Clatter. Click.
The servants attending the meal carefully averted their gazes, shrinking back as they watched the King of Britain maneuver his utensils with a frantic, nervous energy. James wasn’t merely eating; he was macerating a perfectly seared cut of beef, his knife rhythmically punishing the porcelain. The clatter of his plate, vibrating as if it might shatter at any moment, echoed sharply against the high, vaulted ceilings of the court.
After a long silence, James seemed to regain his senses. He chewed the meat, now reduced to a flavorless pulp, as if trying to swallow his own rising bile.
“Vipers…” he hissed.
He didn’t specify the target of his bile, but the courtiers and servants understood perfectly. His fury was directed at the radical Catholics, the papists, and the recusants. His rage was justified by more than just the attempt on his life or the scattered uprisings throughout the Isles. In truth, James might have even welcomed those provocations as the perfect pretext to finally purge his enemies—had they not touched his treasury.
The wealth he had amassed through trade with the Continental Covenant had vanished in a heartbeat. The royal budget was hollowed out, and across Scotland, the reins of control were slipping from his fingers. Finding himself in a stalemate where victory against the “Liverpool Faction” was no longer guaranteed, James could no longer afford the luxury of a full-scale suppression of the papist revolts. He refused to exhaust his remaining strength on the Catholics only to watch the Liverpool “Parliament” seize momentum across England.
Pinned by circumstance, the King was forced into a desperate gambit.
Upon returning to his office after the dismal meal, James signaled his attendants to summon John Erskine, the Earl of Mar and Lord High Treasurer. When the Treasurer arrived, removing his hat with a wary bow, the King wasted no time.
“We shall slash royal expenditures to the bone,” James decreed, his fingers drumming a relentless staccato against his desk. “Compile a list of royal residences and jewels that can be liquidated immediately. I shall personally select which assets are to be sold.”
Erskine remained silent, his head bowed. He had expected this, yet the reality of the command was no less staggering.
“Every scrap of aluminum and every cask of Virginian wine we have stockpiled—sell it all,” James muttered, his voice trailing off into a half-soliloquy. “I hear whiskey is the current craze in the Netherlands; dump our stock there as well. Yes, that is the path. Furthermore…” He bit his lip, shaking his head as Erskine signaled a servant to record the sprawling royal mandate. James knew the blow would be immense; he was essentially selling tomorrow to pay for today. But he was out of alternatives. “And we shall drastically reduce our purchases of luxuries from the New World. What say you, My Lord?”
The Treasurer offered only a heavy silence. Confirming the grim necessity of the plan through that lack of protest, James dismissed him with a weary sigh. It was the beginning of a brutal era of austerity.
Trade with the Continental Covenant withered almost overnight. With the royal budget gutted, the King authorized only the importation of wheat—a desperate necessity for a perennially hungry Britain. The Virginian luxuries, once a primary source of James’s revenue through his royal monopoly, were sacrificed for the sake of immediate liquidity.
“But… what am I supposed to do with all this wine?” a merchant cried out in Glasgow.
“My apologies, but the Crown lacks the means to settle the accounts,” a royal official replied, his voice flat. “Return to your ports for now; you shall be compensated through other means in due time.”
Throughout Glasgow, now the premier trading hub of Scotland, the air was thick with the groans and sighs of Covenant traders. The vessels of the Federal Trade Company, having arrived with hulls full of goods based on traditional orders, found themselves paralyzed by a sudden mountain of malignant inventory they couldn’t offload.
By sacrificing both royal property and prestige, James finally managed to secure a modest sum of cash. Yet, with this hard-won capital, he suddenly launched a most unexpected venture.
Upon receiving the royal summons, Richard Bancroft, the Archbishop of Canterbury, and the esteemed scholar Sir Henry Savile marched into the court. When James whispered his intentions, Savile flinched in surprise before offering a slow nod. Archbishop Bancroft attempted to voice a protest, but the King’s resolve was ironclad. They had no choice but to obey.
Soon, edicts were dispatched to every corner of England and Scotland. Bishops, Puritan ministers, and prominent scholars were commanded to Edinburgh. Gathering in the vast hall of Holyrood Palace, they removed their hats and bowed in reverence to the King on his throne. There, James officially announced his new undertaking.
“To root out the weeds of heresy and unbelief that have sprouted in this land, we bear the solemn duty to deliver the Word of the Lord to our subjects with absolute clarity and precision,” James declared. “Therefore, I intend to bestow upon this realm a new translation of the Holy Scriptures.”
It was a project to translate the Bible. While those late to the news were bewildered by the timing, the rest nodded in grim agreement; the rampant activity of the “vipers” and other profane factions was an undeniable reality. However, those tasked with the actual labor soon faced an even deeper confusion.
“Did His Majesty truly command us to translate it as ‘Congregation’ rather than ‘Church’?” one scholar whispered, staring at his notes.
“He did,” another replied. “He specifically cited several existing versions where such expressions were utilized.”
Congregation instead of Church. Elder instead of Bishop.
The Church of England functioned on a rigid vertical hierarchy, descending from the Monarch to the bishops and priests—a structure specifically designed to cement royal control over the faith. It was common knowledge that James favored this subservient model and had spent years suppressing Puritans who demanded a separation of church and state and democratic congregational management. Yet now, the King was mandating a translation that was aggressively Puritan in its linguistic direction. Only then did the astute begin to understand why James was bothering with a Bible translation in such a volatile climate.
The news rippled southward into England.
“So, that is how the King intends to play it,” Robert Cromwell mused.
“He is clearly extending a hand to us Puritan representatives, is he not?” his son, Oliver, replied.
Robert nodded, satisfied with the political instincts his grown son displayed. After testing Oliver’s senses with a few more pointed questions, Robert draped his cloak over his shoulders and stepped toward the parliament building, which was still undergoing reconstruction following the terror. Inside, the assembly waited.
The session began with the strike of the Speaker’s gavel and a few hastily improvised rituals. The atmosphere was electric. As various representatives took the floor, they were met with a fervor of applause and cheering far beyond the usual decorum.
“The King summons us! Finally, we are recognized as the legitimate partners in the governance of England!”
“But we require a representative of our own!” a voice shouted from the floor. “We must elect a Lord Protector to assist His Majesty in the administration of this realm!”
Amidst the pre-arranged agendas, the representatives kept stealing glances at Robert Cromwell. They had already reached a consensus: they needed a figurehead to negotiate with the King. Furthermore, the title of Lord Protector traditionally implied one who governed in the absence or minority of a monarch. By establishing such a role, they were sending a sharp message to the King in Edinburgh: Stay out of our territory.
The representative couldn’t be someone too powerful or high-born; they needed a man with a respectable reputation but a modest estate and lineage. The choice had already been hammered out in the shadows. The moment Robert Cromwell stepped toward the lectern, the room shifted, every man adjusting his posture in silent acknowledgment of the deal.
The Speaker struck his gavel with a thunderous crack. “By unanimous vote, Robert Cromwell is hereby elected Lord Protector of the Kingdom of England! Long live King James! Long live England!”
Immediately following his appointment, Robert took Oliver and began the journey to the royal court in Edinburgh.
“So, you are the Lord Protector elected in Liverpool?” a young man asked, eyeing them. “And who is this at your side?”
“Your Highness, it is my distinct honor to introduce my son, Oliver,” Robert said, bowing low. “Oliver?”
“Your… Your Highness,” Oliver stammered.
“There is no need for nerves,” the young man replied with a slight smile. “I welcome you both to Edinburgh.”
In that moment, Oliver Cromwell stood face-to-face with Charles Stuart, the Prince of Wales.
Thus, while the fires of conflict flickered across England, the monarchy managed to maintain its precarious perch. From the perspective of preserving royal authority, James’s performance was commendable. However, his diplomatic and economic report card was a disaster.
The trade between Britain and the Continental Covenant was a royal monopoly, making the Crown the primary consumer. The moment the King closed his purse, the Covenant’s trade volume with Britain withered. While the decision was a rational necessity for James, it meant the sudden severing of the Covenant’s primary export artery. What they hoped would be a temporary shock was transforming into a protracted trade crisis.
Britain and Scotland were suffering as their lucrative transit trade with Europe evaporated, but their pain was a mere pittance compared to the blow dealt to the Continental Covenant. While Nemo managed to secure the luxury goods needed for the “gift trade” through France, it was a stopgap measure at best. The Covenant didn’t need a status quo; it required growth and expansion.
In this pressurized silence, other eyes turned toward the impasse.
“I hear King James is throttling trade with the New World,” a voice whispered in a Dutch parlor.
“And the French? How is Henri IV moving?”
“We have the reports from Japan to consider as well. If we piece them together…”
New players were preparing to sit at the high-stakes table.
***
Originally, Manteo had been the sole representative of Virginia in the Continental Congress, chosen for his ability to communicate with other indigenous delegates. However, once the number of representatives for each nation was increased to three, Oitotan and Walter Raleigh were elected to join him.
With those three as the face of Virginia, their authority was absolute, even in a Congress where two-thirds of the members were non-Christians. When it came time to elect a Speaker, the representatives from outside Virginia refused to even field a candidate. Left with no other option, the three Virginians decided to draw lots to see who would take the post.
Raleigh won.
It was a farcical beginning for such a heavyweight title as ‘First Speaker of the Continental Congress.’ Yet, it was perhaps the only way it could have happened. Because the Continental Covenant was a federal union, the Speaker’s actual power was limited, yet the workload was astronomical.
“There is a dispute in Florida between the Knights’ branch and the Trade Company over tractor payments,” a clerk reported.
“It is an outrage that only the Trade Company can issue bonds! Our Order will never accept this!” a knight shouted in a later hearing.
“Mr. Speaker! The Congress is monopolizing the right to issue public bonds for the sake of ‘equity’? This is preposterous!”
The burden was immense. Raleigh had to mediate between the various public agencies and member governments—tasks previously handled by Nemo—while presiding over sessions and attending a never-ending cycle of ceremonies. Unless one were a literal addict for bureaucracy, it was a hellish roster of duties. Furthermore, with no established protocols or precedents for how a Speaker should operate, the weight on Raleigh’s individual shoulders was crushing.
“An envoy has arrived? From France? England?” Raleigh asked wearily during a rare break. “Has Spain finally expressed a desire for a truce?”
“No, sir. None of the above. It is the Netherlands.”
“The Dutch?”
“Here is their formal missive to the Speaker.”
“Give it here.”
As Raleigh scanned the letter, his bored expression shattered. His eyes flared with a sudden, predatory heat as he gripped the parchment, eventually rising from his seat in a single motion.
Shortly thereafter, the Dutch envoy was admitted to the Continental Congress. Amidst the applause of the representatives, he met Raleigh’s gaze and spoke.
“Mr. Speaker, I represent the Stadhouder, the Seven United Provinces, and the Dutch East India Company. We come to you with a proposal.”
The envoy paused for effect.
“Will you join us in the trade for the Far East?”
The Far East.
East Asia.
The new world Lord Nemo had foretold. Raleigh had to fight with every fiber of his being to keep a grin from splitting his face.
…But why now?