“But I think that you must be mistaken, sir. I cannot rule England. Not with this …” He spread out his hands in front of him. Black skin, he thought. Aloud he continued, “Only you, sir, with your partiality for me, could think such a thing possible. Slaves do not become kings, sir.”

“Slave, Stephen? Whatever do you mean?”

“I was born into slavery, sir. As are many of my race. My mother was a slave on an estate in Jamaica that Sir Walter’s grandfather owned. When his debts grew too great Sir William went to Jamaica to sell the estate – and one of the possessions which he brought back with him was my mother. Or rather he intended to bring her back to be a servant in his house, but during the voyage she gave birth to me and died.”

“Ha!” exclaimed the gentleman in triumph. “Then it is exactly as I have said! You and your estimable mother were enslaved by the wicked English and brought low by their machinations!”

“Well, yes, sir. That is true in a sense. But I am not a slave now. No one who stands on British soil can be a slave. The air of England is the air of liberty. It is a great boast of Englishmen that this is so.” And yet, he thought, they own slaves in other countries. Out loud he said, “From the moment that Sir William’s valet carried me as a tiny infant from the ship I was free.”

“Nevertheless we should punish them!” cried the gentleman. “We can easily kill Lady Pole’s husband, and then I will descend into Hell and find his grandfather, and then …”

“But it was not Sir William and Sir Walter who did the enslaving,” protested Stephen. “Sir Walter has always been very much opposed to the slave trade. And Sir William was kind to me. He had me christened and educated.”

“Christened? What? Even your name is an imposition of your enemies? Signifying slavery? Then I strongly advise you to cast it off and chuse another when you ascend the throne of England! What was the name your mother called you?”

“I do not know, sir. I am not sure that she called me any thing.”

The gentleman narrowed his eyes as a sign that he was thinking hard. “It would be a strange sort of mother,” he mused, “that did not name her child. Yes, there will be a name that belongs to you. Truly belongs to you. That much is clear to me. The name your mother called you in her heart during those precious moments when she held you in her arms. Are you not curious to know what it was?”

“Certainly, sir. But my mother is long dead. She may never have told that name to another soul. Her own name is lost. Once when I was a boy I asked Sir William, but he could not remember it.”