The King's Mistress (50 page)

John absented himself, leaving Jane and Clement gazing out the window of the cosy parlour over the rolling acres. Clement took Jane’s hand, and she could sense the unspoken question.

“It lacks yet a fortnight until Michaelmas,” she said. “But …”

He smiled down at her.

“But?”

“But if I may give you my answer now, I will.”

He drew her towards him and brushed a strand of hair from her forehead.

“Yes,” Jane said. “That is my answer. I will be happy to be your wife.”

He kissed her, first tenderly and then passionately, and Jane relaxed into his arms, knowing that he was hers alone and always would be.

J
ANE MARRIED
S
IR
C
LEMENT
F
ISHER JUST BEFORE
C
HRISTMAS, THE
ceremony performed by the Most Reverend Gilbert Sheldon, newly consecrated as Archbishop of Canterbury, as befitted a man of Sir Clement’s stature and the lady who had saved the life of the king. The tenants of Packington gathered to greet the newly married couple outside the chapel of St James and to cheer the wedding party as they made their way to Packington Hall. Jane smiled and waved, happy to be at the centre of her and Clement’s little village, blushing and laughing as he swept her into his arms and carried her across the threshold of their home.

O
N THE LAST NIGHT OF THE YEAR
, J
ANE AND
C
LEMENT SAT CLOSE
together in the parlour, a fire dancing bright on the hearth.

“I have kept meaning to ask you,” Clement said, kissing her hand and looking up at Jane’s portrait above the mantelpiece. “Surely the quotation in the corner of the painting is Virgil?
‘Sic, sic, iuviat ire sub umbra
.
’
”

“Yes,” Jane said. “From
The Aeneid.
‘Thus, thus, it pleases me to go into the shadows.’”

“I thought so. Very fitting.” Clement nodded. “For indeed you did serve your king, and then go into the shadows.”

Jane smiled at him and squeezed his hand, but could barely keep from chuckling as she recalled to herself the rest of Dido’s curse, spoken just before she plunged the sword into her breast.

Let the cruel Trojan’s eyes, from far out at sea,

Gaze long on the flames from the pyre

And bear with him the evil omen of my death.

Y
ES, SHE HAD DESPAIRED, AND SHE HAD WANTED
. C
HARLES TO SUFFER
. But the rage and pain had lifted. She was free.

W
HEN JANE GOT UP THAT MORNING THE CRISP BITE OF THE
autumn air and the golden and brown leaves swirling over the red earth of the stubbled fields brought back to her mind that day so long ago—could it really be thirty-eight years now?—the ninth of September, 1651—when she had met Charles, dirty and disguised, in the kitchen at Bentley.

Every year it was the same. The ninth of September brought back a rush of memories and thoughts and feelings. It seemed almost like a dream now, that she had ever ridden half across the country behind the king, with Henry too, fearing for their lives every moment. Of course it had all come out well eventually.

Or had it? Yes, Charles had escaped and lived to return and claim his crown. But he had had no legitimate child, and when he died four years earlier his brother James, the Duke of York, had succeeded him on the throne, and last year the Catholic James had been forced to abdicate in favour of his daughter Mary, child of Nan Hyde, and her husband and cousin, the reassuringly Protestant William of Orange, who Jane had first met as a fat little baby at the court of his mother Mary. So much unpleasantness could have been avoided if only Charles had married his cousin Sophie of Hanover, Jane thought. But at least there had been no war or bloodshed when James was removed from the throne. England had had enough of that. Even James wanted to live more than he wanted to rule, and he had gone quietly, with his head intact, and was now far away, in peaceful exile in France.

But Jane’s life had been disrupted, never to be the same, on that distant September morning. To be sure, she had welcomed the chance for adventure, and had gone where her heart took her, though it was into the arms of a man who could never marry her.

Had it been worth it? What would her life have been like if Charles had turned up in some other kitchen and ridden some other horse? Would she have married Clement just the same, but a decade earlier? How had she been changed? She and Clement had been very happy, but would they have had children if she had not lost that babe so long ago? She would never know.

She felt a sharp twinge in her chest, and winced. Probably heartburn. She was getting too old to eat anything spiced, she thought, and sighed.

She picked up the square of silk on which she had been working embroidery for the past few months. She had completed the heads of Charles, his father Charles I, his brother James II, and her own father. She had meant it as a tribute to them, and to all that they had seen. But it had all been so long ago. Who now even remembered what had happened? For many years, people had worn oak leaves on Oak Apple Day, as Charles’s birthday on the twenty-ninth of May had come to be called, commemorating his salvation. But now the wearing of oak leaves was forbidden, and this year villagers in nearby Meriden had been arrested and threatened for doing so. The young William and Mary must be mighty nervous about their place on the throne to be so adamantly against something so innocent, Jane thought. But that was the way it was, and nothing to be done about it.

Jane realised that she was the only one left alive to remember that September dawn when they had set off for Abbots Leigh. Charles, Henry Lascelles, Lord Wilmot, John and Athalia, Withy and her husband John Petre, her mother and father, were all long gone.

Of course many others had written down their parts in the story when it was safe to do so, once Charles was back on the throne. Whitgreaves, the Penderels, Father John Huddleston, Anne Wyndham, and those whose parts had come after Jane had left the stage, Colonel Gunther and Mr Ellesden. Yes, the Royal Miracle, as it had come to be called, had been thoroughly chronicled. But no one knew the real story. Her story. The story of how she had been swept off her feet by a warrior king, like a princess in some fairy tale, and had accompanied him on a journey worthy of the stage or an epic poem.

She could not have told her story then, for her love and her pain had burned too sharply to put to paper. Maybe she should write it now. Jane smiled at the thought. What would the world think of old Lady Fisher dredging up tales of dalliance from long ago? They would probably think she was cracked. If they even took any notice. No, the story was better kept in her heart and memory. She put her hand to her bosom, and felt the knot of Charles’s handkerchief and watch pinned inside her gown. It had been a matter of habit for her to wear it for so long that now it had almost become a part of her. She hadn’t opened the little bundle in years, but in her mind’s eye she saw each detail of the silver watch nestled within.

With fingers shaking a bit—damn this old age, it was so tedious—she unpinned the handkerchief and drew it forth. She put it to her nose. Was it possible that she could still detect a faint ghost of Charles’s scent? It scarcely seemed likely, and yet she could swear it was so. His face came bright and clear into her mind, those dark eyes shining down at her, and she heard his laughter and the husky whisper of his voice as he held her close and spoke words of love. It was almost as if he stood in the room with her. Why now, after so long, should he make himself so vividly present?

The knot was hard to open, reluctant to release its prize after so long, but at length she managed to untie it. She held the watch up to the sunlight. The crystal still sparkled and the tiny etched designs in the tarnished silver still seemed to hold some arcane secrets in their rune-like shapes.

And then, though Jane could hardly believe it was happening, the hands of the watch moved. How was it possible? It had been decades since it had been wound. But that barely audible tick was exactly as she recalled from that morning in Trent when Charles had given her the watch.

She held it up and peered at it, turned it about. Nothing. It was still again now. Silent as the grave. She looked at the face of the watch. The little hands stood at twelve. Noon. No. Midnight! Of course, midnight. And then Jane understood, and smiled. For it had been midnight on the ninth of September when Charles had come into that dark kitchen and stolen her heart.

She felt the merest whisper of a breeze. The windows were closed, but yes, a breath of air had caressed her cheek.

“Are you impatient to lie with me again, Charles?” she asked softly. “So importunate that you must need move the hands of the clock forward to gull me into coming to bed to you? You need not resort to such trickery, my love. I am weary, and I ache for the touch of your lips and your hands.”

She went to the bed. She could almost see him there, his head propped on one elbow as he gazed at her, patting the coverlet beside him. She lay down, her hand where she knew his must be, and closed her eyes. She was very tired and would welcome a long sleep.

I’
m happy and astonished to have a fleet of editors and agents to thank: Kate Seaver at Berkley Publishing Group in the U.S., Helen Bolton and Kate Bradley at Avon U.K., Kevan Lyon of Marsal Lyon Literary Agency, foreign rights agent Taryn Fagerness, Arabella Stein of Abner Stein Agency in London, and Diane McGee of McGee Creative, who represents me for film rights.

I’m very pleased to have Caitlin Mulrooney-Lyski at Penguin handling the publicity for this book as she did for
The Darling Strumpet.

I owe great thanks to Derek Wilson, because it was from his book
All The King’s Women
, which I read in the course of my research for
The Darling Strumpet
, that I learned about Jane Lane’s amazing story.

This book required an enormous amount of research, and there are many people to thank in connection with that endeavour!

My dear friend Alice Northgreaves accompanied me on a blitzkrieg research trip in England, playing Watson to my Holmes and doing most of the driving as we followed the route that Charles took after the battle and on his travels with Jane. We visited Worcester, Boscobel House and Whiteladies, Moseley Old Hall, tried to find the site of Bentley Hall and got pretty close, zoomed up to Stafford, were enchanted by Packington, drove on through Bromsgrove, Long Marston, Mickleton, Chipping Campden, and Cirencester to Bristol and Abbots Leigh, spent a lovely couple of nights in Shepton Mallet, went south to Castle Cary and Ansford, on to adventures in Trent, and stopped to see Castle Nunney, home of my ancestors the Prathers, before heading back to London. Alice gamely braved the nearly impossible schedule I had set, being used to driving on U.S. highways instead of small back-country roads and lanes in England, came up with good suggestions about sources of information, intrepidly plunged into pubs with me to ask for help finding long-gone sites, and helped me track down information about riding pillion. I also used her wonderful description of Norfolk as “black, sticky, bullrush-fringed marshland”. You can read about our travels and see the photos on my blog www.theroyalmiracle.blogspot.com. Thanks, Alice; I couldn’t have done it without you, and even if I could it wouldn’t have been so much fun!

We very much enjoyed our stays at the Admiral Rodney in Martley, Burgage House in Worcester, Leys House in Gnossal, and Maplestone in Shepton Mallet.

Heather and Stuart at the Rose and Crown in Trent (the one that is mentioned in the book, which stood and still stands across the road from Trent Manor) went way out of their way to be helpful, putting me in contact with Margaret Hohler, giving me much useful information and a copy of
A King in the Oak Tree
, and serving up one of the best meals I’ve had anywhere.

I cannot begin to be grateful enough to Margaret Hohler, the present owner of Trent Manor, who graciously invited Alice and me not only into her home but into her own bedroom, which was the very chamber where Charles stayed, with the priest hole in a little closet. As at Moseley and Boscobel, it gave me shivers to be in the places he hid.

I’m very grateful to the Earl and Countess of Aylesford for allowing us to wander around Packington’s beautiful and extensive park, which is probably not much changed from what it was like when Jane lived there and was very evocative, and to visit St James’s Church, where Jane and Clement Fisher were buried. Thanks also to Kay Gleeson for arranging the visit.

David Lee, the property manager for the National Trust at Moseley Old Hall, was very helpful and welcomed Alice and me, suggested research sources, gave us directions to find the site of Bentley Hall, and arranged for volunteer Tony Wilcox to take photos of the lovely portrait of Jane as a young woman that hangs at Moseley. Tony was kind enough to send me a selection of photos, one of which appears on my website, courtesy of the National Trust. Carol Gosling conducted a very informative tour of the house and also let me record her further thoughts about Moseley Old Hall—all in her wonderful accent, which must be something like what Jane sounded like!

Steven Gregory, Ella Harrison, and the staff at the lovely Boscobel House were welcoming and helpful, and Sean Farnworth gave us a most enjoyable and informative tour.

When Alice and I swooped into Stafford late one afternoon, Andrew Pearsall and Nick Thomas at the Stafford Borough Council at the Ancient High House went out of their way to provide as much information as they could about the 1642 visit to Stafford by Charles I, Prince Rupert, and possibly Charles II, as well as whether the King’s Company might have played in Stafford or nearby, and suggested other possible resources for research. A young man at the Staffordshire and Stoke on Trent Archive Service whose name I unfortunately didn’t get was also very helpful, and staff at the William Salt Library told me about Henry Murray Lane’s 1898 publication
The Lanes of Bentley Hall
, which proved to be extremely useful.