For King and Country



  For King and Country

  (By Oliver Ma)

  To my parents, who helped me walk the first steps of creative writing, and to Dr.Robert Bowman, who gave me endless suggestions and inspirations, and proof read my work without pay, simply because of the goodness in his heart.

  Table of Contents:

  Part 1:

  Chapter 1: A surprise Trip

  Chapter 2: Roche Castle

  Chapter 3: The Earl

  Chapter 4: The riot

  Chapter 5: The Calm before the Storm

  Chapter 6: Bishop’s War

  Part 2;

  Chapter 1: Parliament’s betrayal

  Chapter 2: Prince Rupert

  Chapter 3: Edgehill

  Chapter 4: The War proper

  Chapter 5: The War lost

  Part 3:

  Chapter 1: King in Exile

  Chapter 2: The Hague

  Chapter 3: Rebellion in Scotland

  Chapter 4: The Grand Escape

  Chapter 5: The Throne

  Prologue

  I sat on the furnished throne that my father sat on for the last time almost 20 years ago, my hands grasping the same golden hand rests that my father grasped in frustration many times during his reign. The warm knobs connected me back to my father, who was executed 11 years ago. I held on tightly, not letting go, letting memories of my father flood my head. How close I had come to never being able to sit on this throne! The years in exile that I endured had been painful and harsh, yet I cannot help but look back at the period of anarchy in England with a certain fondness.

  A petty merchant bowed in front of me, stuttering while he begged for the royal pardon. I stared at his drooping grey robes, his shivering, rotund form, smiling as I moved my finger back and forth across my face. A movement in one direction or the other spells the fate of all England. These rough, callused fingers, though originally meant for the throne, are used to hard work; they now command almost as much power as my father once commanded……almost…….for I kept Parliament.

  Everyone that sided with the king during the great conflict, those that had a direct hand in my restoration, urged me to do away with the hated house that signed the death warrant of my father. They do not understand, of course, that I no longer hate parliament. Rather, looking at my road to the throne, my transformation from a young lazy fool of a prince to the quick, energetic and able King that I am now, I have learned to love my enemies. I kept parliament, I allowed many of its chief members to live, even those that spoke against, and acted against my dear father. Many that should now be feeding the fires of Satan are instead simply exiled, or fined a certain sum of money. I do not hate the Parliament. Without them would I be the powerful, able king I am now? Or would I be another ignorant and incapable Stuart King? Someone easily tricked by flattery, incapable of making solid, strong decisions? The fires of pain, bitterness and lust for vengeance have melted the soft, weak iron core that was inside me into hard, unyielding steel. Had the civil war not happened, I would probably be married to a spoiled maiden of my father’s choosing, basking in the ooze of my own spoiled aura. The civil war had strengthened the royal house, not weakened it.

  And yet, proud and high that I sit now, I must remember what was my father’s undoing, what caused him to fail, and be careful not to follow the same path he took. I remembered all the way back to the first days of the conflict…late 1638, when I was 9.

  Chapter.1; A surprise Trip

  I was in the second floor of St. James palace, the Yellow Room, taking geometry under a certain Sir William Hobbes. The room seemed much smaller back then, warm, cozy, bright. Mr. Hobbes would always sit away from the door near the board, and the three of us, Thumbs, my sister Mary and I, would sit on the little benches, ones that were colored a different, bright color each week.

  “Thumbs!” I screamed, startling Mr. Hobbes and interrupting him in the middle of a sentence regarding different useless geometric postulates. “Thumbs! Stop doing that!”

  “Charles! I am in the middle of____” Mr. Hobbes retorted with some frustration but no anger in his voice.

  “Thumb’s acting like the devil again!” I complained, pointing at Thumbs.

  “Charles! We do not use that word in class! Your mother would not approve!”

  “Devil!” Thumbs yelled as he put that offensive little thing away. Next to us my sister Mary put down her head. “Here we go again.”

  Thumbs was the son of George Villiers, the Duke of Buckingham, a favorite of my father the King and the royal court’s most able advisor. Thumb’s real name is also George, but I call him Thumbs because he was a year older than me when we met and still sucking his thumb. He is short boy, around my height, jolly and round with grey brown hair, a cute pug nose and a plump face.

  “You two! Do you think either of your parents would be proud of you if I told them what you do every day in my class? You two need to learn!”

  “Pssh….why do I need to learn? I will one day become the King of England! I will have hundreds of servants to wait on me and do my daily biddings. I will need to learn to do nothing but enjoy!” I smiled.

  “Yes, Charles, you will grow to be the King of the Isles, and you, Thumbs, you will be his great advisor……great men such as your fathers did not come from boys wasting away their learning years, but by dedication and hard work! If you two continue like this, you will grow up into despicable beings, ruined peasants if you don’t change. Now hurry up and get back to the lesson. Your fathers would probably have Master Verney whip you if I tell them how you behave in my class!”

  “Oh….you won’t do that!” We giggled. Mr. William Hobbes was, although sometimes a boring, weird character, someone who we generally consider to be our friend and who we trust will not purposely try to make trouble for us.

  Suddenly, from behind us, the door to the classroom creaked open. I thought it was a servant or some otherwise unimportant character, but I noticed Mr. Hobbes, who was facing the door, open his eyes in surprise and then quickly bowing.

  Thumbs, Mary and I snapped around in our chairs. “Hello Sir Hobbes,” She said, her familiar voice sinking into my years. There, standing tall and elegant in her royal Robes was my mother, Henrietta Maria of France.

  “Charles? Mary? Come here.” She said, beckoning to us. “Thumbs…go find your father. I am sorry Mr. Hobbes, but the King requires their presence.”

  Mr. Hobbes reddened. “Ah…..it’s all right your Majesty…I will…..resume my classes with them on the morrow.” He gathered his books and quickly exited the room.

  I noticed my other siblings were gathered behind mother’s laced satin apron. There was my brother James, the Duke of York, 8, who we all think is my father’s favorite. Next was my sister Mary, 7, who followed Thumbs and I out of the room. Then there was my sister Elizabeth, who despite being only 3, already has the beautiful, dignified manners of a Princess. Huddled with them was the Court Dwarf, Hudson, who stood less than 3 feet tall. Finally, with both hands tight around her, mother held my baby sister Ann, who had just turned one.

  “Your father has just gotten back from Newcastle today, and he wishes to see you all. The past few days had not gone so smoothly and I need all of you to be cheerful around him.” Mother said rather emotionless. From her tone I can tell that they have quarreled already. She turned around from where she stood, a swirl of satin dress and grace, and walked towards the center of the palace, beckoning us to follow.

  It was morning, about an hour before lunch. The last few weeks had been chaotic as father had been off somewhere else with his ministers. All over the palace there had been mutters about the Scots and their constant how angry they are with father’s Book of Common Prayer.
I don’t see how the innocent little Prayer book that sits on my shelf could cause so much harm or make the Scots so unhappy. Can’t they see how they are ruining the atmosphere of the palace? Why can’t they just accept my father’s plans for them and strive toward the unity and tolerance in England my father so desires?

  The palace of St. James was divided into two main parts: the outer section, which consists of a courtyard and a garden, and the inner section, which is a large hall that serves as the home to the Royal Family. The hall is extremely decorate and ornate, with multifarious rooms ranging from libraries to astronomical observatories. It also serves as the home of father’s court, where the King meets with all his important ministers. As we walked through the palace, oblivious to the white marble floor, the gold encrusted columns and the giant, glazed windows, (which simply fitted in as part of our environment) servants scurried about, bowing to as they went. Gentlemen that we met on our way tipped their small black hats in our direction as did the pike armed soldiers with their big, plumed hats. Again I wondered why father needed to keep soldiers inside the Royal Palace. After all as Homer once said, only a tyrant needs to be afraid of his subjects. My father is certainly not a tyrant, he is God’s chosen and beloved by the people of England. Why would anyone want to harm him? Thus why does he need to keep armed guards? As I pondered this again, Princess Anne let out a delighted squeal. She had spied father through the window outside, in the royal courtyard, talking to several well-dressed men. Quickly we descended the great staircase, bursting into the courtyard and inside father’s opened arms.

  King Charles is of no great height, but aura of power radiates from him like a charm in a peddler’s sack. A mere 5 feet 6, he is barely taller than my mother, but he more than makes up for it with his elegance. It was said that in his younger days his grace impressed even the most aged diplomats from other states. His handsome hair, long face, well-kept mustache, warm, sharp eyes and face lined with the wrinkles of worry all added to his Kingly features. Dressed in a rich, sweet smelling coat, black leather gloves and a stylish black velvet hat with a white plume on top, large black dress shoes and high stockings, my father was truly the trademark symbol of the nobility.

  Some days my father is sad, others joyful, and still others easily angered. Today he seemed shaken and depressed, his kind eyes dropped and his brows pressured. The men around Father acknowledged us by stopping their conversation and lifting their hats in our direction. Instantly I knew they were back from the Privy Council, my dad’s inner circle of his most trusted advisers. Immediately my eyes landed on the familiar face of Villiers, the Duke of Buckingham, Thumb’s father. Villiers wore his hair in shoulder neck length, black, curly locks. His eyes showed cunning intelligence, and he wore a handsome mustache. Father’s second in command, Buckingham was known all over St. James as polite, cultures, and a hall mark of a modern Gentleman. His skill, speed and prowess with a sword are unmatched, and yet he is known to be loyal and a great friend of father.

  Next to Buckingham I recognized William Laud, dressed in the white robes of a bishop. He was a fat, jolly figure, familiar to the Royal palace. He had small round eyes, a small white beard, and large bushy eyebrows. It was he who baptized my siblings and I in St. James, and he is also the archbishop of England and has the final say in religion in my father’s inner circle. The other two I knew to be William Cavendish, who use to be the primary manager of my education and is one of my father’s favorite advisers, and Lord Goring, a chief general in my father’s army.

  One last shadow loitered in the back ground, observing the scene quietly and taking no part in the discussions. His face was slightly hidden by the shade of his black hat and he was dressed in bright and well-ordered cloth, but he hides thick steel armor underneath. The man is of gigantic height, and I know underneath his long back sleeves there lay thick cords of steely muscles. This man stood easily, leaning on a huge long sword taller than father. It’s a strange sight, seeing an uninformed man holding a weapon right next to the Royal Family, but it is no odd sight at St. James. The man was Edmund Verney, father’s bodyguard and champion. Skilled in the use of the pike, the carbine, and wooden clubs the size of trees, Edmund is at his finest with his signature weapon, a two handed, 6 foot long bastard sword of tempered steel. During the Thirty Years’ war, which Verney volunteered in, he was a feared member of the Emperor's forlorn hope, leading an assault by barging through walls of pikes, knocking down scores of enemies with one huge swing, and disrupting the enemy’s formation so that friendly companies are able to exploit the damage and push through. Now, although he is in his early forties, he is still a formidable warrior and no man in England can match his ferocity.

  Upon seeing us arrive, father took off his hat in greeting. I saw his face lined with worry, but he attempted to hide it with an easy smile and carefree questions. “Hello Children! James, did you have fun in the field with Master Sackville today?” He asked.

  “Yes father! He taught me how to fence from a horse!” James, my younger brother cried out, excitedly.

  “Oh really? I wasn't aware that was possible!” father laughed, throwing glances at the stammering master Sackville, who was standing next to James.

  “And Charles! How are you today?” My father said, bending down and looking me in the face, his powerful hands resting on my shoulder.

  “He is as he always has been, my Lord. What more than pestering “your lover” Buckingham for tales of more great battles fought against the Spaniards?” Mother laughed and rubbed my cheek with a finger. “He spends too much time learning about history and none studying about God.”

  Father laughed at mother’s joke, then sighed and looked away. “Excuse me, my lady, but we are in the presence of Archbishop Laud.”

  I noticed mother frown, her mouth lifting up a slight bit. Seeing this, Father quickly walked over and led my mother by the hand back to the palace. All of us followed in a line like little Ducklings, Hudson the Dwarf last in line.

  “How is my baby girl Anne?” He asked.

  At this mother smiled. “She is healthier than she usually is…..today she seemed voracious and ate much. Perhaps she will not be sick this winter after all!”

  Father smiled. “God bless her…Buckingham, order a meal laid out for my family. I wish to dine.”

  Buckingham gave a bow, leaving in a swirl of elegance, his curly locks drifting behind. Thumbs looked at me, whispered something I didn’t catch, grinned, and followed his father, walking around to the back of the palace.

  As we walked back into the palace I jogged over to Uncle Cavendish, the Duke of Newcastle. When I was younger, Cavendish was in charge of my education, hiring tutors and buying me great texts from libraries in Rome. However when I was 7 Cavendish was made the Duke of Newcastle by my father, and the Duke had to leave to manage his estate, and my education was left to Villiers the Duke of Buckingham.

  “Hello dear Charles!” The Duke said, laying a wrinkled hand on my shoulder. “I miss you very much. Is Buckingham as effective in teaching as I was?” Cavendish asked.

  “Yes Sir…..he knows even more history and military tactics than you do!” I said, excited.

  “Oh really? I ought to challenge him someday…I’m sure he does not know as much as Lord Goring does!” Cavendish joked.

  Lord Goring walked over. He was a short, heavily built man with spiky black hair and a slightly disfigured face. His eyes looked small and mean, though the Lord is as generous as any of my father’s more fashionable advisers, though not nearly as polite. Still, the Lord is reputed to have the belligerence of a bull dog on the battle field and reportedly has 7 scars on his chest, all received while defending the king.

  “Aye, and what do gentlemen like him know about military doctrines?” Goring scoffed, clearly vexed.

  At the gate of the palace Goring, Laud and Cavendish left for their permanent visiting room in St. James, while Hudson the dwarf left to sulk in the garden, as he was not allowed in the dini
ng room. The Royal Family and Buckingham lace, where footmen undressed father from his elegant court clothe into simpler clothe. Of course, Verney brought up the rear, silent yet looming, each step he took resulting in a huge tumult of clanking steel. Walking up a great staircase, we entered through a great oak door into the dining hall, on the second floor of the palace with huge bright windows and gold encrusted roofs. Lunch was not yet laid, but we sat down. I expected father or mother to start a conversation, but they just kept silent, eyeing and mouthing each other. After a few moment of silence Thumbs walked in, bowed to father, and also took his seat. (Thumbs, though not a royal Children, is every bit as much a member of the family as father himself is. His father Villiers was captured at the siege of La Roche, France, during the first few years of Thumb’s life, and thus my father, Charles took over and raised Thumbs till Villiers was freed. Since Thumbs and I were only 1 year different in age we bonded quickly and became best friends. As a result I usually request his presence everywhere and we share the same bed room.)

  Before our meal was laid, father rose from where he sat and excused himself.

  “Children, keep on eating. I need to talk to your mother.” He said, leading mother by the hand and exiting the dinning hall. I eyed Thumbs and he grinned. We got up, following father, intent on eavesdropping on him. My sister Elizabeth buried her face in her arms.

  “You guys are so mature...” She groaned.

  Next to her my younger brother James giggled and copied what Elizabeth said. Thumbs and I simply shrugged and ignored them, following after the disappearing figures of my parents.

  The chase finally stopped outside the Prayer Room. My parents were inside, and was waited behind the closed doors, attempting to catch bits of their conversation.

  “Well, anyways, I have recently received a letter from Hamilton…..no not that one, James Hamilton. The letter says the Church of Scotland is to meet on the 2nd week of November, in Edinburgh, Scotland…3 weeks’ time. I need to attend, as with my Privy Council. I must convince the Scots to accept The Book of Common Prayer…….I am to leave on the morrow.” He Sighed.

  “You know I don’t approve of your dealing with those Protestant heretics….go if you must, why tell me?” Mother asked.

  Thumbs and I looked at each other, confused. Throughout our entire lives, especially the last year or so, we have been constantly hearing of a Presbyterian and Anglican business. To me the words are no more than complex vocabulary, but to adults they seem to symbolize something very important and often something worse fighting and bickering over. Indeed, my mother always have me wear a little, golden cross that supposedly represents the word “Catholic” but my father warns me to make sure no one ever sees the little cross, or the world around me will collapse. Perking our ears we listened even more closely to the conversation.

  “My dear, you know I will do anything to gain your favor,” father said, pausing. I can picture father kneeling down and kissing my mother’s hand. “But this is of matter more than religion…….and we of the Royal Family must put one thing before the welfare of our own, and that is the welfare of our state. All of England, Scotland, Wales and Ireland depend on me……and so I must leave.” Father sighed. “I tell you of this because this time I wish to bring Charles, as he, no doubt, will be confronted with the same…..repetitive and useless affairs when I pass away.”

  I was thrilled but also confused. Finally, a day out, and by the sound of it going to Scotland! No useless drabs of geometry and literature! I can’t wait to finally see some subjects of my father, learn of their function and how they contributed to the well-being of the Isles! I perked up my ear, eager to hear mother’s response.

  “King Charles….I have worked hard….for many years, to install a righteous Catholic faith among your children…….and I have received no help of any sort from you. You remain a Protestant, and now you attempt to undermine my efforts? Charles needs to remain here, where his studies are, not running off to some conference to see the righteous faith condemned by unworthy highlanders!” I can hear mother crying. Realizing father will no doubt stop the conversation immediately since he cannot tolerate anything that will make mother cry, Thumbs and I ran off, barely avoiding detection.

  When we returned back to the dinning room, lunch had already been served. Mary and James were drinking a light yellow soup, while little Elizabeth and baby Anne were dipping sweet bread into milk. Thumbs and I took our seat as we waited for my parents return. I could hardly sit still in anticipation of the grand trip tomorrow, while Thumbs seemed a little less excited and a little more thoughtful. I understood though. Thumbs knew a bit more about the world than I did. He had traveled outside of St. James quite a few times and even outside London once. He probably understood more of my parents’ conversation than I did.

  Mother and father returned a little while later, both of them wearing innocent looking faces as if nothing has happened. Father was half smiling, and mother was completely blank in expression. I looked expectantly at father, seeing if he will say something about the trip to Scotland tomorrow. He didn't mention it till after our lunch, when he told me to go to my room where he will help me pack for the trip. Immediately I jumped up from the table, excused myself, and ran up the my room. Thumbs followed behind me. As we left, however, I couldn't help but notice mother’s faint sigh.

  As we started to pack, I asked Thumbs

  "What are we going to do in Scotland?" I asked. “I do hope Scotland will be fun. We’ll finally get a break from Mr.Hobbes and his postulates…..” I sighed.

  “Careful! We may actually need them when we grow up!” Thumbs joked.

  “You two best start packing.” Father said as he entered the room. “We’ll leave early tomorrow so you’ll have to sleep early.”

  “Father, why are we going to Scotland?” I asked innocently. I hoped father’s explanations would make what Thumbs and I overheard clearer.

  “Ah….father has a small meeting with some Scots….you two are welcome to join me in that meeting to meet several important Scottish nobles….but we are heading north mainly to visit and have fun in Scotland…”

  “Visit and have fun? Why don’t we bring James and the others then?” Thumbs asked.

  Father looked at Thumbs slightly suspiciously.

  “I mean…what can possibly be fun in Scotland?”

  “Ahh you will see….Scotland is a land of exotic wonders and beauties…I’m sure you boys will like it.” Father said with a smile. “Now start packing or you two will both spend the trip north asleep!”

  The next morning I was awakened at 5. After nearly two hours of fuss and turmoil I was smartly bathed, oiled, perfumed and dressed in the finest cloth. A black velvet cap with white ostrich plum covered my combed and oiled hair. A rich coat and breeches covered my bathed skin and small black dress shoes covered my feet. As the two ladies carefully put on gloves for me the oak doors leading into my room opened. My mother curtsied in.

  “Is he ready?” She demanded. “He must leave soon for an infidel’s realm, where mercifully may he be guided away from the vile influence of heretics.” She looked up and glanced over me, gave a nod of satisfaction, and led me to breakfast hall of the palace after I waved goodbye to all my sleeping siblings. The breakfast hall was a spectacular sight, with silver encrusted glass chandeliers and silk covered tables. However I dined here almost every day of my life and it seemed little remarkable to me. I had no idea of course that the rest of England is not decorated in rich velvet and encrusted in Silver. Breakfast was a large meal of ham, ale, bread, milk, eggs, sandwiches and a delicious soup. I gulped it down as quick as I could, excited about what is to come. After I was finished eating mother and I were led outside to the courtyard by servants. Father was already there, standing next to 5 carriages, painted bright shiny red and pulled by 4 white horses. Dragoons, cavalry soldiers armed with carbines and swords and dressed in light armors trotted back and forth all over the courtyard, warm
ing up their horses for the long journey north to Scotland. Ahead of the entire convoy rides Verney, bearing the great standard of England, a spectacle of a flag displaying the rich red and Golden Lion of the King.

  As I greeted father, butlers and footmen carried our baggage onto the carriages, each big enough for 4 people to sit in. I spotted Thumbs among them, and fetched him out of the mob of servants to the carriage I will be riding in. When all the luggage were loaded I said goodbye to mother and my siblings. As I stepped onto the carriage mother broke her mask of coldness for an instant, rushing over and giving me kisses on both cheeks, before giving me a boost onto my carriage.

  The inside of our royal carriage was very customized and cozy. Father’s carriage is all orderly and packed, but ours more resembled a bear’s den on wheels than a carriage. Furry blankets cover every part of the inside of the carriage except the windows. Several large pillows are littered above. Daggers hang on the walls, as with paintings of battles that Thumbs and I have drawn. Snacks hang from sacks dangling on the doors, and our favorite driver Mr. Scott, a red haired man with a walrus mustache, good at telling stories to put us to sleep, is driving today. We are ready and packed for a trip to Scotland!

  The procession began to roll out of the palace. Tall Verney rode in the front, a bright red riding cape flowing behind him. Along and around us gallops 2 companies of the Royal Dragoons, father’s body guard.

  I was very interested in military affairs and thus had already begged and researched much about England’s military force. England possess no standing army of substantial size, but every village and town has a force of trained militia, ranging from 10 men (the smallest village) to almost a 1000 in the largest towns. Furthermore, most of the nobles of England keep a small retinue of around 50 professional soldiers. Father, at the thick end of the stick, keeps a professional army at London, composing of about 300 musketeers and another 300 pike man. In addition he commands an elite corps of 2000 dragoons, who serve as his personal bodyguard. Each dragoon is a gentleman of noble origins and carries a pistol and sword to combat mounted on a horse. The 2000 men are divided into 20 companies of 100 men, each commanded by a captain. The two captains that will escort us on this trip are Sir Waller and Sir Hopton, both of whom I am familiar with. The two men are known all over St. James for their prowess in battle and their friendship with each other. The two knights has volunteered together in the Thirty Years war and saved each other numerous times. When they sailed back to England they were so famous that father employed them in his royal dragoons immediately. Now, the two knights, dressed in bright clothe and no armor, rode on either side of father, who sat in his carriage with Villiers, the duke of Buckingham.

  Thumbs and I sat in the second carriage, and the latter 3 carriage were for three nobles accompanying us to the Council, Archbishop Laud, Lord Goring and the Duke of Newcastle, respectively. On both flanks of the procession gallops dragoons, mounted men at arms clad in bright clothe, some armor, and armed with pistols and swords. As we rode through the streets of London, I noticed again a pattern that had been evident for several years now. Usually when the royal procession rides around the streets of London people joyously greets the King, even rushing up to the carriages to throw gifts and words of bless through the windows, but now it seems whenever we travel outside St. James, the streets of London becomes deserted. Whatever fellow we do pass on the streets bend down and look away, not showing the least enthusiasm that the King’s carriages are passing by.

  Of course I had known about father’s Book of Common Prayer…. mother made me memorize it, but I had little idea its effect on the common people of the Kingdom, or how unpopular it made my father. I was shut inside the perfect and never changing walls of St. James. Why, the whole of England could be washed under the sea, and my life as the Royal Prince would still not be affected. Father would not allow anything to impact my life unless it impacted me the way he wanted it to, even though England outside St. James was slowly turning for the worse.

  After half an hour of traveling we exited London for English country sides surrounding the city. We kept silent for the beginning of the trip, to stare at the things outside and to enjoy the stone paved streets before it gave way to the dirt roads of the country. I have only been out of London on a few occasions, and every time I was under escort by a huge number of bodyguards so that I was not able to fully look upon the field. Thumbs has had a few more trips outside London than I have had, but he is still as much as a pariah as I am. Men who stayed at the royal palace for a brief period of time, ranging from exiles, claimants to estates, and lords, all found themselves plagued by us for stories of the outside world. We even made friends with a few of them, including a young soldier named Wilmot, and a man with strange ideas named Cary. Even so, now, at the leisure of our own carriage, Thumbs and I were entranced by what lay around us. We saw rolling green hills, farms, little creeks and isolated patches of forests that mark the boundaries of different farms. The rustic and familiar sense gave me a warm feeling all over and I envisioned a proud and safe future for this land, a land sure to be under my control when my father goes to the heavenly Kingdom.