Виктория Холт - Royal Sisters - The Story of the Daughters of James II

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.

William was no longer in danger from battle; but what of his health? Portland was there to look after him and she trusted Portland to do that well, although often she had been hurt because he had seemed to think it was a duty better performed by him than a wife.

Torrington had been recalled to face eventual court-martial and there was the task of appointing a new Admiral which no one was going to agree about. Perhaps the greatest piece of good luck of all was the stupidity of the French who, after the Battle of Beachy Head, having England at their mercy, could have landed and did not. Marlborough would have done his best to deal with them when they did, but the pick of the army was in Ireland and even the brilliant generalship of Marlborough could not achieve success without soldiers.