The King's Mistress (30 page)

He twinkled at Jane and she smiled in amusement.

“Riding before a lady had answered so well as a disguise that it seemed best for me to continue in the person of Will Jackson. But without you, I was forced to make what shift I could. So Juliana Coningsby consented to stand—or perhaps I should say to sit—in your place.”

Jane’s happiness dimmed. She did not at all like the thought of pretty Juliana on the pillion behind the king.

“Mistress Coningsby was to play the part of the bride,” Charles said, taking up a knife and an apple and beginning to peel it, “and my lord Wilmot was the groom. We made ourselves comfortable in our room at the little inn, and full of good hope and humour, for the wind was then very good at north, and sat expecting the ship to come in, but she failed us, and there we still sat at dawn.”

He triumphantly held up the deep red peel of the apple, which he had removed in one spiralling strip. Jane smiled, and he coiled the prize down into her palm, his eyes warm on hers.

“And why did the man not come, sir?” little Minette cried, a smile of impish glee on her face.

“That was exactly what I wondered, too!”

Charles pulled his little sister onto his lap and tugged one of her curls fondly, and she gazed up at him in pleased awe. He cut the apple into quarters and removed the core as he resumed his story.

“I sent Frank’s man Peters and Lord Wilmot to know the reason of it, and we resolved to go to a place on the road towards London called Bridport, and there stay till my lord Wilmot should bring us news whether the vessel could be had the next night or no. So Frank Wyndham and Mistress Coningsby and I went in the morning to Bridport, and just as we came into the town, I could see the streets full of redcoats.”

“Oh, no,” Jane cried. “Just like at Stratford.”

“Exactly. But even worse. It was a regiment of fifteen hundred men going to embark to take Jersey. So we at once rode out of town as if towards London, much fearing we might have been discovered. When we were gone about a mile off, my lord Wilmot overtook us, he having seen us in the town, and told us there had been some mistake between him and the master of the ship.”

Minette emitted a little shriek of anticipation at what would come next, eliciting chuckles from the grown-ups.

“The ‘mistake’,” Charles continued, “was that the captain’s good wife had been at Lyme fair that day, and had heard the proclamation of the reward for our capture, and suspecting what her husband was about, and fearing what harm might come to him if he should carry us to France and be discovered, she locked him in his room.”

Minette giggled with delight. “She locked him in his room!”

Frowning, the queen put a finger to her lips and shushed her youngest child.

“Lord Wilmot said he believed the ship might be ready next night,” Charles said, “so we determined to make for Broadwindsor, a village about four miles in the country above Lyme.”

“And then what happened, sir?” cried Minette as he handed her a slice of apple.

“Many more mishaps and misadventures!” Charles replied. “But methinks the telling of this tale has been long enough for tonight. Mistress Jane and Colonel Lane are still tired after their long journey, and surely it’s time for young maids to be in bed. We’ll finish the story another time.”

The guests stood and took their leaves, and Charles led Jane to a quiet corner. Her heart beat fast as she looked up into his eyes, longing to feel his arms about her.

“My chaplain gives Sunday service at the home of Sir Richard Browne, the English ambassador,” he said. “I will take you tomorrow, if you like.”

“I would like that,” she said.

“Good.” He kissed her cheek and nodded his farewell, and as she watched him stride off into the shadows, she was conscious of John’s eyes on her.

A
BOUT TWENTY OF THE KING’S FOLLOWERS GATHERED IN THE HOME
of Sir Richard Browne on that icy Sunday morning. It was the first time Jane had met most of them, but everyone quite clearly knew who she was. She noted one dark-haired young lady regarding her curiously. She bowed and the lady returned her bow, looking a little flustered, before turning back to the man beside her.

“Who is that?” Jane whispered to Charles.

“Hmm? Oh, Betty Boyle. She attends the queen my mother. Her father was Robert Killigrew, my mother’s vice chamberlain.”

He did not meet Jane’s eye and she sensed there were things he was not saying about the lady, but the black-gowned cleric took his place at the head of the small congregation and there was no time for further talk.

After the sermon, Charles introduced Jane to the chaplain, Dr Cosin, a stern-faced man of close to sixty years.

“An honour, Mistress Lane,” he said. “We all have much to thank you for.”

“I wonder, Father,” Jane said, “if I could impose on you for a little private time with you when it is convenient.”

“Why, I’m most happy to speak now, if it suits,” Dr Cosin smiled.

“Shall I wait?” Charles asked, but Jane thought she sensed a hint of impatience, and shook her head.

“No, I thank Your Majesty. John can see me back.”

“I have the feeling I should leave my stole on,” the minister said, leading her to a small parlour with a fire dancing on the hearth. “You have more on your mind than chat.”

“Yes,” Jane said. The warmth of the fire felt good, and calmed her. She was silent for a few moments, gathering her thoughts, and was grateful that Dr Cosin sat beside her in silence, not pressing her to speak until she was ready.

“My brother and I faced many hardships during our journey,” she said finally.

“Walking all that way, with winter coming on, I should think so.”

“One day we met a soldier—a rebel deserter. He surprised us when John had just fired his pistol—hunting, you see—and he had us very much at a disadvantage. John had already thrown down his empty pistol and his purse and even the hare he had shot, when this soldier turned his attention to me. I was dressed as a boy so that I would be less likely to be recognised, but this man was very close to me and he saw that I was a woman. He touched me—he would have done more, I am sure, and John would have been helpless to prevent him. I had a pistol hidden beneath my coat and I shot him. Killed him.”

Dr Cosin made a noise of sympathetic alarm in his throat.

“You acted in your own defence, when there was no one else who could defend you.”

“I did. But was it not still murder?”

Jane searched the chaplain’s dark eyes, hoping for forgiveness and afraid of condemnation.

“You were defending yourself from assault, perhaps death. God knows the truth of that. Also, consider this. When a soldier goes into battle, he is doing his duty. You put off the tenderness of your sex and were acting as a soldier, defending king and crown. You were presented with the soldier’s choice. Kill or be killed. It was no sin, I think.”

“Thank you,” Jane breathed.

It was a relief to have spoken of her fears. But a much greater weight yet enveloped her heart. Could she speak of it now? She watched the snow falling outside the windows and steeled herself. She had better, she decided. For her silence was eating into her soul, and there might not be anyone else she could tell.

“There is another thing. When I was travelling with the king, he lay with me. I wanted him to, I didn’t care about the consequences.”

“I see.”

Dr Cosin’s mouth tightened, and Jane was afraid of his disapproval, but she had to go on.

“I carried his child. And when I was walking with my brother—the day after I shot the man—I miscarried of it.”

The pain of the memory was too much, and she began to cry softly.

“I fear God punished me for my sin by taking the babe. And perhaps for the killing of the soldier as well.”

“The fornication was sin, most grievous sin, and no question. But perhaps God sought to protect you, rather than punish you.”

“Protect me? How?”

“If the child had not died, perhaps your reception here would have been different.” Just as John had feared, Jane thought. “But more than that, the king is destitute, you know, as are all his family and supporters here. The poor queen relied on the mercy of the Frondeurs who were rioting in the streets to give her food and wood for her fire. His Majesty has no means of supporting a child, and the burden you have taken up on his behalf, already so heavy, would have been heavier yet. And the child would have suffered.”

“That’s true.” Jane sniffled and Dr Cosin put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“You have endured much for your sins already. Humbly ask God to pardon your offences, sin with the king no more, and go in peace.”

W
HEN
J
ANE RETURNED TO THE
P
ALAIS
R
OYAL
, C
HARLES WAS
nowhere to be seen. She was reluctant to keep asking after him, so she kept to Martine’s room and rested until the noon meal. Charles was present, and after dinner, sat and visited with Jane, John, Henry, and Lord Wilmot in the queen’s apartments. They had not gathered alone since they had all set out from Bentley, and it seemed unreal that now they should be sitting together in Paris.

“How very improbable that our wild scheme should have worked,” Wilmot mused, looking around the little circle. “When I consider of the number of instances in which Your Majesty was in the midst of the enemy and they saw you not, and the dangers through which you passed, it seems that surely the hand of Providence must have been at work.”

“So it does,” Charles nodded.

“What happened after the boat failed to come to Charmouth?” Jane asked.

“After His Majesty left with Wyndham and Mistress Coningsby,” Wilmot said, “I found that my horse had cast a shoe. The ostler was standing by as the smith began his work, chatting, as such fellows will, and said he was a soldier, and that he was only working at the inn for extra money. So you may imagine what a start it gave me when at that moment the smith looks most sharply at the horse’s shoes, remarking that they had been set in three different counties, one of them Worcestershire.”

“Oh, no!” Jane gasped.

“It did nothing to ease my mind when the fellow then asked about the lady and gentlemen who had sat up all the night, as if in readiness to depart. I passed it off with a laugh, repeating the story of the runaway bride and groom, but I could tell his curiosity was roused, and as soon as the horse was shod, I rode for Bridport as fast as I could.”

“And now,” Charles exclaimed, “we come to one more time when all should have been lost. For of course, when my lord Wilmot met us, he told us of the ostler, and we were looking over our shoulders, expecting to see soldiers at any minute. We had not rid a quarter of a mile when we came upon a little path that ran off to the left. None of us knew the country, but we agreed upon the instant to take that road, and make our way northward rather than south.”

“And had we remained upon the main road for another five minutes,” Wilmot said, “we would surely have been taken.”

Jane felt her stomach heave at the thought of Charles imprisoned and executed.

“Meanwhile,” Charles said, “we arrived at Broadwindsor, but the master of the ship, doubting that it was some dangerous employment he was hired upon, would not undertake to carry us over. Whereupon we were forced to go back again to Frank Wyndham’s to Trent, where we might be in some safety till we had hired another ship.”

Jane thought of her heartache at leaving Charles at Trent, and swore inwardly. If only she had not let Charles talk her and Henry into leaving so soon, it might have been she, not Juliana, who rode with him to Charmouth and back again. Maybe she would not have had to be parted from him at all.

At length the little gathering broke up, and Jane returned to Martine’s room to make herself ready for supper. She was washing her face when she heard a noise behind her and turned to see a boy regarding her with intense curiosity. He was about thirteen and finely dressed, though his coat and the knees of his breeches were dirty.

“Are you Mademoiselle Jane Lane?” he asked.

Jane felt rather like an insect specimen pinned in a glass case, but bit back the impulse to ask what business it was of his.

“I am.”

“I thought so.” The boy nodded, evidently satisfied.

He started as a female voice at some distance called out, “Louis! Where are you?”

“Don’t tell them I’m here, will you?” he begged.

Jane had only time to shake her head before he dived under the bed. An imperious-looking middle-aged lady in gold silk strode through the door and halted abruptly at the sight of Jane.

“Oh. I beg your pardon. I was looking for my son.” She swept the chamber with an eaglelike eye.

“I’m all alone here,” Jane said, gesturing as if to show the emptiness of the room. She didn’t know why the boy wished to remain hidden, but he had looked at her so beseechingly that she couldn’t help but sympathise with him.

The woman shook her head with exasperation and turned on her heel. After her tapping footsteps died away, the boy squirmed out from his hiding place, his clothes none the cleaner for having been under the bed.

“Thank you!” he grinned as he darted out the door.

It took Jane a moment to remember the name the woman had called, and to realise that she had just been responsible for the preservation of the King of France.

A
WEEK AFTER
J
ANE AND
J
OHN ARRIVED IN
P
ARIS IT SNOWED
. Jane looked out from her window at the rooftops of the city, their chimney pots jutting out of the white drifts on the slanting slates. She drew her robe about her and shivered, thankful that she and John were not walking through England or riding through the French countryside in such weather.

Simply not to be travelling at a harsh pace, worrying every time she heard the beat of hooves, was a relief. Now that she could let her guard down, and did not have to daily flog herself forward over the endless miles, her body was taken over with complete exhaustion and her mind felt numb and confused, and she found it difficult to focus beyond the moment at hand. She was grateful to have been welcomed so warmly at the court, small and impoverished though it was.