“I liked him,” Ellen said, considering. “I thought him kind and gentle, and from the first he treated me as though he valued me above his life.”
“That sounds like true friendship and contentment,” Jane said. “And perhaps that is all that one needs. But did you—did your heart thrill?” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Did your belly ache to have him within you?”
Ellen gave a little gasp of half-shocked delight.
“What a thing for a maiden to say!” Her face became thoughtful. “No, not at first. Not until I knew that I would be his wife. But you have always been braver than I. Perhaps you need a fiercer kind of passion than I do. And if so, I hope you find it. But don’t wait too long, Jane. You don’t want to be a perpetual guest in Athalia’s house once your parents are gone, but mistress of your own home.”
“TELL HENRY THAT POPE WILL BRING WILMOT HERE TO MY CHAMBER at midnight,” Charles said, tucking into the bowl of stew Jane had brought to his room. “We’ll learn what he’s been able to do about finding a ship, and lay our plans.”
Jane smiled. The pretence of Charles’s illness had been resumed after his adventures in the buttery that morning, and she had brought him his supper. If everyone was to meet in his room that night, it gave her a perfect excuse to spend the evening with him. Charles obviously thought the same.
“Come back, though, after you tell Henry, won’t you?” he grinned. He mopped the last of the stew from his bowl with a chunk of bread. “Your friend has a very good cook. I count myself lucky to be fed, much less fed so well.”
He reached out his hand to Jane, and she took it and went to sit next to him on the bed. Outside the window the moon, in its first quarter, shone golden in the deep aquamarine of the evening sky.
“It near broke my heart,” Charles said, pulling her into his arms and leaning his back against the wall, “those days at Moseley, watching the soldiers on the road below, knowing they were hungry, and being able to do nothing for them.”
Jane thought of the ragged men she had watched limping by on the Wolverhampton Road. They were the lucky ones, who had not been killed or injured so badly they could not walk, or taken prisoner, but the desolation she had seen in their faces haunted her.
“Mrs Whitgreaves did what she could for them,” Charles said. “Patched their wounds and fed them. They were most grateful, she said. They told her they met with great hostility from most of the country people, and that they were living on cabbage stalks and pea straw, whatever they could find that was nearly edible.”
“We did the same,” Jane said. “Fed them and gave them water, poor men.”
“They were so close I could see their faces as they passed. I recognised a man from my own regiment of Highlanders, McLelland by name, a fierce and hardy soldier. So loyal, as all of them were, and not a thing could I do to ease their misery.”
Jane’s head was pillowed on his chest, and she could feel the vibration of his voice as he spoke. She reached up to touch his face, feeling the roughness of the stubble on his cheek.
“And you had marched so far before the battle.”
“Yes. Down the hard way, by Carlisle, through rough and barren country. The way that so many armies before us had marched to their defeats.”
“How did you feed the army?”
“With difficulty.” Charles grimaced. “We had wagons of supplies with us, but only enough to keep the men on short rations. And yet I could not afford to outrage the people as we went. They have little enough as it is. I ordered that there was to be no pillage, no looting. And I was forced to hang a man for stealing apples.”
“For so little?” Jane cried, appalled.
“An example had to be made, else discipline would have fallen by the wayside, did the men not believe I meant what I said. He was a good man, too. I liked him. I had rather it had been almost any but him.”
“Like Bardolph.”
“Bardolph?” Charles’s eyebrows rose in surprise.
“Yes, in Henry the Fifth. Prince Hal must hang him for stealing. His friend, from so many adventures. And the prince had done worse himself.”
“Exactly. But how do you know Prince Hal and Bardolph so well?”
“I have always been a great reader,” Jane said, putting her hand palm to palm with his and marvelling at the size of his hands. “We have the plays at home.”
“And so did we,” Charles mused, closing his fingers around her hand. “My father had a great bound copy of the Second Folio.”
“So does mine!” Jane laughed. “The very same. I always loved to read and dream about the adventures of kings.”
“And now you know firsthand,” Charles said, pulling her to face him, “what do you think about the adventures of kings, Mistress Jane? Not so full of pageantry as mud, at least for this king.”
“‘And what have kings, that privates have not too, save ceremony?’” Jane quoted.
“True, too true,” Charles said. “But it’s precious little ceremony I’m like to have in the days to come, I fear.”
Deep thoughts were within his dark eyes, and Jane was amazed once more to think that it was indeed the king with whom she spoke so easily. His majesty had been stripped from him on the field at Worcester, but she would give him what ceremony she could. She knelt before him, took his hand in hers, and kissed the finger where his ring should be. He looked down at her in surprise.
“My liege,” she said. “Take my homage and know that I give it you on behalf of thousands more who would bend their knees to you if they could.”
“Jane.”
His voice was husky with emotion. And with desire, too, for he placed his hands on her shoulders and ran them down over her bosom, then leaned down to kiss her deeply. Her breath came quickly and she stood and let him pull her onto the bed. She felt none of the pain or doubt of the first time they had lain together, and she gave herself to him without hesitation. They lay together after, and Charles laughed softly as he stroked Jane’s hair.
“What a marvel of a woman you are.”
“Me?”
“Yes. Beautiful and brave and spirited, a tender lover, and learned, too. Quoting Shakespeare, forsooth.”
They watched as the points of shining stars pricked through the deepening blue velvet of the night sky.
“I wish my sister, Withy, could hear you say that,” Jane said. “She says too much learning is wasted on a girl.”
“But your parents did not feel the same?”
Jane shrugged. “I was lucky. My brother Richard is only a year older than I, so when my father schooled him he schooled me, too. It warmed his heart that I had a passion for poetry and plays, and enjoyed learning Greek and Latin, as Richard never did.”
“Greek and Latin, too?”
“In for a penny, in for a pound,” Jane laughed. “My father set me to translating Virgil’s Aeneid when I was but twelve. I loved the fire of it, the sinew and muscle of the poetry. ‘Hecate, howled to in cities at midnight crossroads.’ Isn’t that marvellous stuff?”
Charles grinned and took up the quote.
“‘You avenging furies and you gods of dying Elissa,
Acknowledge this. Direct your righteous will to my troubles,
And hear my prayer.’
“And the plays?” he asked. “Did you ever see one?”
“Once. When I was ten the King’s Company came to Wolverhampton. My father took me to see The Life of Henry the Fifth.”
“The year of the plague,” Charles said. “We went on an unusually long progress that summer, and the players were with us because the London theatres were closed. Just think, we could have met.” He kissed her, and then laughed. “But I was only six, so I doubt I would have been able to make much of an impression on you. Though perhaps I could have, too. I had my own company of players.”
“Did you?” Jane cried in delight.
“Yes, from the time I was a year old. They played in the Cockpit at Whitehall and toured, too. Though they were only actors
from the old Red Bull, not so good as my father’s men, of course.”
“Oh, how I wish I could have seen more plays. But the players never came so close again, and then the war began …”
“Yes,” Charles said. “And the players put down their lutes and slapsticks and went to war, like all the rest.”
“If you do one thing for England,” Jane begged, “bring back the playhouses.”
JANE WENT TO HER ROOM AND SET HER CLOTHES AND HER HAIR TO rights before returning to Charles’s room, and by the time Henry knocked on Charles’s door, no one would have known that she had spent the evening making love with the king. Pope arrived with Wilmot a few minutes later.
“Your Majesty.” Wilmot bowed before Charles pulled him into an embrace.
“Wilmot, you’re a welcome sight.” He turned to the two men who had slipped into the room with Pope behind Wilmot. “And you, good lads.”
“My man Swan you’ve met,” Wilmot said. “And Rogers, servant to Mr Winters, at whose house I lay last night. You may trust them as you do me.”
“You are both most heartily welcome, gentlemen,” Charles said gravely as they made their bows. “And now, sir,” he said, turning to Pope. “What cheer?”
“Alas, Your Majesty,” Pope said. “My news is not so good as I had hoped. There will be no ship sailing for France or Spain from Bristol for a month to come. But there are other ways, if you will hear me.”
“Come, sit,” Charles said. “All of you, and let us take our soundings.”
They drew into a little circle by the fire, Charles on the only chair, Jane sitting between Wilmot and Henry on the bed, and Pope, Swan, and Rogers squatting on their haunches. The light of the fire flickered on their worried faces, reminding Jane of the secret meetings in the kitchen at Bentley in the days before she had set out with Charles.
“Here is my thought, Your Majesty,” Pope said. “We are but two days’ ride from the Channel coast. There are many boats setting forth from there, though they be smaller than the merchant vessels at Bristol. But that may be just as well, for the enemy will find it very troublesome to search every fishing boat that puts out from the little southern ports.”
“And between here and the coast you move through country friendly to our cause,” Wilmot said. “Somerset and Dorset, whence sprang the Western Association.”
“A day’s ride from here lies the village of Trent,” Pope continued. “The home of Sir Francis Wyndham.”
“Of course!” Charles cried, clapping his hands. “The Wyndhams! I know honest Frank, though not so well as his brother Edward, who was governor of Bristol, and of course dear Christabella.”
“Yes, dear Christabella,” Wilmot said with a meaningful smile. With a twinge of jealousy, Jane wondered who Christabella might be, and whether it was to Wilmot or to Charles that she was dear.
“I know the way to Trent well, Your Majesty.” Rogers leaned towards the king, his eyes shining in the shadows. “For my mistress is sister to Mrs Wyndham.”
“Your Majesty could lie hidden at Trent while Lord Wilmot seeks out a boat for you at Weymouth,” Pope said. “It would surely be safer than remaining here, for there are those in the house that I fear might be dangerous should they know who you were.”
“The road south is good, Your Majesty,” said Rogers, his ruddy face lit with earnest enthusiasm. “It’s the old Roman Fosse Way, and I know it like the back of my hand.”
“It’s well travelled, but as safe a way as we are like to find,” Wilmot agreed. “And truly I think it your best choice.”
“And of course we’ll go with you, Your Majesty,” Henry said. “You’ll want as many men along as possible.”
To Jane’s relief, Charles nodded. She had feared that one of the men would suggest that her presence was no longer needed and she had been prepared to argue that she and Henry should not turn back until Charles was settled at Trent.
Charles looked around at the little group, a pleased smile on his face. “Just when I think I am sunk, another escape presents itself.”
“I know Edward Kyrton, steward to Lord Hertford, at Castle Cary,” said Pope. “That’s but a few miles from Trent. He would go to his death for Your Majesty. I can send word to him that he should expect two gentlemen and a lady who need quiet lodging for the night, while Lord Wilmot goes on ahead to Trent to give warning to Sir Francis that you are coming.”
“Swan and Rogers and I will lie in the village tonight and set off in the morning,” Wilmot said. “And meet Your Majesty at Trent on Monday.”
“Then it’s settled,” Charles agreed. “I cannot thank you all enough for the pains you have taken on my behalf. You’ve saved my skin once again.”
Wilmot, Rogers, and Swan departed with Pope, and Jane remained with Henry and Charles.
“I am sorry to impose still further on your goodwill, Lascelles,” Charles said. “And Jane. You had thought your service was at an end, having got me safely here, but I hope you will not find it too troublesome to travel with me to Trent.”
“No trouble is too great, Your Majesty,” Henry said. “I am thankful that my cousin and I may be of service to you.”
“Then I bid you good night and good rest,” Charles said.
His eyes flickered towards Jane as Henry bowed, an invitation in his glance, and she smiled her acquiescence. But Henry stood holding the door for her, and she followed him out, intending to return to Charles when Henry was safe in his room.
“More of an adventure every day, isn’t it?” Henry said in a low voice as they reached the door of Jane’s room.
“Indeed. But all in a good cause. Good night, Henry.”
She shut her door and listened to his footsteps continuing down the hall to his room. She was sure Charles was expecting her to return, but how long should she wait to be sure the coast was clear? She counted a hundred slowly, and then again, more impatient with every second to be in Charles’s arms. Softly then, she opened the door of her room. All was quiet and dark, and shoeless, she crept to the narrow staircase that led to the garret where Charles’s room lay. A shadow loomed before her and she stopped short with a gasp of surprise.
“And where might you be going, cousin?” Henry’s voice was quiet, but there was no mistaking the steel within it.
“Nowhere,” she faltered. “I mean, I—I remembered something I need to ask the king.”
“Indeed. And what could be so important that you creep to his room in the wee hours, on stocking feet? He may be the king, but I’ll not have you playing the whore to him, Jane.”
The word struck Jane as hard as if Henry had given her a blow to the face.
“How dare you?” she whispered fiercely. “It is none of your concern what I do.”
“You don’t even bother to deny it, then?” he demanded, grasping her forearms with hard hands.
Jane shook herself free. She could protest her innocence, but what was the point?
“I don’t answer to you, Henry Lascelles,” she spat. “I am no child. And if I choose to go to the king’s room or to the king’s bed, it’s my own business. Now let me pass.”
They stood facing each other in the dark a moment, their laboured breathing the only sound. Henry’s rangy form blocked her way, but she would not turn back. At last he stood aside, but he seized her by the shoulders as she moved to pass him, and spoke low and angry into her ear.
“You’re right, I cannot stop you, without I lock you in your room. Were he any other man than the king, I would challenge him. And even though he is the king, I’d do the same, though it meant my death, were it not that on his head rests the future of the kingdom. But your father and your brother shall know of this, and the shame you have brought on our family.”
He thrust her away from him and she nearly lost her balance as he stalked down the stairs past her. She felt herself flush with anger and humiliation, and a new sense of shame as she saw how he must think of her, and how anyone else would, too, did they know how things stood with her and
Charles. She leaned against the wall, trying to still her galloping heart. It was not fair for Henry to chastise her so, she thought. In ordinary circumstances, she would never behave as she had done for the last several days. She had lived virtuous and quiet her whole life. But these were not ordinary circumstances. It was the king to whom she had lost her heart. And he didn’t treat her like a whore, but like an admired friend or even sweetheart.
Didn’t he? Cold panic surged through her stomach. She felt suddenly as if she had been swept into a raging river, the cold water swirling her deeper into trouble. What if Charles did not care for her beyond taking pleasure in her body, and would forget her as soon as she was out of his sight? Fear and humiliation swept over her at the thought. And, oh, God, if Henry did tell John and her father … The king’s cast-off whore. That is what she would be forevermore.
She found she was weeping, and knuckled away her tears. She couldn’t let Charles see her like this, but neither would she miss the chance of going to him, for who knew whether they would find another chance to be alone before they parted. Well, she thought, squaring her shoulders, if I’m his whore, another night won’t make a difference. She straightened her dress and climbed the stairs.
Charles was waiting in the dark when Jane slipped into his room and shut the door softly behind her.
“I thought you’d changed your mind,” he said in her ear as he lifted her skirts. His hands were eager on her flesh and his fingers sought the place between her thighs. Her heart felt like ice. She loved him, loved him with her soul. But maybe Henry was right, and this was all she meant to him.
“Treat me like a whore,” she said, her voice hollow.
He jerked away from her.
“What?”
“I am your whore, am I not? So use me as you would do a whore.”
Charles looked down at her, peering at her face in the moonlight. Did he see the traces of tears on her cheeks?
“What’s got into you, Jane? Why do you say such a thing?”
“Do you care for me?” she asked, regretting the words as soon as they were out.
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