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commands.

He turned back, chuckling. Mike had no doubt at all the guards would be protesting vigorously. He also had no doubt at all that the daughter of Gustavus Adolphus would go through them like tenpins.

Sure enough. Just as Sharon started up the steps, Kristina came charging through the great front doors of the palace. She even managed to restrain her headlong seven-year-old charge by the time she reached the steps to greet Sharon with a hug-instead of bowling her right back down.

'And the crowd goes wild,' said Mike to himself, grinning wider than ever. Quite loudly, in fact. He couldn't have heard himself otherwise.

The crowd had, indeed, gone wild.

'If I didn't know better,' Mary said-speaking very loudly herself, or she couldn't have been heard either-'I'd swear you staged this.'

Jesse came up just in time to hear the remark. 'He did,' the Air Force colonel snorted. 'Impromptu theater, of course. Mike's specialty.'

He gave Mike a look that was half-amused and half…

Wondering, perhaps.

'Torstensson's at the base, by the way. I think he's been on the radio to Gustav Adolf for at least two hours. They've already had to switch operators, to give the first one's fingers some rest. So. What next, O great stage magician?'

Mike was watching the princess. Both of them, it might be better to say. They were still hugging.

'The education of royalty, I think. That's got to be put into the right hands.'

Mary gasped. 'Michael Stearns! You can't take a little girl hostage.'

'Why the hell not?' he replied, almost snarling. 'When Europe's royalty has taken millions of poor girls hostage? Watch me, dammit.'

Seeing the look on her face, he sighed. 'Forget the Three Rivers, Mary Simpson. Welcome to the Thirty Years War. Gustav Adolf won't blink at the idea, trust me. First, because he knows she'll be treated right. Second, because he'll get his own back for it. Don't think he won't. Royal blood be damned. That man could swap horses with anyone in the hills. Matter of fact, I think he'd have made a champion horse thief.'

Chapter 51

That evening, in Edinburgh, Robert Mackay gazed down on the sleeping form of his daughter-in-law. She had brought his grandchild to him, once the fever finally broke and it was certain Alexi would survive. This disease, at least. Then, exhausted by her own travails over the past days, Julie had fallen asleep herself, lying on the bed next to Robert and cradling Alexi in her arms.

It was a large enough bed, so Robert had made no attempt to rouse her. Nor, truth be told, had he had desire to.

'She must have struck you like a thunderbolt, the first time you saw her.'

Sitting on a chair next to the bed, his hand caressing Julie's hip, Alex smiled. 'Oh, father, aye and she did. I could not keep my eyes from her. 'Twas a bit awkward, given the circumstances. What with her people standing about with those frightening guns of theirs.'

'Life is an awkwardness, son. Why should its most precious moments be otherwise?'

The infant was beginning to stir. Ignoring the pain, Robert leaned over and plucked her out of her mother's arms. Then, cradled her in his own.

'You've still got your first winter ahead of you, babe,' he murmured. 'But we've a fire, and you've a spirit. So I think God will wait, for the pleasure of your company. For a time, at least.'

***

That same evening, in London, the fate of other children hung in the balance.

'Your Majesty,' said the earl patiently, 'you cannot-'

'Cannot! Cannot! You-Wentworth-cannot use that word! Not to me!'

Charles was in full and peevish fury, stomping back and forth in his private chambers-insofar as his somewhat mincing steps could be described as 'stomping' at all.

'There was nothing in the books about this! Nothing! And I read them all!'

'Please, Your Majesty. We must deal with the matter using our reason. You cann-' He broke off, for a second or two, almost grinding his teeth. 'The history in those books presupposed the events in those books. Change one-and others change also. As I was saying, it is not possible to bring thousands of mercenary soldiers from the Continent without the risk of disease coming with them.'

The queen interjected her own comments. As usual, casting confusion onto muddle. 'There was no mention of a plague in the books! None! Not this year! I read them also!'

'Of course not, Your Majesty. There was no sudden flood of mercenaries into the island in those books either. Coming from a continent awash in epidemics.'

Henrietta Maria glared at him. Nothing odd in that, of course. The queen of England disliked the earl of Strafford at the best of times. For the past week, since he'd refused to give another of her favorite courtiers a military post-as if the soldiers didn't have enough grief on their hands as it was, trying to contain the unrest swirling throughout the island-the dislike had become open hostility.

'Nothing in the books!' she repeated. 'I read them all!'

Strafford realized it was pointless. Best to move on to practical things.

But the king forestalled him there also. 'The queen and I will leave London immediately. On the morrow. The city will be a pesthouse within days. We'll winter over in Oxford.'

'Your Majesty, I beg you to reconsider. England is still in something of a turmoil. Unrest everywhere. In London, I can guarantee your safety. The new troops have been concentrated here-'

'Exactly why there's a plague!' shrilled the queen. 'What were you thinking?'

It was all Strafford could do not to lose his temper completely. What was I thinking, you mindless idiot? I was thinking that every rebellion in England stands or falls on London, in the end. Didn't you read that also, in those books? Lose London, and soon enough-surely as sunrise-you will lose it all.

Again, there was no point. He tried to plow on. 'The Trained Bands have been dispersed. They no longer even dare to come into the streets. In Oxford… I cannot be certain what might happen. Besides, there are many who have welcomed the new turn of things, even here in London. If Your Majesties remain, that will signal confidence. With proper procedures-'

A sudden thought came to him. He tried to pursue it, but the king's petulance drove everything under.

'Not possible! My subjects should have confidence in me because I am king, not because of where I choose to reside or what I choose to do. To claim otherwise borders on treason. The dynasty is what matters, Wentworth. Our very lives are at stake. We leave tomorrow-and that is final.'

The earl bowed his head. 'Sire.'

'Not you, of course,' snapped the king. There was more than a trace of spiteful glee in the words. 'You will remain in London. Your family also. Since you seem so concerned with providing the people with confidence.' He waved his hand. 'Now be off, about your business. The queen and I have much to do, thanks to your negligence.'

By the time Strafford reached his home, his rage had passed, if not his bitterness. He was able to think clearly again.

So be it. I can hardly complain, after all, since it was what I was going to propose to the king himself.

His wife Elizabeth greeted him in the hallway. Nan's hand was held in hers.

Strafford allowed himself a moment simply for affection, such as his stiff manner could manage. Then, stiffly, gave instructions to his wife.

'Pack up whatever you can. I am moving all of you into the Tower. I'll remain here, but I want you safe. As safe as London can be, at least.'

'The Tower?' Elizabeth's face was creased with confusion.

'Trust me, wife. If there's any place in London that will weather this new storm, it will be the Tower.'

***

'Will he be all right?' Andrew asked anxiously. His eyes were fixed on the two-year-old child Rita Simpson had just finished examining. Not far away, leaning against a wall in the cramped quarters of a Yeoman Warder, Andrew's wife was standing, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her face was pale, perhaps, but composed. If little George died, he would join one of his siblings in the Tower's graveyard. She still had two others, who seemed healthy. One of them was already seven, and the other five. The odds for them were good now.

'I think so, Andrew,' Rita replied. Then, sternly: 'If you follow my instructions. But for the sake of God-and little George-don't let them bleed him.'

She studied the infant for a moment, her lips pursed. 'I don't know exactly what he's got, but I'm sure it's neither plague nor typhus. Could be… oh, lots of things. But the deal is, Andrew, even if I can't cure the disease itself, I can probably treat the symptoms. And with most diseases, it's usually the symptoms that kill off the kids so quickly.'

'Oh, yes, Lady Stearns. We'll follow you in this. Don't much trust the doctors meself.'

'I'm not 'Lady Stearns,' ' she snapped. 'Dammit, I'm tired of hearing that silly phrase. The name's Rita Simpson. Mrs. Simpson, if you want to go all formal about it. My mother-in-law's the lady in the family. Ask her yourself, if you don't believe me.'

Andrew did not argue the point. But, seeing the set expression on his face, Rita realized that she'd not moved him in the least. Indeed, had just finished confirming him in his opinion.

'Dehydration's the big killer. What the kid needs is plenty of fluids. Water, basically, with electrolytes. Salt'll do, but I'll see if we can scrounge up some sugar also. I'll set up a regimen for you, and I'll check in every day. Okay?'

'Yes, La-ah, Mrs. Simpson.'

Rita didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Somehow, Andrew managed to make the term 'Missus' sound like 'Duchess.'

'Guess they've decided to just look the other way,' Darryl announced, as soon as he heard the bar drop across the door. 'Gave me no argument at all.'