The King's Mistress (29 page)

“It rained so on those days,” Jane said, recalling the late-night arrival of old Father William Walker.

“Yes,” Will said. “And patrols were everywhere, and I knew I must find someplace better to hide myself. Charles Giffard of Boscobel had been under my command, and I knew if I could reach there, he would shelter me. So on the second night after the battle I set forth, and reached the house near dawn, to discover that His Majesty had miraculously been preserved and was also there.”

“Dick Penderel took me there,” Charles said, “after we found that there was no hope of crossing the Severn.” He shook his head in disbelief. “What a night that was. The shoes I was wearing were too tight and my feet were bleeding and blistered, and my stockings were soaking wet and full of gravel, and it was such agony to walk that I really thought it might be preferable to give myself up.”

All those present who had escaped from Worcester had suffered from blistered feet in the course of their travels, and they discussed the efficacy of washing the feet in vinegar, putting bits of rolled paper between the toes to prevent chafing, and a fervent mutual wish never to be forced to walk so many miles again.

“Cromwell’s men were searching the houses roundabout,” Will said, taking up their story, “so we hid ourselves high in an old oak tree. Will Penderel handed us up two pillows on a nut hook, and I desired His Majesty to lay his head upon my lap so that he might sleep.”

“I had been three nights without sleep,” Charles put in, “and laid my head down most gratefully.”

The mention of sleep made Jane both conscious of how weary she was and how she longed to lie with Charles, to feel the heat of his body against hers and the murmur of his voice in her ear as they made love.

“As His Majesty slept,” Will continued, “I could see soldiers going up and down, searching the woods. As they drew near, I feared His Majesty might wake and make some noise, and the only way I could think to alert him without speaking was to pinch him. Which I did.”

The company dissolved in laughter at this, Charles laughing more heartily than anyone.

“We sat there, quiet and still, until the soldiers at last were gone,” Will said. “Towards evening, we climbed down. It was grown late and we were hungry, and His Majesty expressed the desire for a loin of mutton.”

“I was clumsy enough not to realise that these fellows had not the luxury of eating meat but once in a while,” Charles said. “But William Penderel said he would make bold with one of his master’s sheep. He brought it into the cellar and went to fetch a knife, but good Carlis here was too impatient to wait, and stabbed the sheep with his dagger.”

“Dear me, how very bloodthirsty,” Princess Elizabeth exclaimed, and Will shrugged.

“Ah, do you see?” Charles said, with a sly grin at Jane. “He looks sheepish, does he not?”

“We hung the sheep on the door and flayed it,” Will said, “and then cut off a hindquarter, and His Majesty cut it into Scotch collops, which I put into the pan while His Majesty held it.”

“Which brings us to the pretty quandary,” Charles said, “of who was the cook and who the scullion? What say you all?”

There was a buzz of discussion, and then Princess Elizabeth held up a hand to still the talk.

“In my opinion, cousin, you were
hic
and
nunc
, both of them.”

“Ah, well judged,” Charles laughed. “Well, after our excellent supper, when it was grown dark, Dick Penderel took me to Mr Whitgreaves at Moseley, where I met again with my lord Wilmot.”

“And then he came that night to Bentley and told John that you were there!” Jane cried.

“Just so,” Charles said. “And the rest of my story you know.”

“The king tells me you are a very learned lady,” Princess Elizabeth said, turning to Jane. “That you know Greek and Latin.”

“I do love to read, Your Highness,” Jane said. “It was one of the things I missed while we were travelling, not being able to distract myself with plays and poetry.”

“Then you must certainly come and visit with me.” The princess smiled. “And let me lend you some books while you are here.”

“You do me much honour, Your Highness.”

The princess waved away her thanks.

“We are all happy to do anything within our power to help you, mademoiselle, and you sirs”—she turned to John and Henry—“for the service you have done our royal cousin.”

The little party lingered late into the evening, and despite her exhaustion, Jane was reluctant to miss a minute of it. To be reunited with Charles was heaven, and the undisguised enchantment of the royal family at meeting her was intoxicating. But at length the party broke up. Charles kissed Jane’s cheek as they parted.

“I shall come and see you tomorrow,” he said. “Alas, I am so poor that that is the best entertainment I can offer you.”

“I want nothing more than to be by your side, wherever that might be,” she whispered.

A few minutes later, wearing a borrowed nightgown, she climbed into bed next to Martine and dropped instantly to sleep.

J
ANE WOKE FROM A DARK DREAM TO SUN STREAMING IN THE
window, unable for a moment to recall where she was. Martine appeared, and finding Jane awake, returned with a pot of hot chocolate and a plate with some little pastries of a kind Jane had never seen.

“So good,” Jane said, wiping a crumb from her dressing gown. “What are they?”

“Croissants,”
Martine said. “Little crescent moons, you see?”

“Where might I find the king?” Jane asked as Martine helped her dress. “I should like to—thank him for his kind reception yesterday.”

“He is paying a call at the Tuileries, I believe, mademoiselle, but will no doubt be back before long.”

“And my brother?”

“He is with some of the other English gentlemen. Come, I will show you where.”

“I thank you, mademoiselle, but if there is a way to get letters to England, I wonder if I might trouble you first for some ink and paper?”

Jane wrote to her family to tell them that she and John had reached Paris, and also to Ellen Norton, telling her the truth of why she had left Abbots Leigh, and assuring her that nothing less than the future of the monarchy would have made her leave Ellen’s side.

It was afternoon before she saw Charles. He appeared in the queen’s sitting room wearing a new-looking coat of dark green, a very clean shirt, and white silk stockings. He was freshly shaved and wore a wig, its dark curls brushing his shoulders.

“Until my own hair grows back,” he explained. “I was tired of looking like a Roundhead.”

“It suits you,” Jane smiled, studying him. “And it’s certainly a change from Will Jackson.”

“I thought you might like to see the cathedral,” Charles said. “If you will not find walking outside too cold. I’ve brought a cloak for you, the gift of a friend, Mademoiselle d’Épernon, who says she can scarce wait to meet you.”

Once outside, they crossed to the vast palace of the Louvre, and Charles led Jane through the maze of corridors and rooms until they emerged near the Seine. It was cold, with a brisk wind blowing off the river, but Jane hardly noticed. She felt safe for the first time in months, and supremely happy to be once more beside Charles. He took her arm, but seemed to feel no urge to make conversation, and as much as there was to say, Jane hardly knew where to begin.

The river sparkled in the sun, and Jane and Charles, as with one accord, stopped to lean against a stone railing along the bank and take in the view of the great cathedral rising ahead on an island in the middle of the river.

“There was a child,” Jane said.

She had thought about what to tell Charles and how, but now that seemed all there was to say.

“Was?” Charles turned to her, his eyes dark with concern as they flitted from her face to her belly and back again. “Then …”

“I lost it. Near a month ago.”

“Oh, Jane.”

He took her into his arms and drew her against his chest, and she let the tears she had held back for so long flow, comforted by the murmur of his voice in her ear.

“I’m so sorry,” he said after a time. “Your brother was with you?”

“Yes. He knows of the child; there was no way he could not.”

“But did you have no doctor?”

“There was an old woman. A wise woman, a healer. She gave us shelter and cared for me.”

“A month ago,” Charles reflected. “I had not been here long then.”

“I felt so alone,” Jane murmured. “All I wanted was you with me. I didn’t even know if you were alive. I had been happy to know I bore your child, come what might, and when—when it happened—it seemed I had lost you for good and all.”

“Oh, Jane, what a shambles have I made of your life.”

“If only I had not left you when I did,” she said. “We could have been together through it all, and it would not have been so hard.”

“Yes, but we could not have known what lay ahead for either of us.”

Jane snuffled, and with the back of her hand wiped away the tears that threatened to freeze on her cheeks. Charles dug a handkerchief from his sleeve and handed it to her, and she blew her nose, and they both laughed as she hesitated over whether to return it to him.

“Keep it.” He smiled. “God knows I have little enough to give you, but a handkerchief I can spare.”

They walked on towards the cathedral, and Jane saw that the arched stone bridge that crossed to the island was lined with vendors’ stalls and crowded with people. Music and voices rose on the breeze.

“Is that some fair?” Jane asked.

“No, the Pont Neuf is always like that, the gathering place for every mountebank, pickpocket, and whore in Paris. Perhaps we’ll brave it another day.”

They continued their stroll along the river, passing a high gate that opened onto another bridge. At the centre of the island a third bridge, lined with tall houses on both sides, led towards Notre Dame, its high front jutting into the winter sky. Arm in arm they walked around the exterior of the cathedral, and Jane stared at the turreted apse, its graceful arching supports reminding her of the veins in a leaf.

“Extraordinary. When was it built?”

“It was finished about three hundred years ago. During the reign of my cousin Philip the Sixth.”

Jane recalled with a start that Charles’s mother was the daughter of the French king Henri IV.

“Yes,” he said, as if reading her thoughts, “it is odd that I should be King of England when I am as much or more French, Scottish, Italian, Danish, and German as I am English, but there it is. My mother grew up at the Palais Royal, you know, and of course the present King Louis is her nephew, so she’s back at home here.”

“And you?”

“Me? I have no home. Nor no crown or throne but in name, no army to take them back, and not a shirt to my back but I must borrow the money to have it washed.”

Inside the cathedral great vaulted ceilings soared overhead and sunlight filtered in through the clerestory windows high above. Candles burned on a tiered rack, and Charles dropped a coin into a box that stood nearby, and taking up a slender taper, lit a new candle, his eyes intent on the flame.

“In remembrance of my father,” he murmured.

They sat on a bench in the sanctuary, comfortable with each other in the silence. The scent of frankincense hung heavy in the air, reminding Jane of the smell of peat burning on Marjorie’s fire.

“I killed a man,” she said quietly. “A deserter from Cromwell’s army. He surprised us, and had taken John’s pistol and purse. He had just realised I was not a boy, and would have taken me by force, I think, did I not shoot him.”

“And likely killed you both, too,” Charles said. “You had no choice.”

“No. But I think about him—recall his face, and that instant of surprise.”

Charles nodded.

“Aye, I’ve seen that surprise. Perhaps we none of us truly believe we shall die until the time is upon us.”

The bells rang the hour.

“I would I had been there to protect you,” Charles said, taking her hand. “What a farcical bad king I am, that I can neither protect nor provide for those who have served me so bravely and so well.”

“The time will come,” Jane said. “Marjorie saw it.”

“Ah. Well, if Marjorie saw it, then I shall believe it true.”

T
HAT EVENING
J
ANE AND
J
OHN ONCE MORE SUPPED WITH
C
HARLES
and his little court of exiles. He seemed in good spirits, she thought, watching his face in the golden candlelight. It seemed a year since she had parted from him at Trent, the birds outside heralding the break of day, and she longed to be alone with him and in his arms.

“I pray you, Your Majesty,” she said during a lull in the conversation, “will you not tell us what befell you after Henry and I left you?”

“Why, my friends have heard the story so often already that I am afraid I shall weary them,” Charles said, glancing around the table. The company murmured denials, and little Minette clapped her hands.

“I want to hear it again!” she cried. “Tell about the man locked in his room!”

“You see”—Charles smiled wanly—“she knows the story better than I.”

He poured himself more wine and took a drink.

“Well, as you know, Frank Wyndham had good hopes that his friend could help me to a boat. But it proved that for sundry reasons, he could not, though he sent me a hundred pounds in gold. So it fell to Frank to try what he could, and he went to Lyme and spoke with a merchant there to hire a ship, being forced to acquaint him that it was I who was to be carried out. The merchant appointed a day to embark, and directed us to go to Charmouth, a little village hard by Lyme, where the boat should come for us. And that is when I truly wished I had you with me again, Jane.”

Jane smiled not only to know that he had missed her, but to hear him declare it so.

“But as the tide would not serve until eleven o’clock at night, we had need to sit up all night at the inn and to have command of the house to go in and out at pleasure while we waited for the boat. To remove suspicion at such conduct, I hit upon the idea of a runaway bridal party. So the Wyndhams’ servant wooed the landlady of the inn with a story of his gallant master’s love for a lady whose family did not approve of the match. He told his tale so well that she swore she would do anything she could to help the couple.”