The King's Mistress

by Gillian Bagwell

  She usually forbade herself from feeling anything when she wiped herself after urinating, but she knew the sensations that fleeted at the edge of her touch, and now she gave in to the curiosity building within her. She slipped a hand beneath the water, tentatively touching the forbidden place. The bud at the centre was engorged under her fingers, throbbing and alive. It felt as though it would jump as she moved her fingers over it, letting the water tickle and tease.

  She was breathing hard, and let her hand move in circles, delicately, softly. A tremor was building within her. Was this what it was like to be with a man? But that act involved the man’s part, the part of him that melded with a woman. She thought of the engorged flesh bobbing like something alive in the Gypsy’s hand, and imagined what it might feel like to have such a thing inside of her. She slipped two fingers inside herself, and found that she was slippery and warm. She moved her fingers deeply in and out as she let her thumb caress the rosebud at her centre. What had taken her so long to make this astonishing discovery? She wanted the sensation to last forever, but a wave was building inside her that she could not hold back. She pressed her hand hard, deep into her and against herself, and gasped, holding back the cry that she wanted to voice. She was shocked to realise that within this private little earthquake she wanted to be calling his name, whoever he was. Not the Gypsy, not Sir Clement, or any man she had ever met. Some warrior prince perhaps.

  The wave crested and passed. She was alone in a tub of warm water and guiltily removed her hand.

  Maybe Withy was right. Maybe such men existed only in plays and fairy tales.

  DINNER THAT EVENING WAS A FESTIVE AND CROWDED AFFAIR. IN honour of Jane’s birthday and to accommodate the large gathering, the meal took place in the banqueting house that stood to the east of Bentley Hall. Jane had always loved the banqueting house, built in the eccentric Flemish style with high chimneys and dormer windows—a fanciful edifice designed to surprise and delight. Besides those that lived in the family home—Jane and her parents; her oldest brother John; his wife, Athalia; and their nine children; and her brother Richard, only a year older than she—her brothers Walter and William and their wives were there, as well as Withy and her husband, John Petre; her cousin Henry Lascelles; and of course Sir Clement Fisher, seated beside Jane. Her health was drunk and all were in good spirits.

  “I have a special gift for you today, my Jane,” her father, Thomas, smiled. The bald top of his head shone pinkly with perspiration, a fluffy cloud of hair standing out above each ear. He handed a little book across the table, and Jane stroked a finger across the soft red calf’s leather binding with gilt lettering.

  “Oh, Father! How beautiful!” Jane cried, opening the volume. The title page read Poems: Written by Wil. Shakesspeare, Gent, and on the facing page was an engraved portrait, the eyes looking out at Jane in a peculiar, almost cross-eyed way.

  “I thought it would please.” Thomas smiled. “It’s got the sonnets, ‘A Lover’s Complaint’, ‘The Passionate Pilgrim’, and a few poems by Milton and Jonson and others. And it’s a little easier to carry outside to read than the folio!”

  John and Athalia had a book for her, too—A Continuation of Sir Phillip Sidney’s Arcadia.

  “By Mrs A.W.,” Jane murmured.

  “Just published,” John said. “By a lady author, as you can see. Perhaps you’ll become one yourself.”

  “I can scarce wait to start reading!” Jane exclaimed, beaming.

  “Then I daresay we’ll know to look in the summerhouse should anyone need to find you!” Withy said, to general laughter, passing Jane a length of snowy handmade lace.

  There were other gifts—a silk paisley shawl from her mother; yards of fine cloth from her brothers William and Richard; two little purses worked with fine embroidery from John’s daughters Grace and Lettice, aged fifteen and thirteen; and ribbons and garters from the younger girls still at home, Elizabeth, Jane, Dorothy, and Frances.

  “I haven’t got anything for you yet, Jane,” her cousin Henry Lascelles called from down the table. He grinned at her and shook a lock of light brown hair out of his eyes. “But come with me to the fair in Wolverhampton next week, and I’ll buy you whatever you like!”

  “Hmm,” Jane mused, her eyes twinkling. “A new horse, perhaps, with a saddle and bridle worked in silver?”

  “Ha!” Henry shot back. “Perhaps next year.”

  “I’ve made something for you, sweeting.” Nurse stumped forward and presented a stout pair of stockings, knitted from heavy grey wool.

  “They’re plain, but they’ll keep you warm,” she pronounced. “Not like those silly silk trifles you like.”

  “Thank you, Nurse,” Jane said, kissing Nurse’s ruddy cheek and letting herself be enfolded in the capacious bosom. “I will feel even warmer, knowing that you made them just for me.”

  “I hope you’ll accept a little something from me, too, Jane,” Sir Clement said.

  He reached into the pocket of his dark green coat and pulled out a pair of gloves in fine blue kidskin, which he set beside her plate with a bow of the head. His blue eyes shone at her, a little shy, and Jane was conscious of the family watching her suitor and her reaction to him.

  “How lovely,” she said, touching the softness of the leather. “Like the colour of bluebells. Now I shall welcome the first day of frost.”

  She met his eyes and smiled. He really was very handsome, she thought. Piercing blue eyes above high cheekbones, a strong jaw, no trace of grey yet in his wavy brown hair, though she knew he was more than ten years older than she. Why did she feel no thrill of happiness and excitement, nothing but a vague wish that the evening was over and done with?

  As the meal went on, the news from the north dominated the conversation. The exiled young King Charles had arrived in Scotland the previous summer from the Netherlands, and in recent months had been massing an army.

  “I say His Majesty will not push into England now, or indeed soon at all,” Henry declared. “Lambert beat the king’s troops under General Leslie scarcely a month ago, and without more men—many more men—he has no hope.”

  “Exactly,” Jane’s brother Richard cried. The faint spray of freckles stood out on his cheeks when he was in the grip of a strong emotion, as now, making him look younger than his twenty-six years. “Which is why I say he will cross the border, and that England will rally to his banner. The Papists in the north and his supporters throughout the country know that the time is now.”

  “What say you, Sir Clement?” Thomas Lane asked, and all eyes turned to the guest. He had served as a captain under John, and Jane wondered if he would fight again if it came to it. He took a thoughtful swallow of wine before answering.

  “I agree with Richard. Cromwell has divided the king’s forces, and marched on Perth. All is in confusion, but His Majesty may seize some advantage from that by moving decisively now.”

  “But he has not enough troops to win,” Henry argued, his voice rising. He, too, had fought in the wars, serving as cornet in John’s regiment. “He must have help from England, but the Royalists who would help him are afraid, have suffered so much already during the wars. John’s house and lands were confiscated! My uncle here had all his horses and cattle seized and sold, the profits going to the Stafford Committee. And did not the villains just assess you once more, Uncle?”

  “Yes, indeed,” Thomas said. “A hundred pounds in January.”

  His voice was calm, but Jane knew the depth of feeling that lay beneath. Her father had been a justice of the peace, but the title had been stripped from him when the war began and the Lanes had fought on the side of the king, and since then he had regularly been burdened with onerous levies and fines.

  “Exactly!” Jane’s brother William cried. He pounded a fist on the table, making the silverware rattle. “Those who are known to be for the king must beg for a pass to travel more than five miles from home, have lost their property, and look fearfully on their neighbours, not knowing who is friend and
who is foe, and wondering what might be taken from them next.”

  “The more reason we have to stand now,” John said quietly.

  At forty-two, he was the oldest of the siblings, and his service as a colonel under the old king gave his opinion further weight. Even his two littlest daughters ceased their whispering, and all eyes turned to him. His blue eyes were grave, and even as he sat still, surveying the gathering, it seemed to Jane that she could see the weight of authority and command on his broad shoulders. A raven’s hoarse cry tore through the tense silence.

  “I have stayed at home and been silent long enough,” John said. “If the king crosses the border and calls for his subjects to join him, I mean to go.”

  Jane felt a surge of pride as she looked at him. If I were a man, she thought, I would hope to be just such a one as he is.

  A babble of voices greeted John’s news.

  “Oh, John, no!” Jane’s mother, Anne, cried out. “You served honourably and well for years during the wars. Your duty is to your family now.”

  “If you go, I’m with you, John,” Henry said. “When do you think of leaving?”

  John glanced at his wife. She had said nothing, but the set of her mouth showed she battled strong emotions.

  “It will be no use to go off half-cocked,” he said. “I’ll raise as many men and horses as I can and ensure that we’re well provided, so that when His Majesty summons us we can be of real use.”

  “Then put me down as one of yours as well, brother,” Richard said.

  “Not you, too, Dick!” their mother cried. “Two from the family is more than enough.”

  “I am no child, Mother!”

  “But think of the cost!” Anne turned to her husband. “Dissuade him, I pray you, Thomas!”

  “Mother, how can you argue that they should not go to the aid of the king?” Jane cried with sudden impatience. “He has need of all the help he can get. It’s the crown—the crown and the future of the monarchy. The chance for wrongs to be righted, and the topsy-turvy world to be set back in place. I’d go myself, was I a man.”

  Her mother gave a little cry of fear and horror, and Withy laughed shrilly.

  “I think you would, too.”

  “The Penderels from Whiteladies might come,” Walter mused, hitching his chair close to John. “And perhaps Charles Giffard from Boscobel.”

  “Yes,” John said. “And no doubt men from among our tenant farmers, and many others. We’ll go to Walsall next market day and make our plans known.”

  “So openly?” Sir Clement asked. “Do you trust your neighbours?”

  “Some of them,” John said.

  “But others wish us ill,” Richard spat, “and will surely report to the Stafford Committee anything they take amiss.”

  “Then we’ll act quickly,” Henry said, leaping to his feet, “and be gone as soon as we may.”

  After dinner, as the ladies prepared to withdraw to the house, Sir Clement stood and walked with Jane to the door of the banqueting house. Her female relatives exchanged significant glances and made themselves scarce.

  Wonderful, Jane thought. No private conversation can take place but I will be expected to report the results. Sir Clement smiled, as if understanding her thoughts, and spoke in a low voice.

  “Will you not walk with me a little, Jane, now that we have a moment to be alone?”

  Jane had known he’d be likely to speak his mind tonight, and had hoped to put off the conversation, for she had no clear answer for him, and no wish to cause him pain. He stood looking down at her, his blue eyes solemn, and she nodded. They strolled towards the house in silence. The western horizon was pale pink, shot with gold, and the first stars were just beginning to twinkle in the deepening blue overhead. A hush hung over the land, and Jane inhaled the scent of blossoms heavy on the breeze. Soon it would be autumn, but tonight was a perfect summer evening and she didn’t want to go inside.

  “Let’s sit in the summerhouse,” she said. “No one will disturb us there.”

  They sat side by side on an upholstered bench. The men’s voices drifted from the banqueting house, still rising and falling in excited conversation.

  Clement took Jane’s hand and looked at it, as though he had never noticed it before.

  “So small,” he said. “And yet so strong. You’d make a fearsome soldier, Jane, and I honour your courage and your spirit, no matter what your sister may think.”

  “Withy has no good opinion of me, whatever I do.”

  “I think you know already what I mean to ask. I’ve long had such admiration and affection for you, and it would make my life complete if you were more to me than a friend, but a cherished partner. Jane, would you grant me the supreme happiness of consenting to be my wife?”

  Jane forced herself not to sigh or to withdraw her hand. She looked into his eyes, shining at her in the shadows, kind and calm. Why could she not just say yes?

  “You do me great honour, Sir Clement. You possess all the qualities that women prize in a husband, and I probably have no need to tell you that my mother and sisters are all aflutter to hear what they hope will be happy news very shortly. And yet I must ask you to indulge me by allowing me some time to consider.”

  “Of course. I have no wish to hurry you.”

  His lips were set as if in pain, and Jane’s heart contracted. He was a good man, honourable, brave. What was wrong with her?

  “I beg you to tell me,” he said, “if there is some fear that you have, or some flaw in myself that I may mend?”

  “No. The flaw is in me. I long for—I know not what. For adventure, I would say, did I want to leave myself open to your mockery.”

  “I would never mock you, my dear. I don’t know what adventure you hope for, but no doubt you’re right that I cannot offer you vivid excitement. I’m thirteen years your senior, no dashing young suitor to carry you off. I watched, enraptured, as you turned from a charming girl into a lovely young woman. I offer you my esteem, respect, and love. I can provide for you a comfortable home, even a grand one, if I may say so with modesty. I would protect you, honour you, and endeavour to make our life together as happy as it may be, but more than that I am powerless to give.”

  He looked off into the deepening shadows, silent. For God’s sake, give him something, Jane thought miserably.

  “That in itself is a world, which any woman should be overjoyed to accept. I shall think on your offer most seriously. May I answer you at Michaelmas?”

  “At Michaelmas, then,” he smiled. “And I will possess myself in patience during those two months as best I may.”

  “YOU WHAT?” WITHY CRIED.

  “Asked him to wait?” Jane’s mother breathed. “Sir Clement Fisher, and you asked him to wait?”

  “Jane!” Athalia looked as shocked as though Jane had said she’d stuck a fork into Sir Clement’s hand. “Has John not told you of the house? And the miles of parkland in which it sits?”

  “Here are two of your nieces, younger than you, and betrothed!” Jane’s mother scolded. “He does you such honour, and you fling it away!”

  “I know!” Jane cried, throwing up her hands. Their words echoed the fears ringing in her head. “I know. He is all that I should want, and yet I cannot make myself love him.”

  “Love the deer park,” Withy snorted. “Love for the man may come hereafter.”

  LATER THAT NIGHT, WHEN MOST OF THE HOUSEHOLD HAD GONE TO bed, Jane found her father reading in his little study, peering over the rims of his glasses in the flickering candlelight. He looked up as she came in and reached out a hand to her. She took it and sank onto the fat little hassock next to his chair, on which she had spent so many happy hours as a child keeping him company as he worked. During his years as a justice of the peace she had observed in silent admiration as he counselled friends and neighbours and resolved complaints and disputes, most frequently with all parties happy at the outcome.

  “You look troubled, sweetheart,” he said, kissing her hand. “What
’s amiss? Or do you care to discuss it?”

  “Mother and the others are vexed that I asked Sir Clement to wait.”

  “Ah, that,” he said, his eyes twinkling.

  “And have you not lost patience with me, too, Father? Are you not afraid I’ll end a sad old maid?”

  “Never in life.” The love and comfort in his voice soothed her agitation. “And come to that, I’d rather you were happy and unwed than a miserable wife.”

  “I wish I’d been born a man.” Jane sighed. “Or at least that I had the choices a man does. Look at Richard—only a year older than me, yet he can set the course of his own life, go where he wills. While I must keep at home and wait, though for what, I know not.”

  “I’d not have you other than as you are. Sir Clement is a good man, and if you can be happy with him, he’ll make you a good husband, I have no doubt. But whether you wed or no, you’ll never want for a comfortable home here with us, or with John and Athalia once your mother and I are gone.”

  “I know.” Jane squeezed her father’s hand. “What are you reading?” she asked, standing to look over his shoulder.

  “Virgil. Something about these times puts me in need of the classics.”

  “Nothing but bad in the newsbooks,” Jane agreed. “And though the ancient folk had their share of woes, they somehow seem less dire in rhyming couplets.”

  Thomas laughed, his eyes disappearing into the wrinkles around his eyes. “Well put, honey lamb. Now, never fret. We’ll find something to distract your mother with, and let you think in peace.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE DAY AFTER JANE’S BIRTHDAY, SHE FELT AT A LOSS. THE celebration was over and Clement was put off a few weeks. It was what she had asked for, and yet she felt discontent, with herself and the world. What on earth did she want? she wondered, looking at her reflection as she brushed her hair.