The King's Mistress

by Gillian Bagwell

  “Of course I do. You’ve risked your life—”

  “I don’t mean that. Do you care for me? Would you care for me, were things not as they are?”

  Tears welled in her eyes as she waited for him to speak. It seemed a long time, and she shivered, her skin going to gooseflesh in the cold night air.

  “Sweetheart.” Charles took her into his arms and kissed her eyelids. “I care for you. You are sweet and courageous, and I pray I may get the chance to tell all England how good you have been to me.”

  She longed to melt against him, but stayed rigid, as if by controlling her body she could control her heart and soul.

  “But after tomorrow, or soon, you will be gone, and I’ll never see you again.”

  Charles sighed and shook his head. “What would you have me say? I must be gone, if I value my life and my country. You know that.”

  “Yes, I know that. And I have been a fool to let myself love you as I do. So do not use me as a lover. Use me as you would a whore. As rough and uncaring as you please.”

  “Jane …”

  “Do it.” She marvelled that she could speak so to the king.

  “Very well.” He let go of her and stood motionless a moment. “Then onto your knees and serve me.”

  “I don’t know how.”

  Now it had come, she was afraid, far more afraid than she had been. What had she sought to prove?

  His voice sounded like that of a stranger when he spoke. “It’s easy enough. Come, wench, onto your knees.”

  He grasped her hair and forced her down as he unbuttoned his breeches. His cock stood hard and he pulled her mouth onto it.

  “Suck. Yes, like that. That’s what a whore does.”

  Jane let him guide her movements. She felt a twist of shame, and then wondered why it should be so. He had done the same for her, and it was a gift of exquisite pleasure. But this was different somehow, and she knew it. She heard his breath come quick, heard him stifle a low moan, and then he pushed her onto the bed, rucking her skirts up behind as he entered her. He thrust hard and she knew he sought his pleasure only. It gave her pleasure, to know she pleased him so, and there was a power in it, too, though it did not have the sweetness of love.

  He spent soon and rolled off her. They lay in the dark silently for some time, not touching, and she listened to his breath slow to its normal rhythm. Finally he spoke.

  “I cannot think of you as a whore, for you are none.”

  He pulled her to him, cradling her against his chest, and his eyes shone in the dark as he caressed her, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

  “Oh. I am glad.” Her heart was thawing, and she stroked his forehead, feeling the dampness of the sweat and the dark curls around his ears.

  One flyspeck more blotted Jane’s happiness. Better speak of it now than leave it to torment her with uncertainty later, she thought.

  “Who did Lord Wilmot mean, when he spoke of ‘dear Christabella’ so smilingly?”

  Charles stirred restlessly beside her.

  “She was my nurse.”

  “Your nurse?” She looked at him in astonishment, trying to see his face in the dark.

  “Her husband was governor of Bristol during the war, and when my council came to Bridgewater, she was there. I hadn’t seen her in many years, since I was a child. She petted and cosseted me, as she used to do, and people talked, as they will.”

  Jane remembered Wilmot’s raised eyebrow and the insinuation in his voice.

  “But you were not a child.”

  “No. I was, though, little more than a boy—not quite sixteen—and trying to do the job of a man. I was lonely and sad and terrified, and she gave me comfort.”

  “In her bed?”

  Charles sighed. “Yes. She was a very handsome girl, not yet thirty, and she taught me that in her arms I could forget my cares for a little and find sweet oblivion.”

  Jane’s heart contracted. Of course he had had other women, but to hear him speak of one made it particular, not general. It was her own fault, she knew. She had asked.

  “And where is she now?”

  “With her husband. I haven’t seen her in five years and more.”

  They lay silent for a little while, until Charles pulled Jane to face him.

  “Jane, our time is short and my life and future are not my own. But in my heart you are my queen, and I swear it ever shall be so.”

  She laughed softly and laid her head on his chest.

  “If I am a queen, then am I like Dido. You will treat me as cruel Aeneas treated her, going off in pursuit of your crown and leaving me to my grief, and I shall go mad of a broken heart at your faithlessness, as Ophelia did.”

  “You won’t go mad,” Charles snorted. “You have far too much sense. And you’re much stronger than poor Ophelia. You might curse me, but you’d never do away with yourself.

  “‘May he not enjoy his kingdom or the days he longed for,

  But let him die before his time, and lie unburied on the sand.’”

  Jane smiled and took up Dido’s curse.

  “‘Then, O Tyrians, pursue my hatred against his whole line,

  And the race to come, and offer it as a tribute to my ashes.’”

  “That’s my girl,” said Charles. “Come, kiss me, and let me kiss you as my love.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  JANE WAS RELIEVED NOT TO RUN INTO HENRY AT BREAKFAST after their encounter the previous night. She and Charles had agreed that there were too many people about for it to be safe for her to spend time in his room during the day, and in any case she was glad of the chance to visit with Ellen while she could. She had said nothing yet of their plans to depart on the morrow, and dreaded it, but thought she would pass it off as some whim of Henry’s to visit farther south, assuring Ellen that they would return in a day or two.

  “Shall we walk out this morning?” she asked Ellen as they finished the morning meal alone in Ellen’s little sitting room.

  “Perhaps in the afternoon,” Ellen said. “I’m feeling tired and my belly is a bit unsettled.” Jane noted with concern that Ellen’s face was unusually pale.

  “Are you well? Should I find Dr Gorge?”

  “Oh, no.” Ellen brushed off her worry. “I’m sure it’s nothing. No doubt if I lie down for a bit, I’ll feel better by and by.”

  So Jane walked by herself, out through the great walled garden where gardeners toiled among the espaliered fruit trees and into the open meadows that sloped down towards the sea. Great spreading chestnuts and maples dotted the land, little winged flying seedpods twirling down to the earth in the breeze. They made Jane think of fairies, and the stories her grandmother Bagot used to tell her when she was a child about the little people who lived in the woods.

  It was a spectacular estate, and it brought to mind Sir Clement Fisher and his lands. She had not yet visited Packington Hall, but John assured her that it was a beautiful and stately house of red brick, surrounded by miles of parkland. There would be something quite wonderful, Jane thought, about being mistress of all that she could see. But she knew that she would cast off the possibility of lands and property in a moment if she could keep Charles with her, could have always the excitement and pleasure she felt in his company.

  Ellen did not appear at dinner, and Jane went upstairs to find her. Ellen was lying with her eyes closed on her daybed, an open book beside her.

  “Shall I read to you?” Jane asked. Ellen opened her eyes and smiled.

  “Yes, I’d like that. Do you know, I don’t think anyone has read aloud to me since my mother when I was little.”

  “I always loved it when my father read to me,” Jane said, taking up the book. She had barely begun to read when Ellen gave a little groan. Jane looked up and saw that Ellen’s face was covered by a sheen of sweat and contorted with pain.

  “What is it?” Jane cried. “Are you in labour?”

  “No, no, no,” Ellen cried. “It’s too soon. It cannot be. Oh!” She gasped as with a
sharp pain. “Oh, Jane, something is quite wrong!” Jane saw with horror that a crimson stain was spreading across Ellen’s skirts.

  “I’ll run for the doctor,” Jane said, dropping the book as she started to her feet.

  “No, don’t leave me!” Ellen cried. She rose and tried to go to Jane but collapsed to the floor.

  “Help!” Jane shouted, yanking the door open. “Fetch the doctor quick!”

  She sank to the floor beside Ellen, who was now unconscious, the front of her gown soaked in bright red blood.

  TWO HOURS LATER DR GORGE EMERGED FROM ELLEN’S BEDROOM, his face grey. Jane waited there with George Norton’s sister and a few others of the household. At the sight of Dr Gorge’s face her heart sank.

  “Is she dead?” she cried.

  “No. But the baby is lost, poor thing. And Mrs Norton is very weak and in grave danger, I fear. She may recover, but only time will tell.”

  “Can I see her?”

  “For a few minutes. Don’t talk of the child, if you can avoid it.”

  Jane was shocked at Ellen’s appearance. She had been washed and dressed in a clean nightgown, but her colour was so pale as to be almost blue, and though the covers were pulled to her chin, she was racked with shivers. A maid, tears running down her face, carried away a basket with bedclothes soaked in blood. No one else was in the room.

  “Oh, Ellen.”

  Jane sat on the chair at Ellen’s bedside and took her friend’s hand in hers.

  “Jane.” Ellen’s voice was a croak. “I’ve lost the baby. What will George say?”

  “He will say how lucky he is to have you, sweetheart, that’s what he’ll say.”

  “I hope,” Ellen sobbed. “Oh, Jane, I wish I was at home. I wish my mother was here.”

  “Perhaps when you’re well you can come for a visit,” Jane whispered. “When you’re strong enough to travel.”

  “It’s so far,” Ellen said, her voice choking. “Oh, why did I ever come so far from home? Don’t leave me, Jane. You’re all that I have right now.”

  “What about George?” Jane asked, stroking Ellen’s damp brow.

  “He loves me but I cannot let him see me like this. Promise you’ll stay with me.”

  Jane’s mind raced to Charles and Trent and the Wyndhams, but the king’s needs paled in comparison to Ellen’s beseeching eyes. He would have to go without her.

  “I promise,” Jane said, holding Ellen’s hand in hers. “I’ll stay.”

  When Dr Gorge’s sleeping draught had taken effect and Ellen was soundly asleep, Jane slipped from her room. She felt a hundred years old and wanted only to lie herself down and weep for her friend’s pain and grief. But Henry stood in the hall outside her room.

  “We must talk,” he said quietly as she approached. “No, not about last night. This is far more serious. He’s waiting in the orchard and we must consult about what to do now.”

  Jane felt scarcely in her right mind with her sorrow over Ellen, but she knew Charles must be desperate to speak if he summoned them this way in broad daylight.

  The household was distracted with the tragedy of the lost baby, and no one gave Jane and Henry a second glance as they made their way past the garden and down into the orchard. Charles was pacing beneath a great pear tree. He looked up as they approached and glanced around to make certain that no one was near.

  “Truly, Jane, this is a sad turn of events,” Charles said. “But we must be gone in the morning.”

  “I cannot!” she cried.

  She could still feel the imprint of Ellen’s feverish hand clutching hers, and the sound of Ellen’s sobs echoed in her ears.

  “I cannot leave her,” she said more quietly. “She needs me. And even if she did not, how am I to excuse it? We have planned for months that I should be here. I cannot now pack up and be gone when I am scarce come.”

  “But no more can His Majesty remain here,” Henry said. “No ship is to be had from Bristol, and we must try another way.”

  “And we shall,” Jane agreed, striving to remain calm. “But can we not wait a few days?”

  Charles and Henry exchanged glances.

  “Jane, you heard what Pope said. Every day I tarry makes it more likely I shall be taken,” Charles said.

  “And Lord Wilmot is already gone,” Henry added. “He’ll be at Castle Cary tonight, and at Trent tomorrow.”

  “If I do not arrive,” Charles said, “he’ll fear the worst. He might be brave and foolish enough to get Frank Wyndham to raise some men to come to find me. Such a party would raise attention. They would surely be taken before they got here, which would cost their lives, perhaps under torture to disclose where I am. And if they managed to reach here unchallenged, their presence would sound the alarm. In either case, I would certainly be captured, and many more along with me.”

  Jane knew he was right, but she struggled to think of some other way.

  “Jane, I know it is hard, but it must be done,” Charles said.

  “Can you two not go and leave me here?” she pleaded.

  Henry shook his head impatiently.

  “What explanation is there for your manservant riding off in haste without you at break of day? There have been questions already, wondering looks. Such an action would be the tinder to the fire, and would jeopardise His Majesty immensely.”

  “And the pass,” Charles said. “The pass is for you and your manservant. You are the greater part of my disguise, Jane. If I were taken alone, I should be undone.”

  The two men pressed close to her in their agitation and desire for secrecy, and Jane felt as if she were being smothered.

  “Then go you with him!” she cried at Henry. “Make up some story to excuse it! Dress yourself in my skirt and cap if you must, but leave me here!”

  Charles had lowered his head at the pain in Jane’s voice, but now he looked up at her, with a new light in his eyes.

  “A story it shall have to be, and I have hit on it. You shall receive a letter purporting to be from home, telling you that your father is gravely ill, his life is feared for, and begging you to haste you home.”

  “That will serve,” Henry nodded. “And Pope can deliver it.”

  Jane looked from one of them to the other in disbelief.

  “It sounds like something out of a play.”

  Charles smiled grimly. “It does in truth, but unless you can think of a better way, we shall have to try it.”

  Jane fought the tears and rage that were building within her. She thought again of poor Ellen, lying limp and frail in that dark room, all joy and will to live drained from her with the lifeless child. To leave her would be callous and a betrayal of their long friendship. To tell a lie to excuse leaving her would be treachery beyond bearing, and these men, they didn’t understand. She looked from one to the other, wondering whom she hated most at the moment, and began to sob. Some moments passed. Henry glanced warily around, and Jane knew that whatever happened, they could not stand much longer arguing in the orchard, or someone would surely hear them and wonder at the strange scene. At length Charles sighed and spoke.

  “Jane, there is no other way. The circumstances are hard, I grant you, brutally hard, but without you I am lost. And more than that, the kingdom is lost.”

  It was true, Jane thought. There was no other way, but her mind grappled with it still.

  “Jane.” Henry’s voice was as hard as the hand that grasped her arm. She looked from his steely blue eyes to Charles’s dark eyes, and saw there only the reflection of her powerlessness. For Charles she had cast her safety and reputation to the wind, and now she must abandon her dearest friend, who might be dying. Cold anger at both of them overtook her grief. She pulled her handkerchief from her sleeve, dried her eyes, and blew her nose.

  “Then so be it,” she said. “I will do what I must.”

  Charles moved as if to take her hands, but she stepped back and looked into those dark eyes, those eyes that had pulled her in so deep and held her still.

&nbs
p; “I will do what I must for the future of the kingdom,” she repeated. “But as for you, Charles, you may go to the devil.”

  “JANE.” ELLEN’S EYES, SUNKEN IN DEEP SHADOWS, LIT AS SHE SAW HER friend’s face, and then darkened. “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, Ellen,” Jane whispered, tears welling from her eyes. “I must go. My father is ill, most gravely ill. I had a letter.”

  She dropped her head, unable to meet Ellen’s eyes, and wept. Surely there was a place in hell being readied for her now for such a lie.

  “Oh,” Ellen said. “I’m sorry, dear. Then of course you must go to him.”

  She turned her face to the wall and Jane saw that she was trying not to cry.

  “I’m sorry,” Jane whispered desperately. “Oh, Ellen, I’m so sorry, so sorry, so sorry.”

  AS JANE PREPARED TO LEAVE IN THE MORNING, SHE WAS GRATEFUL that her tearstained and swollen face would be attributed to her grief and anxiety over her father and Ellen. The servants were solicitous, and the rest of the household was too taken up with poor Ellen to pay her much mind.

  At supper the previous night Charles’s plan had been carried out without a hitch. Pope had brought a letter to Jane at the table, and as Jane had read Charles’s handwriting, informing her that her father lay at death’s door, her distress at leaving Ellen had welled up and it had not required any acting for her tears to flow. Pope had taken Charles his supper, and she had not seen or spoken to him since she had walked away from him the previous afternoon.

  She stepped out the front door to see the Nortons’ groom leading Henry’s horse with the baggage, and Charles leading the mare with its saddle and pillion. He smiled at her, as if he had not a care in the world. She was stunned. How could he smile? Had he already forgotten Ellen and how deeply it pained Jane to be leaving her? Her anguished rage boiled to the surface once again, and the thought of mounting the horse behind him and putting her arms around him—she wouldn’t do it, that was all.

  “Change the saddles, Jackson,” she snapped at Charles.

  Henry, standing on the porch beside her, stopped with his arm midway into his coat sleeve and glanced at her in astonishment.