“I’m told he’s a confident sort.” Charles scowled. “Perhaps a bit overconfident, I say.”
Sibbald shrugged. “Might I remind Your Majesty that you snubbed him at your first and only meeting? I recommend a more politic reception this time round.” He tossed back his drink and placed the empty snifter on a tray. “The Marquis of Montrose could be a real asset to your cause.”
“Perhaps I should side with the Campbell instead.” The king glared a moment at the colonel, who stood almost a foot taller than the diminutive monarch.
“Have a care, Your Majesty.” The colonel adjusted his waistcoat, clearly uncomfortable in the formal dress appropriate for a royal audience. “Rumor is, his men have taken to calling himKingCampbell.”
Charles huffed, and turned to take out his aggravation on his court painter. “You.” He stabbed his finger toward the man. “I desire a mythological theme, something grand, and I’d not be distracted this time by sylphs and those chubby-cheeked babes you so favor.”
“But of course, Your Majesty,” Van Dyck deferred, “you will be as Apollo himself, virile, and fresh from the hunt.”
“Your Majesty,” the colonel interrupted, ignoring the insolent stare from the court painter. “If you can make peace with Graham and somehow convince him to fight for you, he will need men to lead. I fear the English are not much in the mood for war.”
“Well, Sibbald, we’ll just commission them.”
“The gentry haven’t been commissioned into service in decades. With respect, sir, I fear that could be a treacherous course of action. Many Englishmen already agitate against you.”
Charles waved his hand testily. “I’ve made arrangements.” He rose from his carved mahogany seat. “A thousand head of Irishmen are come to assist me.”
“It will be seen as a Catholic conspiracy.” Astonishment tinged Sibbald’s voice. Returning to the tray, the old colonel tried to exact a final drop from his empty glass.
“What would you have me do otherwise?” Charles asked. “The Kirk and nobles rebel, and the only men at my back are professional soldiers like you, a handful of Irish, and whatever help my dearest queen might procure from abroad.”
He caught Van Dyck’s stare, as the painter waited expectantly for the king to reassume his position. Charles’s cheeks blotched red with impatience. “I’m done for now.” He shooed the painter away angrily. “Leave us.”
The artist bowed silently, and hastily gathered his paints into a box, leaving his easel where it stood in the king’s private chamber.
“Once again, I encourage you to listen to the Marquis of Montrose, ” the colonel said. “He will, of course, expect you to make concessions on your religious mandates, but with Parliament splintering the south and the Covenanters raging in the north, the question of religious freedoms seems to be the least of your concerns at the moment.”
Sibbald wandered to the abandoned easel and examined the half-painted portrait of the king, seated atop a great white stallion, his stubby legs elongated under a gleaming sheath of imaginary armor, tiny frame now towering over all he surveyed. Concealing a smirk, the colonel quickly added, “I knew James at the military college at Angers. I have every confidence in him. The marquis was a gentleman, and seemed a bright enough sort.”
“Bright enough to beat his peers at their own game?”
“Aye, Your Majesty, we can hope.”
A night in Oxford hadn’t done much to compose James and Rollo. They’d discovered pub curfews were now nine o’clock, liquor sales being directly related to late-night brawling within the ranks. They had found a small rooming house near New College, which, they’d been told, now functioned as the king’s main magazine, housing all military provisions and artillery.
“Good Lord,” James exclaimed, retrieving a small handkerchief from his pocket. “Do I smell cattle?”
They had entered the main gates of Christ Church. Though he had a cane crafted specifically for him, Rollo’s progress was slow, and James strolled leisurely at his side.
Distant lowing echoed off the staid stone buildings that enclosed the courtyard in a vast square. “I hear them as well,” Rollo said.
“Good sir,” James called, flagging down a young soldier. “If you would please be so kind as to enlighten us, pray tell, what are livestock doing in Christ Church?”
Though tall, the soldier was a rangy lad, and James guessed he’d not yet even reached his full height. “We’ve need of something to eat, aye?” the boy said.
“Yes”—James concealed a smile—“but of course you do.”
“They’ve filled the church with cows,” Rollo marveled under his breath.
“Royalist cows, surely.” James smirked, bemused by Oxford’s bizarre transformation. “Let’s find Charles. Perhaps he’s tending turnips in the cloisters. They’ll have want of a royal side dish.”
“Caution.” Rollo laughed softly, looking around quickly to ensure nobody had overheard. “Or it’ll be your head on a platter for dessert.”
There wasn’t a cow to be heard or smelled in Charles’s temporary court, though, which they eventually found installed, with royal extravagance, in St. Frideswide’s Priory.
“You may enter,” a footman said, soon after James and Rollo’s arrival had been announced.
