“Come,” John said, helping her to her feet and putting an arm around her shoulders. “Nothing to be done but go on and see what we find. It’s like to keep raining all night; we must get to some shelter.”
Mechanically, shutting down the part of her mind that wanted to simply give up and lie on the muddy road, Jane put her dripping stockings and shoes back on and picked up her sodden satchel, and they went forward.
After an hour of walking that felt like an eternity, the scent of wet wool in her nostrils, the rain driving down, Jane saw a flickering light ahead, and smoke rising.
“Look!” she pointed.
They moved on rapidly and soon the light resolved itself into a campfire beneath a spread of canvas tethered between two wagons, with people squatted around its warmth. It was the Gypsies they had passed earlier. The smell of cooking wafted towards them and Jane’s stomach turned over with hunger.
“What do you think?” John asked. “Shall we ask if we can buy supper and a place at the fire?”
“Yes,” Jane said without hesitation.
She could not stand the thought of spending the next day or two in wet clothes and shoes, and with the exhaustion they both already suffered, she knew they were ripe for falling ill.
John flung his cape back over his shoulders so that the butt of his pistol peeked out from the front of his coat, and they made their way to the Gypsies’ camp. The group eyed them as they came into the circle of firelight.
“Greetings!” John called out.
There were four or five women, ranging from a young mother with a baby at her breast to a withered crone, a dozen children tumbling and playing, and five or six men seated near the fire. Jane saw with a start that one of these was the lad who she had seen in the orchard at Bentley on her birthday.
“We’ve had a misfortune, as you can see,” John said, gesturing at their clothes and satchels. “Wet clean through, with our food and tinder ruined.” He held up a small coin. “We’d be grateful for supper and the chance to warm ourselves and dry our clothes.”
The men squatting by the fire glanced at one another, and after a muttered conference, the eldest of them nodded and held out his hand.
“Welcome, then.”
John gave him the coin, and the Gypsies rearranged themselves to make room for the strangers, offering up stools so they would not have to sit on the ground. Jane draped her cloak over a wagon wheel, removed her shoes, and peeled off her wet stockings. She hesitated before pulling off her coat and hat, but it couldn’t be helped, for they would never dry when they were on her. She went back to the fireside in her breeches and shirt, and laid her wet things close to the fire before seating herself next to John. It must be obvious that she was a woman, and she felt the men’s eyes on her, but no one made any comment.
One of the women brought them tin plates of stew with chunks of bread, and Jane ate ravenously.
“Where are you bound?” one of the older men asked, his accent sounding musical to Jane’s ears.
“King’s Lynn,” John said. “Not too far. And you?”
“Where the road takes us.” The Gypsy grinned, the orange light of the fire and shadow playing across his face. “Perhaps further north.”
Jane noticed that the Gypsy lad was looking at her curiously from across the fire. She smiled in a way that she hoped was friendly without being too inviting.
The rain had fallen off now, the drops a mere patter on the canvas overhead. A bottle of something was produced, and Jane accepted a cup of amber liquid that seemed to be some kind of brandy.
One of the men fetched a little guitar from one of the caravans and began to play, singing as he strummed. It was a mournful tune, and though Jane couldn’t understand the words, it seemed to be a song of loss, perhaps of love, perhaps of death. She thought about Charles and wondered where he might be, praying, as she did so often, that he might be safe.
The women took the children off to bed in the wagons, and the fire burned lower. The rain had stopped, and stars were winking in the blue-black spaces between the clouds. The young Gypsy disappeared, returning a few minutes later with blankets, which he laid out beside the fire. He examined the blankets that John had hung up and turned them, holding them up to show that they were already drier than they had been.
John was speaking to the man on his other side, and the young Gypsy came and sat beside Jane.
“I remember you, lady,” he said, his voice low and his eyes glowing.
Jane blushed but met his eyes.
“I remember you, too.”
“You are a long way from home. And you would have the world think you are a boy. Are you in danger?”
Jane nodded. “Yes. We had to leave home, my brother and I.”
“Ah, your brother.” The answer seemed to please him and he nodded, staring into the fire. “Then he will care for you, keep you safe.”
“Yes,” Jane said. For she knew that whatever came, John would protect her, though it might put his own safety at risk.
“Thank you for the food and the fire,” she whispered. “It would have been a miserable night without your kindness.”
The young man shrugged. “Perhaps you would have done the same for me.”
“Yes,” Jane said. “I would. And if I am ever able to go home again, you are welcome at Bentley. In fact, even if I am not there, you go to the door and say that Jane and Colonel John bid them give you what you need, and that you may stay on the land as long as you like.”
“I thank you, lady.” He bowed his head, then took her hand and kissed it. “I wish you sweet rest and safe travels, if our paths do not cross again.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
A WEEK AFTER JOHN and JANE HAD LEFT PETERBOROUGH, THE heavy grey-stone gate leading into the walled town of King’s Lynn rose ahead. The town itself lay on the east bank of the River Great Ouse, which flowed northward another mile or so towards the North Sea, but Jane could smell the salt of the water and the brackish odour of the fens.
“I’m thinking we might risk an inn,” John said. “There’s not much between here and Norwich. It’s likely our last chance for a hot meal unless I shoot something to cook. And tomorrow’s Sunday. We could make it a real day of rest.”
“Yes,” Jane said. Her body ached everywhere, her feet were burning in her stockings, now stiff with dirt, and she felt as if she would never be comfortable again. “Do you think we look the sort of people who can afford to pay for a hot bath?”
John smiled. “Perhaps we’ll chance it.”
They found an inn off the market square, and judged that the extravagance of a hot bath would make them conspicuous enough without the additional luxury of separate rooms, so John sat in the taproom while Jane waited in their little chamber for the tub and buckets of hot water to be brought up.
Alone and with the door barred, she stripped off her clothes. She had not been naked since they left Bentley, and she was dismayed at the greyish cast of her skin and how dirty the water became when she lowered herself into it. She stirred the tub with her hand and the hot water lapping against her skin felt as though it was washing away the hardships of the past weeks. On Monday they would be on their way once more, with the loneliest part of the journey ahead of them. But no need to let that spoil tonight.
She scrubbed herself with the rough cloth and soap, luxuriating as the itch of sweat and dirt left her skin. She let her hands linger on her breasts and belly. She was not sure she could see any difference, but she was almost certain now that she was with child. Charles’s child. What would he think? What would he say? Would he be glad of the news as a distraction from his cares, and welcome her? And what if he did not? She pushed the thought away, bringing to mind instead the picture of his face so close to hers during those magic nights when they had journeyed together, his eyes shining at her in the dark, his hands warm and urgent on her skin.
When she had bathed, she put on the cleaner of her two shirts and washed the other in the tub. She had washed them as w
ell as she could in turn every week or so when there was water to be had, hanging the washed shirt to dry overnight, and carrying it tied about her if it was not fully dry by the time they left in the morning. She had two pairs of heavy stockings but had not washed them, as she needed the extra layer of protection between her feet and the unyielding leather of her shoes. They were nearly stiff with dirt, and she took the opportunity to wash them now, grimacing at how rapidly the water turned nearly black.
Jane had just hung up her shirt and stockings to dry when John came upstairs from the taproom, his face grim.
“What is it?” Jane asked. “Soldiers?”
Perhaps they had been mistaken to think that she would be less likely to be hunted on this remote north coast of the country.
“No.” John sat heavily on the bed. “I was talking to some sailors just come into port. They spoke of another ship yesterday that had heard from a fishing vessel come from the south that the king was drowned on his way to France.”
Jane stared at him and then staggered as if the breath had been knocked out of her, and John caught her and steadied her.
“Aye, it’s terrible news,” he said.
She sank onto the bed.
“But how can they be sure? We’ve heard so many rumours.”
“That’s true,” John said. “But they say the news came from a Channel boat, who had heard it from other vessels down that way. The officers believed it, though there’s been no official word.”
The initial shock was wearing off and Jane began to sob. Charles. She could bring him to mind so clearly, feel his weight on top of her, smell the scent of him, hear his voice. It wasn’t possible that he could be gone, that after all they had gone through to save him, he could be lost from mere drowning.
Jane felt she couldn’t get her breath. She was shaking and her sobs had turned to racking gasps for air as she curled into herself on the bed.
“Jane!” John cried in alarm, brushing her hair off her face. “Breathe deep and slow if you can.”
She tried but felt herself slipping into a void of terror and despair. John held her to him and stroked her head.
“I know what grief you must feel, having travelled with him as you did. My God, what grief to the whole country.”
“No,” Jane sobbed, finally able to speak. “It’s more than that. Oh, John, we were lovers. I am with child by the king.”
John pushed her from him with such force that she almost fell off the bed. He stared at her, disbelief warring with outrage and anger as he saw the truth of it in her face. He stood and paced, running his hands through his hair in agitation, then turned on her.
“How could you have behaved so?”
“I love him!” she cried, her grief outshone for the moment by building rage.
“Love!” he snorted. “Love? You were a maid and you gave yourself to a man who could never wed you even if he would. He was the king, whether covered in mud or no. Did you not think of the shame you would bring to the family?”
“The family? Is that all that concerns you, brother? Shame to the family? At your behest I put myself in mortal peril to help him. And now England is not safe for me, and what lies ahead of me, I know not. My life is a shambles, and you have no sympathy for me, but worry about your honour.”
She spat the word at him.
“No sympathy for you?”
John strode towards her, eyes blazing. She had never seen him so angry.
“I left my wife and family, not knowing when I may see them again, because I could not abandon you to make your way alone to safety. Have you thought of that? And what are we to do now?”
“Go on to France, what else?”
“You say it as though it were no small matter! God knows how long it might have taken us to reach France, did all things smile on us. But your—condition—changes all. What if you are taken badly? What if we do not reach France before you are brought to bed? Or if we do? How shall we look, creeping to the queen and the French court, you big with the king’s bastard?”
Jane slapped John across the face.
“Then leave me!” she shrieked. “Leave me to my grief and myself! I had rather make my way alone than with you if you think so little of me!”
She shoved him so that he stumbled back against a chair, and he made as if to strike her, but mastered himself, and leaned on the chair, breathing hard, his hands clutching it as if it were the only solid thing in a heaving ocean. Jane slumped onto the bed, hugging her knees to her chest as she sobbed.
At length John sat, breathed more calmly, and spoke.
“There is nothing for it but to go on and hope that all will be well.”
All well? Jane thought. Nothing would ever be well again, for Charles was dead, England was not safe for her, and she must go on to a strange land where she knew no one.
“I’m sorry,” John said after some time. “For all of it. For putting you in the king’s company and in danger, for what has come to pass, and for my harsh words.”
Jane didn’t answer, and he went and sat beside her.
“You must eat. I’ll go down and have food brought up.”
Jane bathed her face in cool water while John went downstairs. They ate together by the fire, and the hot food soothed her, but her tears kept surging to the surface.
“Perhaps he is not dead,” John said, and she nodded numbly, holding to that shred of hope.
Jane’s dreams that night were terrifying, full of cold ocean water crashing onto her in waves. She woke herself with crying out, and John took her in his arms and held her as she wept.
In the morning Jane felt as though she had been beaten with sticks, so weary was her body and so defeated her spirit. She was desperately glad they had decided not to leave until the next day, and passed the day drifting in and out of sleep, her dreams torn with grief and fear.
“Can you travel tomorrow, do you think?” John asked over their supper.
“I’ll have to. The sooner we set off, the sooner we shall be in France.”
THE ROAD TOWARDS NORWICH AND YARMOUTH TOOK JANE AND John east through swampy fens, the salt smell of the sea heavy in their nostrils. Buzzards and crows called shrill in the biting air. After the first hour of walking they passed no one. The land lay before them, vast and empty.
At late morning they passed a windmill, its great arms creaking as they turned.
“Then someone else must be alive out here,” Jane said.
In the afternoon they came to a crossroads. A village lay a little off the main road to the north, and to the south the little road ran straight through the rustling brown grasses and met the horizon.
“Another Roman road,” John said, and Jane almost thought she could hear the tramp of feet on the damp earth as ghostly legions moved in the mists.
“It’s All Hallows’ Eve,” she remembered, and wondered if it was true, as Nurse had told her when she was a child, that on this day the barrier between this world and the next was thin, and spirits walked.
The road turned to the southeast and climbed into rolling hills. Walking on the incline made Jane’s thighs and buttocks ache. Dark clouds were gathering ahead, and she glanced at the sun dropping lower in the sky behind them.
“We’ll not walk too much further tonight,” John said. “When we find anyplace likely, we’ll stop. But it may be we sleep rough.”
Jane nodded. This would be the hardest part of the way, the long march towards the sea through barren silent lands.
The road sloped down out of the hills, and onto a broad flat plain with sheep downs stretching away on either side, dotted with high shrubs and outcroppings of rock. Another hill rose ahead, and Jane’s spirits began to flag. She stopped, and John waited while she pulled the leather bottle from her bag and drank, and then handed it to him. They walked on. A brown hare bounded across the road in front of them, and then another. Jane looked out into the scrub and saw movement here and there.
“Well, look at that,” John exclaimed. “When w
e reach those rocks at the bend of the road ahead, you sit and rest for a bit and I’ll see if I can shoot one of the little creatures, and perhaps we might have a hot dinner.”
When they reached the stones, Jane sank onto a boulder and rested her back against a high wall of rock behind her. Long-eared hares scampered everywhere. John laid down his pack and staff and checked his pistol. He had bought powder and shot in King’s Lynn, and the pistol was primed and ready. He walked a few yards off the road and squatted near some shrubbery. He was absolutely motionless, and Jane watched in fascination as a hare loped towards him and then stopped, its nose and whiskers twitching as it sniffed the air. John’s pistol was pointed at the furry head, and she watched as he squeezed the trigger slowly. There was a roar and the hare flew backward in a little shower of blood. John lifted it by the feet and held it up for Jane to see.
“Well done!” she cried.
The thought of meat for dinner and the warmth of a fire energised her, and she hopped off the rock as John made his way towards her. Suddenly someone was beside her. The man had stepped from where he had been hidden behind the tall outcropping of rock, and his pistol was pointed at Jane’s head. He was a big man, perhaps thirty years old, wearing a red soldier’s coat, but it was ragged and filthy, and his face was covered with a golden haze of stubble. A deserter, he must be.
Jane stared at the man, too surprised to react, and felt rather than saw John stop where he stood, some twenty paces away.
“I thank you,” the man said to John. “You’ve saved me the trouble both of taking your pistol from you and shooting dinner. Now throw down the weapon and the cony just there, along with your purse.”
John hesitated and the man grasped Jane roughly by the arm.
“Come, friend. Surely your boy here means more to you than whatever coin you’re carrying.”
John silently tossed the hare and his pistol onto the ground, and reached to open his coat.
“Slowly,” the big man barked. “So I can see you don’t have a second pistol at your belt.”
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