Читать книгу The King’s Mistress - Gillian Bagwell - Страница 9

“YOU CANNOT GO!” JANE’S MOTHER CRIED, HER HANDS FLUTTERING in dismay.

Jane stood at the foot of her bed, folding three pairs of stockings into a nightgown and packing them into a satchel.

“With all those soldiers on the road?” Anne Lane paced, heels tapping on the floorboards, and then swooped to Jane’s side. “And Scots, most of them! You’ll be ravished and murdered.”

“I shall have protection, Mother,” Jane sighed, frowning as she noticed a small tear in the sleeve of her favourite shift. “John will arrange for one of our tenants’ sons to ride with me.”

“Small comfort! He may be worse than the soldiers, for all we know.”

Jane’s heart softened at the sight of her mother’s face, pink with agitation beneath her white cap, and she pulled Anne to sit beside her on the bed.

“Ellen is expecting me. Her first baby! I promised her as soon as she knew that she was with child that I would be there for her lying-in and to keep her company after. I cannot disappoint her.”

Jane’s mother sniffed and dabbed at her eyes with her lace-edged handkerchief.

“I don’t know what John is thinking of. And your father. I should never have considered such a thing when I was a girl, and you may be sure my father and brothers would have had none of it.”

Jane’s favourite uncle, Hervey Bagot, was a colonel in the Royalist army, and his son Richard Bagot had been mortally wounded at the Battle of Naseby. She thought that they would certainly have been in favour of her doing whatever she could if it would save the king, but she merely took her mother’s hand and kissed her cheek.

“All shall be well, Mother. Cromwell’s men are too busy searching for the king to bother with me. And the poor Scots are fleeing for their lives, exhausted and hungry. I would be in more danger if I were a turnip.”

ON SATURDAY NIGHT, JOHN RETURNED TO MOSELEY HALL TO MAKE plans with Wilmot for his escape to Bristol with Jane and to bring Wilmot’s horses back to Bentley. Once more Jane waited for him in the kitchen, sitting at the big table in the middle of the room. She had brought knitting to keep her hands busy, but the activity didn’t still the turmoil of her mind, and she threw down the needles and yarn and went to the window again. The sliver of moon cast a faint silver glow over the stable yard and outbuildings, and all was quiet.

The big case clock in the great hall struck two when Jane finally heard John’s footsteps. She pulled the door open, and he moved heavily as he came in and threw off his coat. His whole aspect was one of despair and worry, and prickles of fear ran down her spine.

“What’s amiss? Is it Richard?”

“No,” he said, pulling a chair close to the fire and warming his hands above the flames. “I have no news of him.”

Jane put a mug of brandy and hot water into his hands and he inhaled the steam and drank before he spoke again.

“The situation is grown more perilous than it was. The king set out for Wales on Thursday night with one of the Penderels, but the crossing of the Severn is guarded by two companies of militia and all the boats have been seized. There was nothing for it but to return last night, and he’s back at Moseley.”

The king, only six miles away, and still in danger. It was like something out of a play, Jane thought.

“Oh, no,” she whispered. “What will he do?”

The firelight flickered orange on John’s face, and it seemed to Jane there were lines around his eyes that had not been there only days earlier. His voice was hoarse when he spoke again.

“Jane, I am loath to say what I am about to because I would not put you in danger, but I can see no other way.”

Jane stared at him. What could he mean?

“The king must ride with you to Abbots Leigh. Not Wilmot, but the king himself.”

The shock was so great that Jane found she could say nothing.

“He’s already disguised himself, Wilmot says, cut his hair and changed clothes with a poor woodsman so that none would know him.”

Jane tried to picture the dashing young king who had rallied his troops at Worcester, grimy and unrecognisable.

“We can clothe him in better apparel, and hope that he’ll pass as your serving man. But, Jane, this is far more dangerous than riding with Lord Wilmot.”

“I must help him if I can.”

John stared into the fire, and shivered despite its warmth. “When the king’s friends parted from him at Whiteladies,” he said, “they begged him not to tell them his plans so they could not be forced to reveal them if they were put to torture. Jane, if you were to be taken … The danger is great.”

Jane swallowed. She was very much afraid at the thought of what might happen to her. But if she did not help the king to escape, surely he would be found and captured soon.

“I’ll do it.”

“Someone else must go with you.”

“Henry.” Jane had always felt that in the company of her cousin Henry she could come to no harm, and she felt the more so now that he was a soldier. She recalled the steely determination in his eyes when he had set off with John the few days earlier that now seemed so long ago, and his bitter disappointment when they had returned in confusion, having left too late to join the battle.

“Yes. Henry would go, and I’ll have less fear knowing that he’s with you.”

“But when shall we go? Surely soldiers will be searching the houses hereabout and are like to find the king?”

“Moseley has a priest hole, so the king is well hidden. But still he must fly soon.”

Jane had been shown a priest hole once, in the house of a Catholic friend. It was a little space, not more than four feet square and three feet high, just big enough to hide a man or forbidden articles such as crucifixes, the entry hatch concealed beneath a close stool in the floor of a closet. It had made her skin creep to think of climbing down into it, with no air and no light save for a candle, and her heart went out to the young king.

“Wilmot will send tomorrow to know if you’ll undertake the journey. Think it over.”

“I don’t have to think,” Jane said, pushing her fears aside. “Nothing could stop me.”

The next day after noontime dinner, John stopped Jane as she was heading upstairs to her room.

“Henry’s in the orchard. Come join us for a little chat.”

She grabbed a shawl and hurried out with him, relieved that Withy and her nose for secrets were nowhere to be seen. Henry was swinging by his arms from the branch of a great apple tree, and drew himself up higher before he dropped to the ground, dusting off his hands on the knees of his breeches. He was almost thirty, but there was something very boyish about the way his whole face was lit at the prospect of adventure, Jane thought.

“I’ll ride to Moseley again tonight,” John said, “and bring Wilmot back so we can make our final preparations, but let’s consult between us now.” He turned to Henry. “Jane’s pass is for her and a manservant, no more. I’m concerned that if I go back to Colonel Stone and ask to add someone else, it will draw attention we’d better avoid.”

“Agreed,” Henry said. “I’ll chance it. If we’re stopped and the king is recognised, the lack of a pass will be the least of our worries.” He grinned at Jane, eyes shining. “Didn’t think when you woke up a few days ago that we’d be saving the king’s neck, did you?”

“No,” Jane smiled.

“Are you sure, Jane?” John asked. “If you’re having second thoughts, better to voice them now.”

“I’m having no second thoughts. And if I were, I’d go through with it anyway. For what other way is as sure to get the king out of danger?”

“Spoken like a true soldier.” Henry tweaked a curl that strayed from Jane’s cap, the same as he had done since she was a little girl and he a dashing older boy. “But it’s as well I’ll be with you, to protect you from the king as much as for anything else.”

“Why, what a thing to say!” Jane cried in astonishment. “What may you mean by that?”

“Only that he’s a man like any other, and used to having his way.”

“Careful, Henry,” John warned.

“John, if she’s to travel with him, she should know to be on her guard.” John shrugged in acquiescence, and Henry continued. “He’s already got a bastard son by a wench on Jersey, and there are whispers that he got at least one child on the daughter of the governor there, too.”

Jane felt a little shock at such licentiousness, but she was more annoyed at the sight of Henry, clearly expecting her to be outraged.

“Brisk work for a lad of twenty-one,” she said coolly. “But I’m sure His Majesty will have more on his mind than attempting to debauch me.”

She smiled inwardly to see that Henry looked disappointed at her lack of reaction.

“It’s too cold to tarry here,” she said. “We’ll talk more tonight. I’m going in.”

HENRY WAITED WITH JANE IN THE DARKENED KITCHEN THAT NIGHT. John had a book of maps that had been prepared for Royalist officers, and Henry studied it by the lantern light.

“An exceeding useful thing to have,” he said. “The maps will save us asking our way. The less attention we bring to ourselves the better.”

Jane paced, going to the window to peer out into the blackness. The pale curved crescent of the moon had risen into view before they heard the clatter of horses’ hooves. A rush of cold air gusted through the kitchen as John came through the heavy wooden door, followed by a stocky figure wrapped in a bulky cloak, and Jane shivered as the reality of what she was planning to undertake hit her.

“My lord, may I present my sister Jane? You know my cousin Henry Lascelles, I believe.”

“Your servant, Mistress. A pleasure to see you, Lascelles.”

As Wilmot pulled off his hat and bowed to her, Jane saw that he was a big man with a spreading paunch, near on forty years old, and nothing like the dashing hero of her imagination. But still he looked the part of a soldier, and Jane knew from John’s service under him that he was a capable and shrewd commander. She brought warm drink to the table and sat down with the men. Wilmot’s buff coat was splattered with mud, the collar of his shirt was grimy, and his unshaven face was stubbled with grey, and Jane remembered that like the king, he had been on the run from Cromwell’s men for five long days.

“Henry will ride with my sister and—your master,” John said, his voice low.

Wilmot nodded his understanding.

“An extra man will not go amiss in case of danger,” John added. “And you and I may be of help, too, my lord. We can give out that we go to visit Clement Fisher at Packington. The way lies in the same direction the others will travel, and we can keep in sight at least through the morning.”

“Well bethought,” Wilmot nodded. “The greatest danger probably lies closest to here, so the more men to hand the better. And I shall be glad to see Fisher again.”

“The situation has fallen out well for our purpose,” John said. “I had planned to send the son of one of our tenant farmers to accompany Jane, and it is such a man your master must feign to be. We’ll provide suitable clothes and instruct him in what he needs to know.”

“I’ve already made arrangements to stop with family at Long Marston on the way,” Jane said, looking at the men’s shadowed faces. “And they’ll not question my having a serving man with me.”

“Long Marston’s a long day’s ride,” Henry said, “but if all goes well we should be able to make it, and to reach Abbots Leigh in another two days’ travel.”

“Good,” Wilmot said. “I’ll ride from Packington, and meet you all at Abbots Leigh.”

“Then we’re agreed,” John said. “We’ll be ready to leave when you think fit, my lord.”

A thrill went through Jane’s stomach. It was really happening. A greater adventure than she could have imagined.

“Let us make it as soon as it may be,” Wilmot said. “The danger grows with every hour. I’ll bring him here tomorrow at midnight, and we’ll leave at daybreak.” He stood and threw his cloak over his shoulders. “Until tomorrow.” He bowed to Jane. “I honour your courage, Mistress. And I know I can speak for our master in giving all of you his profound thanks.”

LATE THOUGH IT WAS, JANE LAY STARING INTO THE DARK, UNABLE TO stop her mind from whirling. She could scarcely believe that before the next day was out, the king would be at Bentley, and that the following morning they would be on their way towards Bristol, riding to save his life and any hope for the future of England’s monarchy. She had never travelled farther than Stafford, less than thirty miles away, and now she was setting out on a journey of a hundred miles, every step fraught with peril to her own life as well as that of the king. Her cat, Jack, lay purring at her side, and she reached down to stroke his head.

“How has it come,” she asked him, “that an undertaking of such moment should rest on my shoulders? Will I be able to surmount the difficulties and terrors that are sure to lie along the way?”

Jack shifted against her, his purring rumbling deep within his chest.

I shall have to, Jane murmured to herself. God give me strength.

THE NEXT MORNING JANE LOOKED OUT HER BEDROOM WINDOW TO see a man hastening to the kitchen door. She recognised him as one of the five surviving Penderel brothers, who lived in and around Whiteladies and served the Giffard family at Boscobel, a few miles away in the woods of Shropshire. The family had fought for the king, and a sixth brother had been killed at the Battle of Edgehill. Jane saw John slip out to the stables with the man, and a few minutes later she heard his footsteps on the stairs. He put a finger to his lips imploring her silence as she opened her door to him.

“John Penderel’s just come from Whiteladies. Colonel Ashenhurst was there last night with a party of soldiers. They’d been told that the king was at the house, and they tore the place apart and used Charles Giffard very roughly.”

“Dear God,” Jane whispered, closing the door and leaning against it in alarm. “The king wasn’t there, was he?”

“No,” John said, sinking onto a chair. “But it maddened them not to find him. A soldier captured after Worcester had led them there, and they beat him badly. They have the scent of the king now, and will hunt until they find him. And look at this.” He dug a folded paper out of his pocket. “It’s being distributed to every parish in England.”

Jane stared at the broadsheet, headed “A Reward of a Thousand Pounds for the Capture of the Traitor Charles Stuart”. A cloud covered the sun outside, and she felt a cold shadow of fear pass over her heart.

“Then we had best get him out while we can,” she said.

“Jane, are you sure?” John came to her side and they stood looking out the window. In the yard below, a servant trundling a barrow of barley towards the brew house stopped to exchange words with one of the grooms, and their laughter drifted upward.

“Yes,” Jane said. “Yes. We cannot turn back now.”

“Very well. Then Lord Wilmot and Whitgreaves will bring him here tonight, and you’ll set off in the morning.”

Jane suddenly wondered when she would return. Maybe with things so unsettled at home she would not linger at Abbots Leigh as she had thought, but return as soon as Ellen’s baby was born.

“Another thing,” John said. “We must keep this between ourselves and Henry now.”

“Doesn’t Father know?”

“He knows about Wilmot’s horses. He may suspect more, but he hasn’t asked and I’ve told him nothing. Nor Mother or Athalia either.” John’s face was grim. “And better we leave it at that. They cannot be forced into betraying information they do not have.”

“Forced?” The image of her aged father and mother brutalised by Cromwell’s men rose to Jane’s mind, and that gave her pause as nothing else had done.

“They’re desperate now to find the king. I know some of these men and I’d like to think they’d use our people civilly, but we cannot count on that.”

“Then Mother and Father shall know nothing,” Jane agreed.

THAT AFTERNOON FATHER JOHN HUDDLESTON ARRIVED ON FOOT looking harried and shaken. John ushered him into Thomas’s little study, nodding to Jane to follow them. As it was a capital offence to be a practising Catholic priest, Huddleston was dressed in the coat and breeches of a country gentleman. He was young and sturdily built, and Jane recalled that he had fought in the wars under the Duke of Newcastle, following in the footsteps of his grandfather, who with eight brothers had raised two regiments for the first King Charles.

Huddleston waited until John had shut the door behind them before he spoke.

“Southall the priest catcher was just at Moseley with a troop of soldiers.”

“The king?” Jane and John spoke at once.

“Is hidden yet.” Huddleston’s voice was barely above a whisper. “The officers accused old Mr Whitgreaves of having been at Worcester, but neighbours gathered and attested that he had never left home. The soldiers were out of humour at having been misinformed, and beat some men who stood up to them.” The priest’s brown eyes were hot with anger.

“Did they not search the house?” Jane asked.

“Mr Whitgreaves did a wise thing. Upon hearing that the soldiers were coming, he opened all the doors of the house to show he had nothing to hide. They searched anyway, but found nothing. One of them promised an ostler working in the stable yard he should have a thousand pounds if he could tell where the king was.”

“Oh, no.” Jane could barely breathe.

“He didn’t know the king was there,” Huddleston said. “And he might not have told if he did.”

“But the offer of so great a reward may prove too terrible a temptation for some poor soul,” John said. “Every moment increases the danger.”

“And the soldiers?” Jane asked, looking from Huddleston to her brother. “Will they come here now?”

“We must be prepared,” John said.

WORD OF THE EVENTS AT WHITELADIES AND MOSELEY SPREAD, AND at supper the entire household seemed on edge, though no soldiers had appeared to search for the king. Jane was lost in thoughts of the next day’s journey and did not at first hear Withy speaking to her.

“Do you hear me, Jane?” Withy repeated, rapping Jane’s wrist sharply with her spoon. “We’ve decided to leave with you in the morning.”

“What?” Jane put her wine glass down hard, sloshing a few drops onto the tablecloth. “I thought you weren’t going home until next week?”

“We hadn’t planned to,” Withy said, shaking her head and dabbing at the spilled wine with her napkin. “But after these past days I’d rather be at home, and I’d prefer the safety of travelling in company than taking to the road on our own.” She speared a piece of meat from her plate and popped it into her mouth.

Jane’s heart sank. Setting off with the fugitive king disguised as a tenant farmer’s son would be difficult enough without Withy travelling along, sure to stick her nose where it had no business. What could she say to dissuade them? She cast a glance at Henry, listening from across the table. He seemed to read her mind.

“If I were you, John Petre,” he said to Withy’s husband, “I’d hold off a few days before taking your wife abroad. By then Cromwell’s men are sure to be fewer on the ground, and the roads will be safer.”

“That’s true,” Jane said.

Withy’s husband opened his mouth to speak, but Withy cut in. “Then why don’t you wait?”

Jane could think of no answer and flushed in consternation, and to her annoyance, a knowing smile crept over Withy’s red face.

“Maybe Jane is in such a hurry because she plans to elope,” she simpered to the table. “It’s not Ellen Norton but some lover she’s riding off to!”

Her scornful laugh made it only too clear that she considered the idea ridiculous, and Jane bit her lip to keep from flying out at her sister with angry words.

“Nonsense. Of course it’s Ellen I’m going to see. How could it be otherwise with Henry along? I would delay my travel myself did not Ellen expect me every day. Of course you’re welcome to ride with us, Withy.”

Withy looked put out at Jane’s capitulation, but only turned to her husband and said, “That’s settled, then. We’ll leave in the morning.”

JANE WENT TO HER ROOM AFTER SUPPER TO FINISH HER PACKING. SHE could not carry much, only what would fit in the saddlebags, and she was debating whether to bring along the book of Shakespeare’s sonnets when there was a quiet knock at the door. John slipped in, shutting the door behind him.

“I’ll be off to Moseley about ten,” he said. “And return with Lord Wilmot and—and the other gentleman. You have the clothes?”

Jane took from a large chest the grey broadcloth suit that had been made as Sunday best for one of the servants but had never yet been worn, and a pair of shoes belonging to Richard, who had the biggest feet in the family.

“Good,” said John. “Those will do well. He can have a bath and shave in the kitchen and sleep in the servants’ quarters, and keep out of sight until we’re on the point of leaving.”

“I’ll make all ready,” Jane said, “and have food waiting when you come back.” She turned back to her packing, but John put a hand on her arm.

“Jane, it would be better if you didn’t see him until morning.”

“But I want to make him welcome and see that he’s comfortable,” Jane said. “It’s little enough to do.”

“I know,” John said. “But if you don’t meet with him tonight, then if it comes to it, you can truthfully claim you never laid eyes on him until he brought out your horse, and you knew not who he was. If we’re discovered, that could be the difference between life and death for you.”

They stood in silence for a moment, listening as the case clock in the hall below struck eight. Fear lurked in the pit of Jane’s stomach, but she looked up into John’s worried eyes and spoke calmly.

“I had rather be hanged for a sheep than a lamb. I’ll heat water for his bath and give him his supper.” She gave a wry smile. “And beg his pardon in advance for the nuisance Withy is sure to make of herself.”

“Well, that can’t be helped. But they’ll part from you before the end of the day. Between you and Henry I’m sure you can keep her off the scent for a few hours.”

IT WAS NEAR MIDNIGHT WHEN JANE HEARD THE SOFT WHINNY OF A horse in the darkness of the stable yard. John was back from Moseley. She could hardly believe that the king would really be in the house in a moment. She lifted the candle to view herself in the mirror above her dressing table. She looked anxious and white-faced, her eyes wide in the darkness of the room. She attempted a smile. Better. She wondered if she should change clothes. She had pondered what to wear. It was the king, after all, whom she would be greeting, and yet she would be meeting him in the kitchen in the middle of the night. She had settled on her favourite gown, a brocade of dusky rose, set off by the lace-trimmed sleeves of her shift. Her bosom swelled at the neckline of the bodice, and she draped a white kerchief around her neck and then tossed it away. It was the king, and she would look as pretty as she could, whatever the circumstances. She tucked a stray curl into place, and crept silently out of her room.

As Jane approached the kitchen door, she could hear men’s voices. She paused to listen, her heart beating fast. John’s voice, quiet and steady, but intense with emotion. Wilmot’s tenor whisper. And a lower voice, speaking only a few words, which could only be the voice of the king.

She took a deep breath and entered the kitchen. The men were huddled near the warmth of the fireplace, their faces eerie in the flickering firelight. She stared with shock at what appeared to be a tall scarecrow standing between John and Lord Wilmot. Beneath a greasy and shapeless grey steeple-crowned hat, bloodshot eyes shone from a face that was freakishly mottled sooty black and greenish brown and creased with sweat and dirt, dark hair hanging lank and damp on either side. A threadbare green coat, too small for the broad shoulders, stretched over a battered leather doublet and ragged breeches, and the stockings of coarse yarn were heavily darned at the knees.

The king it must be, but if Jane had not known otherwise, she would have thought him some desperate beggar or Tom O’Bedlam. The men were looking at her and she collected her wits enough to curtsy deeply.

“You are most welcome, Your—” she began, but the scarecrow hastened to her and raised her, whispering fiercely, “No formalities, I pray you, Mistress. I thank you for your hospitality, but the less said the better for all.”

Jane looked up into the shining dark eyes of the king. She was astonished to see him summon a weary smile, and she found herself smiling back, her nervousness melting away.

“Then I will say only I pray you sit, sir, while I get you some supper.”

Wilmot’s serving man settled himself on a stool by the fireplace and the others sat at the kitchen table, seeming near to collapse now that they were safe inside. Jane drew a pitcher of ale and put it before them with slipware mugs, and then dished stew from the kettle that hung on a hook to the side of the fire. She was pleased at the smile on the king’s face when she set a steaming dish before him, and when she came back a minute later with bread, cheese, and butter, he had already eaten most of the stew.

“Forgive my animal nature, Mistress,” he said, meeting her eyes. “It’s little I’ve had to eat in the last days, and this meal is the best that I can recall in my life, it seems.”

Jane blushed, and took up his empty dish. “Then I beg you let me give you more, sir.”

The king consumed the second plate of stew hungrily while John and Wilmot and Wilmot’s man ate at a slower pace. Jane lit some more candles, and as the light fell on the king’s feet, she was shocked to see that his shoes had been slit around the sides, and that his protruding toes were bandaged and dark with dried blood. What a terrible ordeal he had already passed through in the last few days, she thought, and what unknown dangers lay ahead of him.

“My brother has fresh clothes for you, sir,” she said, setting another loaf of bread upon the table. “And water for a bath is hot and ready.”

“The happiest words I’ve had in a week.” He smiled, and she was pleased that so simple a thing probably was the most welcome gift she could give him at that moment.

“Then I will bid you good night,” she murmured, with a half curtsy.

“And I will see you on the morrow, a changed man.”

Jane turned to go, but the king took her hand and spoke again. “I thank you, Mistress Lane, most humbly, for your kindness and your bravery.”

Jane felt herself lost in his eyes, and was conscious of the other men watching her.

“Not at all, sir,” she murmured. “I’m happy to do whatever I can in your service.”

The king raised her hand to his lips and kissed it, and she felt as though a bolt of lightning had shot through her. She tried to speak but no sound would come, and she could only nod and smile as she fled into the darkness of the hall.

IN BED, JANE LAY LOOKING AT THE STAR-FLECKED NIGHT SKY OUTSIDE her window. She touched the back of her hand, where the king had kissed her. She seemed to feel the imprint of his lips on her skin and shivered. She was excited, but a thrill of terror was roiling her belly. Only a few days ago she had been longing for adventure, but what lay ahead of her was no story out of a book, but a real journey fraught with danger. The plan that had seemed thrilling now felt like madness. The king was a big man, not easily disguised. What hope was there that they could make their way undetected along a hundred miles of roads teeming with enemy troopers, and pass among countless common people for whom a thousand-pound reward would mean a life of security?

Guide us and protect us, Lord, Jane prayed. Make clear our path and cloud the vision of our foes. Preserve the king, that he may live to protect our beloved England. And help me to have the courage to see the journey through, whatever may come.