‘Maybe the lad has something. I mean, how many of us have fought in a proper battle before?’

  Gerald piped up immediately, ‘I was at Derry!’

  Michael shook his head at this. ‘But that was not what you could call a real battle. That was more about skirmishing and ambushes. You know, like fighting fellow ruffians on the street when you were a youngster.’

  Gerald was unsure as to whether he should admit, in front of these tough men, that he had never fought on a street when he was younger. He had never found it necessary to defend himself since no other boy would have dared to hurt him or they would have suffered at the hands of their mortified parents. Gerald was an O’Connor and even if the castles were in ruins, the memories were not. His family still commanded a huge amount of respect amongst their fellow neighbours.

  Also, he had had no time to play rough and tumble what with never-ending chores and daily lessons, courtesy of plump Father Nicholas.

  No, he would not share this story with these fellows here. At the same time, he could not agree with Michael O’Dwyer’s assessment of his military experience in Derry.

  ‘What about the trench where the Williamites attacked us in the dead of night?’

  Jacques leapt in before anyone could sneer at Gerald’s question. ‘Ah oui, yes, that was quite a battle. We were set upon as we slept and then struggled to arm ourselves in the dark while being shot at from above. We were fish trapped in a puddle.’

  Michael O’Dwyer listened patiently. He had not taken part in the siege of Derry and had been convinced that he had not missed much. However, young Joseph O’ Leary, a skinny red-head from Trim in County Meath, was much engrossed in the story. He asked Gerald and Jacques the obvious question, ‘And how many Williamites did you kill?’

  Ah.

  Now it was time for Gerald to squirm, while Jacques shrugged and answered plainly, ‘Kill? No, my friend, there was no time for us to kill anyone.’

  Gerald explained, ‘We were ordered to get out of the trench and run as fast as we could. I suppose the important thing was that we should survive the attack.’

  ‘And not fight back at all?’ queried Michael, looking a little shocked.

  Jacques cursed. ‘I lost a good musket that night. They told us to forget about our belongings. Fortunately I was wearing my boots.’

  Hi
s companions nodded, sending his smart French boots, with their shiny brass buckles, envious looks. Yes, to lose those to a Williamite would have been a great shame indeed.

  Fixing Michael with a certain look, Jacques added, ‘A good soldier knows when to abandon a fight that is doomed from the outset. What use is dying over a badly dug trench? We run away, we come back and fight again in the daytime. Makes more sense, no?’

  Michael took a large bite of his potato and made a face that might have meant that he agreed, or maybe not.

  Gerald sighed. ‘Being stuck here reminds me of being back in Derry. All of this waiting around for the enemy to make the first move.’

  Jacques sniffed again and despite the fact that no one stirred themselves to query his health, he announced: ‘I have a cold.’

  Only Gerald’s smile contained any sympathy.

  ‘Mon Dieu!’ Jacques said. ‘When this is all over I am going to return to my village and spend the summer teaching a pretty blonde how to throw a stone across the lake so that it skips and jumps before sinking to the bottom.’

  ‘What?’ asked Gerald. ‘You would really spend a whole summer doing just that?’

  The Frenchman stretched and yawned: ‘Her name is Marie Thérèse. She is a slow learner.’

  Only the laughter of the others made Gerald realise that his friend was joking.

  Chapter Four

  Outside Belfast, June 1690

  The people stared in silence. King William cracked his mouth into a smile of sorts. It was important not to overdo it or look false. His horse twitched her ears forwards and backwards and he patted her on her neck, encouraging her to keep trotting.

  So, this was Belfast, and this silent watchful audience that lined both sides of the dusty street were her citizens and, presumably, his loyal servants.