43
Two nights later, the royal court leaves the palace in a flurry of activity. I am still awake, writing in my journal by candlelight when the sound of carriages and shouts rouse me. I hurry to dress and make my way to where Queen Mary and her court resides. I am not comforted by what I witness.
Our weeping queen, disheveled and stumbling is following a guard holding the infant James. Surrounding her are the half-dressed Marys-in-waiting. The sight pierces my heart.
“Sister,” I shout as I start toward the group, but a soldier I do not recognize shoves me back. As I falter, my sister turns and there is such a look of agony on her face that I again shout her name. The man who pushed me moves between us and plants a booted foot in my gut just as the court rounds a corner. I fall, clutchin
