“If we are ever raided,” Rowan said, “we go across the quicksand to the caves beyond, and nobody could follow us.”

  They went past the quicksand, deeper into the caves, paddling down a river which dropped out in a waterfall from a seashore cliff into the sea, and they climbed down the cliffs to gather seagull eggs, down to the sands to catch a turtle.

  They did not fear the cold in this forest. “There’s no winter here,” Caskwadadas told Rowan. “Sometimes it rains a lot, and sometimes there is a terrible wind. But there is never snow. We’ll never wear fur here.”

  “Wómpatuck is named for a snow goose, but will never see snow?” Rowan asked. “That can’t be.”

  “We can’t stay here forever. Wómpatuck has to be a Pinese, he has to become a man. He has to take his first deer, he has to run with the wolves and taste the snow.”

  “I know,” Rowan said, looking at the boy. “I don’t forget.”

  BRIDGETOWN, BARBADOS, AUTUMN 1686

  Johnnie had expected his arrival in Barbados to be busy; but the town of Bridge was a roar of confusion. The arrival of a ship from England was an occasion for anyone hoping for letters or a payment from home to crowd down to the stone harbor and drink in the many tippling houses and gentlemen’s clubs while waiting for the ship. By the time the ship had anchored and the passengers and goods had been ferried by smaller boats to the quay, there were riotous arguments and fights, and a drunken welcome on the quayside.

  Johnnie felt very alone amid the bustle and noise. He saw his trade goods safely into a locked warehouse, paid the duty to the harbor officials, and accepted the captain’s advice on the best hotel. A slave boy from the boardinghouse carried his bag and led the way, and Johnnie followed him along the cobbled quay, his hat pulled down to shade his eyes from the glare that bounced off the painted walls of the warehouses. He was overwhelmed by the stink of the salt-water swamp that lapped around the bridge crossing the river, and he had to hide his horror at the sight of mutilated slaves, who limped after him offering to carry his goods, or begging for charity.

  To his surprise, the inn was a replica of a London boardinghouse, complete with a host swathed in a green apron in the taproom, and his wife, who showed Johnnie to a small clean room. “One of our best rooms,” she said. “And you can take it for yourself alone. You don’t have to share.”

  “Thank you,” Johnnie said.

  “Paying in silver or sugar or note?” she asked.

  “Silver—I have no sugar.”

  She laughed at the newcomer’s answer, the frill on her white cap bobbing around her flushed red face. “You will!” she told him. “Or you’ll take a note of hand for it. It’s the easiest way to make money in the world. You buy sugar at harvesttime, you keep it cool in your store, and you sell it six months later, when the price has gone up again.”

  “I have an interest in sugar,” Johnnie admitted. “Do you know of a sugar planter by the name of Mr. Peabody?”

  “Course I do!” she said instantly. “Doesn’t he choose to stay here whenever he comes into town? Wasn’t he here just last month?”

  “Was he?”

  “Oh aye. Are you a friend of his?”

  “No, no,” Johnnie said, realizing that he did not want to tell the hotelkeeper of his hopes to free Rowan. “I just know his name. From the captain.”

  “I can introduce you when he next comes to town,” she promised. “Are you making a long stay with us, sir?”

  “I’m setting up a small warehouse for goods,” Johnnie told her. “My family trade in silks and antiquities and elegant furnishings, and I am opening a shop here, like the Royal Exchange that we have in London.”

  “Pretty things?” she said eagerly. “New things? London fashion?”

  “Just what the ladies were wearing in London as I left.”

  “May I have a sight of them?”

  “When I open my store. They’re all in bond right now.”

  “Well, you’ve come to the right place,” she assured him. “Half the island has pockets bursting with money and nothing to buy.”

  “And the other half?” Johnnie asked, smiling.

  She laughed in his face. “The other half are goods, themselves. We have our trade too, sir! But they’re all lost souls.”

  WHITEHALL PALACE, LONDON, WINTER 1686

  The magnificent chapel that had cost thousands of pounds in marble and gilding, in the heart of the royal palace of Whitehall, was finally completed, and Father Petre, rising unstoppably in the king’s favor, was to be Grand Almoner.

  A great procession to midnight Mass was led by the Duke of Norfolk bearing the sword of state, to lay on the altar to show the kingdom of England’s obeisance to the Church of Rome. But at the doorway to the Roman Catholic chapel, the duke hesitated, checked like a horse that refuses a jump.

  “Go on!” the king said impatiently, just behind him, weighed down with robes of gold thread.

  “I can’t,” the duke said unhappily. “Forgive me, sire. But I can’t do it. I cannot go in.”

  “Go in! Go in!”

  He was visibly distressed; the sword of state, held before him, shook in his hands. He had planned to do this ceremony, he had thought he could bring himself to it. Now, he was trapped between his loyalty to the king and to his faith. “I cannot, on my soul, enter a Roman Catholic church.”

  The king was speechless for a moment then he burst out furiously: “Your father was a better man, and would have gone further!”

  The duke bowed. “And your father would not have gone so far.”

  There was a little gasp from the courtiers who were close enough to hear. The queen stepped forward. “If you will not come in, you can stay outside,” she said sharply to the duke. “You will not be missed.” She gestured to the many courtiers waiting to enter.

  He bowed low to her, and he turned to the king. “I surrender the sword of state, and my commission in the army.” His voice was trembling with emotion as he resigned from his duty and abandoned his family’s tradition. James had none of the charm of his brother or his father. Either of them would have rescued the man from the conflict of his loyalty to his religion and to his king, neither of them would have put him in such a place, but James pushed past him without a word and went into the chapel, the queen and court following.

  It was a blaze of gold, illuminated by thousands of candles, the choir were singing an anthem—it was a glorious moment that James was determined should not be spoiled by someone’s conscience. He, himself, was utterly convinced that this was the will of God.

  * * *

  The service was—as Livia had foreseen—long and filled with ritual, the priests almost invisible behind the richly gilded rood screen, the sermon a lengthy attack on the heresies of Protestantism. Even the queen, the most devout of women, was tired by the time the Mass was over, and she could return to her bedroom.

  The ladies responsible for undressing her opened the cedarwood chest and took out her fine nightgown, as she sat before the looking glass while another lady unpinned the jewels from her hair and gently removed the false ringlets.

  “What is it?” Mary Beatrice asked Livia. “I can tell that you are waiting to say something.”

  “I’ll wait a little longer,” Livia said. “If I may.”

  The queen shrugged off her gown and stepped into the nightrobe. They put a warm wrapper around her shoulders, and she took a seat beside the fire. “Now go,” she told them and turned to Livia, who took a seat without waiting for permission.

  “You may not like the news I have, but I swear it does you no harm.”

  The younger woman’s face was grave with worry. “It’s not Catherine Sedley? He’s not bringing her back to court?”

  “No, no, not as bad as that.”

  “What then?” The queen flushed, and Livia slid onto her knees beside her chair and took her thin hands in a gentle grip.

  “His sons by Arabella Churchill are coming to court this week,” she said. “The old mistress isn’t coming, don’t fear her—she’s married off and grown plain. But her bastard royal sons—James and Henry—are invited. By the king.”

  Mary Beatrice went so white that Livia tightened her grip. “Why now?” she demanded. “He said he would never bring them to court. He said he would never grieve me with the presence of his bastard sons, before I had one of my own!”

  “They’re not going to stay,” Livia told her. “He’s granting titles. He’s going to give James Fitzjames a dukedom. He’s going to make him Duke of Berwick.”

  “This is to declare him as his son?”

  Livia could not deny it.

  “So he has given up all hope of having a son from me. And now he tells the world.”

  Livia rose up and poured her a glass of red wine. “The king is coming to you this evening, you might make a baby this very night. Giving the Churchill bastard a dukedom is no more than finding him a place in the world. His brother Henry is to go to sea. We can’t stop the king acknowledging his bastards, but any child you have will take the throne, even if there are a dozen bastard dukes.”

  “It’s what he thinks of me that matters,” the queen said miserably. “And when he makes his bastard a duke he tells everyone that he has given up on me.”

  BRIDGETOWN, BARBADOS, WINTER 1687

  Johnnie planned to open an Exchange like the new markets that were springing up in London: big buildings where small tradesmen could rent space for their own shops. He rented a warehouse on Exchange Street, near the merchant meeting house, where all the great planters, exporters of sugar, and captains of ships gathered to do business. It was an elegant street, broad and wide with stone buildings, rebuilt with slave labor after the town’s disastrous fire. The paved street was wide enough to take two carriages passing by, so Johnnie was certain that ladies would drive by the open doors and be unable to resist the temptation to step inside. At the rear of the building were great doors that opened wide enough for a wagon to enter from the quay, which was only yards away.

  Here, with almost no competition, with customers desperate for English goods, Johnnie unpacked a selection of housewares, small pieces of furniture, textiles, luxury goods, and fashionable accessories. He had dried herbs, salves, and remedies from the Priory stillroom set out in a display on a small gateleg table that was for sale, as were the hangings behind it. Silks from Venice, forwarded by Sarah and packed by Alys, were hung on all the walls; Johnnie hoped to introduce to Barbados the fashion of curtains at the windows where—surely—they did not need shutters against cold winds? He had rolls and rolls of light fabrics, muslin and silks for bed hangings, as everyone had told him that the gnats and mosquitoes were an agony at night. Johnnie thought that billowing bed curtains might keep the insects out, and even if they did not, they would add London elegance to a faraway room.

  Rob had guaranteed a loan from his father-in-law, the Alderman goldsmith, both of them eager to invest in the Sugar Islands. Johnnie had bought everything from trimmings for hats and headpieces, leather and silk gloves, lace for collars, embroidery threads, expensive linen for luxury petticoats, and ells of fabric for dressmakers and tailors. He had several muffs and matching capes. After fifteen years in the East India Company trying to persuade the inhabitants of India to wear English wool, Johnnie was delighted to find that the English in Barbados did not dress lightly for the hot climate but wanted to wear what the English wore in England; and he could sell heavy tweeds as well as he could sell light silk.

  Nothing was made on the island but sugar and rum: everything had to be imported. Johnnie could have sold butcher’s knives and blacksmith’s rasps. He could have sold bridles and harness for ox and horses, of course he could have sold the tools of slavery—branding irons, whips, chains and manacles, instruments to pierce the tongue or knives to cut off ears or pierce cheeks. But his main stock in trade was fabric and fashion for the ladies of the island, who had almost nothing to do but dress and sit in shaded rooms, and hope that they were in the fashion of the English court, though inevitably trailing some months behind.

  From the very first morning, when Johnnie spoke severely to the two slaves loaned to him from his hotel, and threw open the doors of his store, he knew that he would make his fortune. The carriages were drawn up outside, the ladies poured in, followed by slaves to carry their purchases, avid for anything new from England, desperate for new materials, colors, and patterns; greedy for as little as inches of lace to trim a collar or a ribbon for a hat. There was nothing to do on Barbados but visit other plantations and drink. They had enslaved thousands of men and women and made themselves into bored and lonely prisoners of their own wealth.

  * * *

  The first months went by in a whirl. Johnnie sent a stream of letters to Alys with lists of goods that he needed to replace his sold stock. He paid his takings into the Bridge goldsmith and sent the receipt to Alys for her to draw on the Alderman’s bank. The evening that the innkeeper’s wife mentioned that Mr. Peabody was expected the following day, Johnnie had already earned enough to buy Rowan into his own service and place her as his indentured servant, to run the shop until her ten years were up. Then he would free her, marry her, and make a huge profit in one single brilliant venture.

  * * *

  Mr. Peabody came in his carriage with Bonny seated on the box beside the black coachman, and a black enslaved footman clinging on the back. Johnnie encountered him in the parlor of the hotel.

  “Forgive me,” he said with a warm smile. “The landlady said that a gentleman was staying, and I was avid for company.”

  “Eh?” Mr. Peabody said, looking around from squeezing limes into a bowl of punch.

  “Johnnie Stoney, London merchant,” Johnnie introduced himself, coming into the room.

  “Samuel Peabody, planter,” the man replied. “Good to see a new face. Will you take a glass? I’m just making a glass or two. My own rum, from my own plantation.”

  “I’m grateful,” Johnnie said, secretly adding fruit juice and boiled water to the stiff mix, so that he had a chance of remaining clear-headed while Samuel Peabody became gradually more red-faced, sweaty, and drunk.

  “Coming to plant sugar?” Mr. Peabody asked. “Manage a plantation?”

  “No. I have a little shop, fancy goods.”

  “Have another,” Peabody served them with another two glasses. “Just as well. Sugar’s a game for an experienced man. Experienced, you know?”

  Johnnie nodded.

  “Have another, eh?”

  Johnnie accepted a glass and diluted it again.

  “The trouble with this place,” Samuel told him. “You won’t know, coming as you do from London, not yet seasoned, knowing nothing but the old country… The trouble with this place is…” He had lost his thread. He blinked owlishly at the punch glass in his hand. “Bowl’s dry,” he announced, and raised his voice and bellowed for Bonny to bring more rum and lemons and sugar.

  “Do you have a very large plantation?” Johnnie asked politely, and Mr. Peabody explained that it was his wife’s dowry and not nearly big enough for a man of his ambition, but that he would buy more land whenever there was any to be had. He would buy a new mill with triple rollers as soon as he completed the design. The rich old families, like his father-in-law, might sell up and retire to England, but the new men, the brilliant young men like himself, had to compete for land on a small island and speed up the harvest to make a profit.

  “They’ve got to go faster,” he insisted. “Faster.”

  “How I should like to see it,” Johnnie hinted.

  Samuel Peabody declared that nothing was easier. Nobody in England had manners anymore, but Johnnie would find that in Barbados the traditions of old England—he waved his hand to indicate some fabled time—possibly Good Queen Bess—were maintained, and any man was given a great dinner at any man’s door.

  “White men,” Johnnie confirmed.

  “Rich men,” Samuel agreed. “Not scoundrels…” Again he lost his complaint in the bottom of the punch bowl. “Good health.”

  “I may visit you?” Johnnie pressed.

  “You go to any house, any house in Barbados, and you’ll find a welcome,” Mr. Peabody told Johnnie fondly. “Glad to see a new face. We don’t stint…”

  He poured another cup of punch. “There’s so few of us,” he said thoughtfully. “We have to stick together.”

  “Few of you?” Johnnie thought of the crowded street, the babel at the quayside, the sweat of all the bodies crushed together and the churn of men running after profit.

  “Few of us planters,” Samuel Peabody explained. “Few of us masters.”

  Johnnie realized he meant white men, and that living with hundreds of people he was lonely; drowning in wealth, he thought himself hard done by.

  “There’s so very many of them…” Samuel complained.

  “But it’s you who bring them in? You buy them in? More and more every year? They would not be here if you did not order them to be kidnapped from their homes?”

  “I don’t think anyone realized how terrible it would be,” Mr. Peabody confided damply, his eyes watering.

  “For the slaves?”

  “For us. For us! My God—trying to live like this? Live like it, and make it last forever? Setting the laws so they’re never freed, can never escape. Setting the punishments so we can kill them rather than they endanger us? Always looking behind, never anyone you can trust…”

  “It’s bad?” Johnnie queried, seeing his host dissolve into tears of self-pity.

  “It’s the finest life in the world,” Samuel Peabody contradicted himself with drunken insistence. “It’s England as it was! As it ought to be. The most beautiful houses, and the most beautiful women, there’s nowhere that people live better, there’s nowhere richer—nowhere. It’s the richest country in the world! And it’s tradition. It’s natural that one race should rule another.” He drank deeply. “But it’s like eating children,” he said, mumbling without meaning. “It might be the sweetest flesh in the world but sickening. Sickening!”