Drops of rain cascaded down his large nose, but he paid no heed to them. From beneath his wide-brimmed hat, a glorious wig, dark in colour, full of bounce and ringlets, generously framed a long pale face that was no longer young. King James had never been handsome but that, one would assume, is not important when one is king. And surely he deserved to be king if only for the fact he had to put so much effort into being one. He had received a rapturous welcome in Dublin, where the people – indeed, his people – lined the streets to cheer him on. These loyal subjects made him feel like a true king, something he hadn’t felt for a while. On the wet and windy journey north, James had had plenty of time to think. He had lost the love and respect of his two daughters. Goodness knows how many enemies he had in England, but still, he was here for the sake of his baby son. This precious infant ensured there would be a Catholic on the throne of England for many years to come.
