The King's Mistress

by Gillian Bagwell

  Yates’s hands were bound behind his back, and he sat in the cart without looking to either side, as if his enemies were not present. The cart drew up under the gibbet, where a platoon of soldiers stood in ranks. They parted to let the cart pass, and then ranged themselves in a square around the gibbet, their muskets pointed out towards the crowd, bayonets fixed. The boys who had dogged the cart pushed to the front of the crowd.

  “You’ll be in hell before dinnertime, Yates,” one redheaded young ruffian sang out.

  “Sooner than that, Neddy,” one of his friends shouted. “You’ll meet the devil while the shit’s still running down your legs, you traitor!”

  “No traitor he, but a braver man than thou wilt ever be!” roared one of the Penderel brothers, shoving the second boy so that he fell to the ground.

  The boy jumped to his feet, and his friends closed around him as Yates’s family and friends rushed forward to stand on either side of the farmer. Shoves were exchanged, the crowd surged forward towards the gibbet. The soldiers swung their bayonets at the advancing mob and their captain shouted for order above the babble of angry voices. Henry pulled Jane behind him to protect her as the melee threatened to envelop them. Yates, in breeches and a shirt stained with sweat and dirt, had been pulled to his feet by a soldier in the cart with him, and stared silently out at the riot breaking out on his behalf.

  A shot shattered the air, halting the skirmish.

  “This will be your only warning!” roared the red-faced officer, smoking pistol in hand, still pointed towards the sky. “Whosoever causes further disturbance will be arrested.”

  Royalists and rebels backed away from one another, exchanging final shoves and sneers, and the crowd subsided into muttering.

  “Proceed with the punishment!” the officer barked. “Lieutenant!”

  A young lieutenant stepped forward, and read from a printed broadsheet, his voice cutting into the silence.

  “The Parliament of the Commonwealth of England have thought fit to enact and declare that no person whatsoever do presume to hold any correspondence with Charles Stuart, son of the late traitor, or with his party, or with any of them, nor give any intelligence to them, or to any of them, nor countenance, encourage, abet, adhere to, or assist them or any of them, nor to voluntarily afford or deliver, or cause to be afforded or delivered to them or any of them, any victuals, provisions, arms, ammunition, plate, money, men, or any other relief whatsoever, under pain of high treason.”

  A few hisses and shouts of “boo” rang out, and the lieutenant glanced at the crowd and took a breath before continuing.

  “Whosoever shall offend against this Act and Declaration, shall or may be proceeded against by a Council of War, who are hereby authorised to hear and determine all and every the said offences, and such as shall by the said Council be condemned to suffer death, shall also forfeit all his or their lands, goods, and other estate, as in case of high treason.”

  Jane had read the words of the proclamation when it was published in August, which now seemed a lifetime ago. But how vastly different to hear read aloud each offence of which she and her family were guilty, with Francis Yates standing not twenty feet away and about to die merely because he had guided the king to Whiteladies in that dark night after the battle.

  “Drummer!” the captain shouted, and the drummer started into an ominous roll.

  The soldier beside Yates placed the noose that hung from the gibbet around his neck and tightened the rope.

  “Let him speak!” someone shouted at the back of the crowd.

  “Aye, let him speak!”

  The cry was taken up and the crowd was roaring now. They far outnumbered the soldiers guarding the gibbet, and Jane saw sweat rolling down the face of a fair-haired young soldier who stood a few feet before her. She looked beyond him to Yates. He was near tears now, but not of fright. He nodded at familiar faces, pulling at his bound arms as though he would have waved and saluted in response to the cries.

  “God save the king!” he shouted, and the crowd called back.

  “God save the king!”

  “We won’t forget thee, Frank!”

  “You’ve a heart of oak, lad! Your name will live in England forever!”

  Yates held his head high, his brimming eyes bright with emotion. The drummer played furiously, in a futile effort to drown out the yells of the crowd.

  “Drive on!” the captain bellowed.

  The driver of the cart lashed the horse, and the cart started forward.

  Francis Yates, nothing beneath his feet now, jerked and bucked at the end of the rope, his face contorted in desperation and agony, his eyes bulging, his tongue rolling forth as he struggled for the breath that would never come.

  Henry thrust Jane back against her father as he and John rushed forward, followed by the five Penderel brothers. There was a moment’s hesitation as they confronted the soldiers who faced them. Then the soldiers’ eyes snapped away from them, not seeing them, deliberately not seeing as Henry and John strode to the foot of the gibbet, and the Penderel brothers ranged themselves in a half circle, facing the howling crowd. John and Henry each seized one of Francis Yates’s legs, their eyes met and they nodded, and they pulled with all their strength, a sharp and brutal shock. Yates’s body twitched, but he struggled no more. Sobs and cries echoed in the cold air. John looked up at Yates’s face, purple but still, then stepped back and saluted the swinging corpse. Henry mirrored him on Yates’s other side.

  Sobs tore Jane’s throat, and she clung to her father. He clutched her to his chest, and she could hear that he was weeping, too, and the enormity of what danger she had brought upon him, her mother, and all her family as well as herself swept over her. If her part in the king’s escape were discovered, she would die just as Yates had, with John and Henry likely dangling at her side, and her old parents would lose their house and lands and all they had.

  God, keep them safe, she prayed. Let my deeds never come to the light, that Henry and John and my parents and those I love do not suffer for what I have done.

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE SPECTACLE OF FRANCIS YATES’S EXECUTION HAUNTED JANE’S dreams. Adding to her anxiety was the fact that as yet, the newsbooks, broadsheets, and proclamations carried no news of Charles. When she parted from him, he had been within a day’s ride of the coast, and Frank Wyndham had been confident that his friend would find him a boat and get him safely on his way. He should have reached France long since. Even if the worst had happened and he had been taken, that news would have been proclaimed far and loud. The only reasons she could think of for the silence were ominous. He could have been killed by robbers or in some accident on the road, or set to sea only to be drowned. Perhaps it was even possible he had been captured by Cromwell’s soldiers and was now in some prison, silenced from communication with the outside world, the fact that he lived too dangerous to be made known. And if that was the case, he would spend the rest of his life, however short or long that might be, locked away from all hope and happiness.

  JANE’S COURSES HAD STILL NOT COME, AND HER BODY FELT STRANGE in many little ways that were so subtle she could not quite put them into words. She felt almost certain now that she must be with child, but she did not know of any way to ascertain either that she was or that she wasn’t, and if she was, there was nothing to be done about it. How long would it take before her belly began to show? She didn’t know.

  Nurse was solicitous of her these days, knowing that she was distressed over Ellen Norton’s miscarriage and endangered health. That was true, of course, but Jane longed to be able to confide in Nurse about her love for Charles, her fear at the lack of word that he had reached safety, and the possibility that she might be carrying his child. As Nurse brushed her hair one evening, singing a lullaby that brought Jane back to the times of her earliest memories, she leaned back against the pillowy bosom, tears in her eyes. Would Nurse understand if she spilled forth her secrets? She might. But Jane bit back the words. If it came to pass t
hat she knew without question she was with child, then she would seek Nurse’s help. But until that day came, she must wrap her love and fear close to her heart, though she felt she would choke.

  A FORTNIGHT AFTER FRANCIS YATES’S HANGING, JOHN WAS GOING into Wolverhampton to sell a load of coal and pay a levy to the local committee, and Jane went with him, hoping that there might be news of Charles and seeking distraction from her worries. But there seemed to be even more troops in the streets and marketplace than there had been a few weeks earlier, and she felt vulnerable and frightened. She and John had just left the town hall when a man’s voice called to him.

  “Colonel Lane!”

  They turned and Jane was surprised to see that the man approaching them was a Parliamentary officer. It took her a moment to realise that it was her old suitor Geoff Stone. She had not seen him in years. He was even more handsome than she remembered, with the same smiling green eyes and curling brown hair, but he had acquired an air of maturity and command that he had lacked in the days when he was courting her.

  “Jane.”

  He bowed, and for a moment it seemed as if the war and all that had passed since they had last met had never taken place.

  “Geoff.” Jane was annoyed with herself that her voice betrayed her vulnerability and the mixed emotions she had upon seeing him.

  “Good afternoon, Colonel Stone,” John greeted Geoff, and the two men bowed and shook hands.

  “I’m pleased to see you safely returned from your journey to Bristol,” Stone said, gazing at Jane, and something in his tone made her uneasy. He seemed on the verge of speaking again, but held his silence.

  “Yes,” Jane said. “I thank you for your pass, that I might see my friend.”

  “I trust you found her well?”

  “I—no.”

  The tears welled in Jane’s eyes as she thought of her last sight of Ellen. She had received a letter from Ellen a few days earlier, assuring Jane that she was feeling much better and asking after the health of Jane’s father, and her loving selflessness made Jane feel like a monster for having abandoned her.

  “I’m most sorry to hear it,” Stone said. “She recovers?”

  “Yes,” Jane said. “Thank you, she will do well enough in time.”

  It was odd to be having a normal conversation with a man in the uniform of what would always seem the enemy to her, and yet Geoff’s gentle voice and kind eyes brought back very clearly their mutual affection of long ago. She could not quite think of him as the enemy. And yet if he knew how she had passed the second half of September …

  “What news, Colonel Stone?” John asked, sensing Jane’s unease.

  “None that will be welcome to you, I fear, Colonel Lane. The Earl of Derby will be executed tomorrow at Bolton, I hear.”

  There seemed nothing to say to that, and there was an awkward silence.

  Stone glanced around. The marketplace was busy with soldiers, country people, and town folk, but no one was nearby. He took a step closer to Jane and John, and when he spoke his voice was so low that Jane could hardly hear him.

  “There are stories going about that Charles Stuart escaped with the help of a lady.”

  The hairs on the back of Jane’s neck stood up.

  “I’ve heard no names, nor anything definite,” he continued, glancing from John to Jane. “But the rumours are there.”

  Jane stared at him. Surely he was not merely passing along gossip. Was this a threat? A warning?

  Geoff stepped back smartly and bowed.

  “A pleasure to see you, Jane. Always happy to be of service to you. Colonel.”

  He nodded to John and walked away without another word.

  “Dear God,” Jane whispered. “He knows.”

  “He cannot know,” John said, watching Stone disappear in the crowded street. “But he suspects. You’re right about that.”

  “What shall I do?”

  “Nothing yet. But I fear we must give thought to what may come.”

  THE NEXT EVENING SHORTLY AFTER DARK JANE HEARD A HORSE thundering up the drive to the house. She did not recognise the cloaked rider who threw his reins to a groom and ran towards the back door. Alarmed, she hurried down the stairs and was astonished to see Geoff Stone striding towards her from the kitchen, his hair on end and his face wet with the rain.

  “Jane, thank God you’re here,” he said, grasping her by the arms and glancing wild-eyed behind him. “You are discovered. The Council of State in London has issued a warrant for your arrest. You must fly, and quickly.”

  Jane gaped at him, too shocked to reply. He put a wet hand to her cheek, kissed her briefly on the mouth, and was gone.

  JANE, JOHN, AND HENRY SAT IN THE BANQUETING HOUSE, THE DARK broken only by the fractured beams of light cast through the perforated tin sides of a lantern.

  “Many have gone to the Low Countries,” Henry said. “Of course the king’s sister’s court is there.”

  “But the king was going to France,” Jane said. “If we are to flee, let us go to where he is.”

  “We don’t know that he has reached France,” Henry said.

  “We would have heard if he had been taken,” Jane argued. “And his mother is in Paris, and his brothers.”

  “My thought,” John said, “is that you will both be safest if you do not travel together. If they know that both of you were with the king, they will be looking for both of you. Each of you alone is less recognisable.”

  Alone. The word thudded into the pit of Jane’s stomach. Fleeing for her life was bad enough, but to face it alone—where would she find the courage?

  “You’re right,” Henry agreed. “And the more false scents we can drag across our trail, the better. I can give out that I am going to Scotland, and make it seem as though I go to join the king there.”

  “But go somewhere else in truth?” Jane asked. “Where?”

  “Don’t say,” John cut in. “You’ll be safer, Jane, if you don’t know.”

  “So I’m to fly alone and not even know where to find Henry?” Jane cried, feeling that it was all too much to bear.

  “You will not be alone,” John said. “I’m going with you.”

  “But your family …” She thought of John’s wife, his eight girls and little boy left without his protection.

  “It can’t be helped,” he said. “First, I landed you in the fire and I must keep you from being burned by it. Secondly, if they know you were with the king, they surely know I had a hand in the scheme.”

  Jane looked from John to Henry. Their grim faces were eerie in the shadows.

  “When shall we go?” she asked.

  “As soon as we may,” John said. “Tomorrow early, before the household is stirring.”

  “Tomorrow!” Jane gasped. “But everyone is abed already; there will be no time for goodbyes.”

  A cold draught blew through the room, making the flame in the lantern gutter and waver.

  “It’s better so,” John said. “They’ll come looking for us. Remember how they treated poor Giffard at Whiteladies when they thought the king was hidden there. They beat him and laid waste to the house. They dishonoured the women, searching their persons. It will be safer for those we leave behind if they truly do not know where we are, and cannot be forced to give us up.”

  Jane shivered and began to weep quietly. When she had first declared she would gladly do whatever she could to help the king, it had not occurred to her that she might have to leave family and home without a farewell. She thought of her father’s distress and surprise when he would find her gone, her mother’s fear for her safety. She thought of Clement Fisher, and her promise to give him an answer in a day or two. She thought of her cat, Jack. She had missed him during her journey with Charles, and he had slept with her every night since her return, as if doing so could keep her from going again. Who would love him as she did?

  “You’re right,” Henry said. “I will be gone before daybreak.”

  John stood with him and they embrac
ed.

  “Jane,” Henry said, dropping to one knee before her. He took her hands in his and looked up into her eyes. “You have more pluck than many a soldier. You have already done a hero’s work, and I am sorry that now you are called upon to do more. But John will be with you and you will be well. And even without him, I’d put my money on you against any man of Cromwell’s.”

  Jane had been through so much with Henry in the weeks past that she was filled with desolation at the loss of his company.

  “Oh, Henry,” she cried, holding him to her. “I will scarce know what to do without you. Thank you. For all you have done for me. Go with God. And if He is willing, we shall see each other across the sea.”

  And then Henry slipped out into the cold blackness, and was gone.

  “We must go afoot,” John said. “And it will be safer to go a different way altogether than you have already been. To Yarmouth, I think. We can find a boat there for France.”

  “Yarmouth.” Jane knew it was on the east coast of the country, but no more. “How far is it?”

  “Two hundred miles, perhaps a little more. The map will guide us. Leicester to Peterborough to King’s Lynn to Norwich, and thence to the sea. But, Jane, it will be rough travelling. You must not look like the lady who was seen riding with the king. We must accoutre ourselves as country folk, and travel on foot.”

  Jane thought of Rosalind and Celia preparing to set forth for the Forest of Arden, and almost laughed out loud despite herself as a thought struck her.

  “What?” John asked.

  “‘Were it not better,’” she murmured, “‘because that I am more than common tall, that I did suit me all points like a man?’”

  John looked at her as if she were mad.

  “As You Like It,” she explained. “But, John, it’s a good idea!”

  “For you to put on man’s attire? Certainly not!”