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“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.
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_4c4f3d51-d2f9-5808-a8cd-496536f8dc59)
IT WAS STILL DARK WHEN JOHN KNOCKED ON JANE’S DOOR THE next morning. Her stomach felt shaky with nerves as she washed and dressed, and she tried to shut out Withy’s chatter as she breakfasted. Henry seemed in good spirits, which helped to calm her. He would know what to do if trouble came, and of course the king was a capable soldier. All she really had to do was sit behind the king on a horse, she thought. And keep her head about her.
As the first streaks of pink dawn shot through the grey clouds, John came into the dining room, pulling his coat on.
“It’s time you were off,” he said. “Jane, your horse stands ready.”
When Jane emerged from the house a few minutes later, Withy and her husband and Henry were already mounted, and John and her parents stood waiting to bid them farewell. Jane stared. The young man who held the bridle of her grey mare was unrecognisable from the ragged fugitive of the night before. A bath, a change of clothes, and further cutting of his hair had transformed the king. He was strikingly handsome, his face shaved clean and the mottled brown scrubbed away. His dark hair was now evenly trimmed so that it just brushed his jaw and was combed neatly back. If she had not known the truth, she would have regarded him warily as a Roundhead.
The new suit of clothes in grey wool Jane had provided fit his tall frame admirably. His snapping dark eyes met hers as he pulled off his hat and bowed to her, the very picture of a deferential retainer.
“Good morrow, Mistress. William Jackson, your humble servant.”
“Thank you,” Jane replied, probably too curtly, in an effort to conceal her discomfiture.
The king swung himself into the saddle and offered her his arm—his right arm, the wrong one to enable her to mount easily, and there was a moment of awkwardness as she tried to hoist herself into position. John saw the difficulty and managed a laugh as he came forward to help her.
“The other arm, fellow. You must not be awake yet.”
The king ducked his head in apology and offered his left arm.
“I’m sorry, Mistress,” he said easily. “You’re right, sir, I must still be half dreaming.”
Jane heard her mother give a snort behind her and mutter, “Blockhead.”
John helped Jane settle herself on the pillion behind the king, her feet perched on the little planchette that dangled against the horse’s belly. The king sat astride, facing forward and away from her, but she could not help that her side brushed against his back, and she was intensely aware of his presence. He smelled like soap and wool, and she wondered how long it had been before the previous night that he had bathed or put on clean clothes.
At Jane’s side, John spoke quietly.
“Lord Wilmot and I will follow shortly. We’ll catch up to you and keep within sight of you as long as we may before we branch off towards Packington.”
He gave an almost imperceptible nod to the king, and went to stand beside his wife.
