Jane tried not to start. John didn’t have a second pistol at his belt, she knew, because it hung at her own waist, concealed by her coat, which fell unbuttoned around her. Could she get to it?
John slowly pushed his coat aside, showing that he had thrown away his only weapon. He pulled the purse of coins from his coat pocket and held it out for the man to see. There were still some gold coins sewn into the lining of his coat, and Jane prayed that the man would be content with the purse and not think to look elsewhere. John dropped the purse onto the ground, and the man glanced at Jane.
“Now you, boy. Does your daddy let you carry any coin or weapon? Open your coat so I can see.”
He straightened his right arm to point the pistol towards John as he turned Jane to face him. She saw a flash of surprise in his eyes, followed by a leering grin.
“Well, I’ll be poxed. You’re no boy.”
He licked his lips and reached his free hand towards Jane’s breast. Then everything seemed to happen at once. John shouted, the man turned his head sharply away from Jane, and in that instant she yanked the pistol from her belt, bringing it to full cock, thrust it up into the hollow below his chin, and fired.
The man’s body flew backward as Jane staggered back from the recoil of the weapon. John ran towards her, but the deserter lay in a pool of brains and blood. John clutched Jane to him, nearly sobbing.
“Oh, Jane, Christ, oh, Christ.”
She held on to him, shaking, and he helped her to the rock, where they sat clasped together, John rocking Jane in his arms, murmuring soothing words into her hair. After a time she lifted her head to look at the man she had killed, the place where his face had been staring up into the darkening sky.
“What will we do with him?” she whispered.
John glanced around.
“I’ll drag him into the bracken there and cover him over. The birds and the beasts will take care of the rest.”
He bent and searched through the dead man’s pockets, coming up with a purse and a bag of shot and powder, which he laid on the rock next to Jane. He threw off his coat, grasped the corpse’s booted ankles, and hauled it bumping over the rough ground into the gorse. Jane’s stomach was heaving, but she forced herself to stand and to kick loose dirt onto the trail of blood to cover it.
When John came back, dusk was falling.
“Come,” he said, putting on his coat. “It will be dark soon.”
Jane needed no urging. She wanted to put as much distance as possible between herself and the dead man.
“There’s something ahead.” John pointed when they had gone about a mile.
As they drew near Jane saw that it was an ancient crofter’s hut, low walls built of stacked slabs of peat topped with a thatched roof. The little door hung loose on its leather hinges, but the hut was dry inside and would provide shelter from the elements and whatever night-walking things might be about.
“You rest,” John said, and Jane did so gratefully, comforted by the sound of him moving around outside as he built a fire. She drowsed and woke to the smell of roasted meat. John came in with the cooked hare. She was hungry but her gorge rose at the sight of the little legs stretched out in their darkened skin.
“I can’t,” she said, lying down again and turning her face away. “I’m sorry.”
“You must eat something,” John insisted gently. “At least some bread.” The bread they had bought that morning in King’s Lynn was still fresh and good, and Jane found that the bland softness was just what she wanted.
The night was full of noises—the harsh call of a barn owl, the shriek of some small animal taken by a predator, the wind rattling through the bushes—and as the fire before the hut died out, Jane heard little scrabbling feet in the dark. The wind sighed outside and she shivered in her blanket, seeing the stubbled face of the deserter and then his inert form lying so still on the dirt, and she wondered if his spirit had followed them and hovered nearby.
IN THE MORNING THEY SET OUT EARLY. THE ROAD RAN THROUGH open heath, but they passed two or three windmills, and here and there little tracks crossed the main road, leading to tiny clusters of cottages in the distance. In the late afternoon they came to a small hamlet, and learning that there were no houses on the road for several miles ahead, decided to stop for the night, bedding down before the hearth in the village’s sole tavern.
The next night the road offered no shelter but a blacksmith’s shop. A village lay a mile or so to the north, the smith told them, but dark was coming on fast and it would be easy to lose their way, so they wrapped themselves in their blankets and cloaks and slept warmed by the residual heat of the forge.
The next day a cavalry patrol passed them on the road, riding fast and apparently not finding them worthy of suspicion. Still, worried that the soldiers might be searching for a woman of Jane’s description, they slept in an old barn some way off from a great house, with only hard ship’s biscuit and cheese and tough strips of dried venison to eat. Jane was exhausted and wanted with her soul to spend a day lying down instead of walking, but she was afraid and insisted they move on. Besides, the day was bitterly cold, and walking kept her warm.
The road now took them through vast and lonely country. The dull brown of the heath stretched endlessly towards the horizon. Here and there a rock outcropping broke the flatness, cutting upward into the grey sky. The land seemed strangely hushed, listening, waiting. Their footsteps on the road sounded harsh, intrusive. Neither Jane nor John had spoken in some time and Jane felt almost that she would not be able to speak if she tried, as if her voice had somehow been taken from her in the oppressive silence that surrounded them. She looked off to the right, to the left. Nothing but empty land, sparsely covered in heather. They might have been the only people left on the earth, as far as she could tell.
And then suddenly she saw that a few feet ahead of them, just off the road, was a human shape, and she gasped and stopped in her tracks. It was an old woman, bent and knotted, swathed in garments so ragged and of such indeterminate colour, and standing so still, that she might have been the twisted trunk of a dead tree. The woman had not been there the moment before, Jane was sure of that. John had come to a halt beside her.
“Hail.”
The voice was soft, scratchy, almost inaudible, but Jane felt the hair on the nape of her neck rise at the line that floated up from somewhere in the back of her mind.
All hail, Macbeth, hail to thee, Thane of Glamis.
Could she have imagined it, that this crone had actually addressed them so? She glanced at John and was simultaneously relieved and frightened to see that he looked just as discomfited as she. She found her eyes darting around her, as if there might lurk two more hags, sprung as if from the ground. John found his voice.
“Well met, Mistress. It is a barren stretch of country we’ve been passing through. Is there a village nigh?”
The woman shook her head, her eyes fixed on them keenly. Surprisingly clear and blue eyes, Jane thought, for one so aged, and then realised that she really could not tell how old the woman was. Her hair was shrouded under a cap, and her skin, pale and taut over the bones of her face, looked translucent as fine vellum. She could have been forty or a hundred.
“No, Master. No village hereabout or for many a mile.”
Jane’s heart sank. John glanced around and Jane could sense him searching for his next words.
“But you, Mistress, surely you do not live in such wild country alone?”
The fierce eyes blinked and Jane thought of a hawk. Perhaps the question had frightened the old woman. After all, what could she do against two strangers who wished her ill and who had ascertained she was on her own? But the woman looked fearlessly back at them, with an odd little smile, almost a look of careful patience.
“I live where I am.”
There seemed nothing to say to that.
“We seek shelter for the night,” Jane said. “And had rather stop sooner if there is shelter to be had than walk on after dark
to we know not where.”
“We all of us walk to we know not where. Young Mistress.”
Jane involuntarily drew a sharp breath, and the woman nodded slowly.
“Aye, I see you what you are.”
The woman’s eyes dropped to Jane’s belly, and as loudly as if she had spoken it, Jane heard the words.
Thou shalt get kings, though thou be none.
Jane shivered.
“There be a shepherd’s hut,” the woman said. “A little off the north side of the road. You’ll pass a stone cross before it. Some four hours’ walk, perhaps.”
All three of them glanced at the sky. The clouds threatened overhead, growing blacker by the minute.
“It will be rain tonight.”
At the old woman’s words another echo pounded through Jane’s head.
Let it come down.
“Then must we make for shelter, Mother,” John said. “Will you not do so, too?”
“My time is not yet. But yours is coming nigh.”
She drew her cloak closer about her, turning from them, like a bat folding its wings about itself, Jane thought, and with surprising rapidity she moved away across the barren landscape.
JANE THOUGHT THEY MUST HAVE BEEN WALKING FOR MORE THAN four hours, but they had seen no sign of a hut. Her lower body was clenching in pain. It seemed she had been walking since the world began.
Night was falling. The grey clouds looked pregnant with rain, and the air seemed to crackle. A wind blew up, shaking the leafless branches of the trees. A crow, winging its way rapidly south, cawed loudly and Jane looked up.
Let us withdraw, ’twill be a storm.
The line from King Lear came unbidden into her mind and cold fear seized her heart.
“Shelter.” It came out as a whisper almost. “I don’t think I can go much farther, John.” He glanced at her with concern, and scanned the rocky surroundings.
“Here, let me take your pack.”
He lifted the heavy sack from her and slung it over his shoulder along with his own. The relief from the weight only made Jane conscious of how weak and weary she was suddenly feeling. Her head began to swim and she stumbled against him. He caught her as she sank, supporting her in his arms, his eyes wide with alarm.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured.
“No need to be sorry.”
A drop of rain splashed onto his face and his eyes darted frantically from the sky to the barren wilderness that surrounded them.
“There must be something hereabout.”
Jane nodded, her mind flooded with the pain that was gripping her from somewhere below, reaching up to pull her down into its jaws. She forced herself to move, willing herself forward. The heavens had opened of a sudden, and now rain was slanting down, icy knives cutting into her face. Keep moving, she told herself. Keep moving. But for how long could she keep herself on her feet? It was almost dark now, and soon they would not be able to find the shepherd’s hut even if they were near to it. They might pass it by. And what then? She shut the thought from her consciousness, focusing her entire being on putting one foot in front of the other. She was almost hanging on John now, could barely keep her other hand curled around the staff. It was so heavy, so heavy. She smothered a sob.
“I think I see something ahead there,” John cried. “Can you make it that far?”
Jane glanced where he pointed, a little distance ahead and off the road. It was barely visible in the deepening shadows, and appeared to be a fallen tree, but she was too weak to question him, all will of her own was gone. She nodded and held to his arm, and together they plodded forward. The rain battered down and a heavy gust of wind swept leaves into a swirling dance around them.
“It’s a hovel of some kind,” John said as they drew nearer. “Perhaps the shepherd’s hut she meant. Whatever it is, it will have to do.”
Jane could see now that it was a primitive structure, no more than four corner poles with walls of wattle and daub and branches laid over the top with rough thatching tied into place, but it was out of the wild weather. She crouched to push aside the sheepskin hung over the low door and almost fell through, overcome with weariness and pain. There was a pallet of sacking stuffed with straw, and she crawled onto it. John followed her inside, pulling after him the two packs and staves. He unrolled a blanket and laid it over her. It reminded Jane of so many nights when Nurse had tenderly tucked her into bed and she longed for home desperately. Tears welled from her eyes.
“What’s amiss?” John asked anxiously. “Are you taken ill or is it just weariness with walking?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I’m weary, yes, but it’s more than that. I hurt. Inside.”
She closed her eyes and tried to locate the pain, discern its cause. It was low in her belly, somewhat akin to the twisting cramps she sometimes felt when she had her monthly courses, but worse. She was afraid to voice the dark terror taking hold of her mind, as if speaking her fears would bring them to pass.
“I’m going to gather some firewood before it’s all soaked through,” John said. “I’ll only be a few minutes.”
He ducked out the door. Jane tried to breathe deeply to calm herself. Maybe she had been mistaken and she was not with child. Maybe it was only her monthlies starting again, and it was painful because it had been so long. It must be that. Let it be that, she prayed. She drifted into sleep for a few minutes, and roused at the sound of John coming back with a bundle of kindling and some branches, which he laid beside the little door.
“I can scarce light a fire in here,” he said, “without smoking us to death. If the rain lets up, I’ll build a fire before the doorway. Are you cold?”
Jane nodded, her teeth chattering, and John wrapped his blanket around her.
“Have a drop of brandy. It’ll warm you for now. And some food.”
She drank and felt the liquid move down her throat and into her belly, and ate a few bites of bread, and it did give her some strength.
Outside the rain was pelting down with a sinister hiss, pattering against the roof of the hut, and cold drops leaked through, dripping onto the floor and onto Jane. The wind rose to a shriek. No fire would have burned before the door in such a wind, and the draughts coming through the feeble walls would have blown any fire inside onto the tinderlike wattle and daub and the dry straw of the pallet. It was full dark now, and Jane could no longer see John, but found comfort in the sound of his breathing.
Suddenly a sharp pain twisted within her, searing her, and she let out a wild cry of torment and fear.
“Jesu, Jane, what is it?”
John was next to her, his hand seeking hers. Jane felt a rush of wetness and warmth and gasped. She fumbled at the blankets, struggling to throw them off.
“Pull the covers from me, John.”
He yanked them aside and she leaned forward, feeling urgently between her legs. Her breeches were soaked and her hand came away sticky. The sharp smell of blood was in the air, and Jane had a vision of Ellen Norton, her skirts soaked with a flood of bright crimson.
She was losing the baby. In the instant the knowledge came to her mind, sure and terrifying, there was a flash of light from outside the hut. Jane’s first fevered thought was that lightning had struck. But no clap of thunder followed. Instead, the flap of sheepskin covering the door was pushed aside and a bobbing light entered, followed by a formless shape.
“Ee, here’s no place for thee on such a night as this,” the shape said. “Can you carry her, Master?”
The lantern swung towards Jane, and by its flickering light she could see the face of the old woman who had appeared beside the road. The woman clucked and shook her head.
“And here’s blood, too. Quiet your heart, lamb, all will be well. Come out of the storm.”
Jane felt John scoop her into his arms. She huddled against him as he carried her out into the darkness, the cold sharp stabs of rain mingling with the warm tears on her face, and then blackness flooded up and she knew no more.
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WHEN JANE WOKE, SHE WAS LYING IN A SOFT BED OF SHEEPSKINS, AND swathed in a woolly blanket. A fire was burning, and by its light she could see that she was in a low-ceilinged cave. John sat nearby on a stool, a bowl of something steaming and savoury smelling in his hands, and the old woman was humming to herself as she stirred a pot on a hob over the flames. She threw in a handful of dried leaves, and the aromatic scent took on a deeper cast. Jane tried to place the smell. Exploring with her hands, she found that her man’s clothes were gone, and she was clad in a shift of some kind, clean and dry. Beyond the mouth of the cave, some fifteen paces off, she could hear that rain beat down and wind howled, but the fire lay between her and the outdoors, and she was warm. There was some small but heavy weight at her side, and lifting the cover, she discovered that it was a cat, a grey tabby with white on his chin and throat and the tips of his paws, regarding her with glinting gold eyes. She stroked his fur, and a deep purring greeted her touch.
John looked up at her movement, and setting the bowl down, came and knelt at her side.
“How are you faring, sister?”
Concern was in his eyes, and Jane took the hand he gave her.
“Better.” She was surprised her voice sounded as strong as it did. “How long have I been here?”
“A few hours.”
The old woman came to her with a mug of whatever had been in the pot.
“Drink this, lambkin. It will give thee back some of the strength thou hast lost.”
Jane took the mug and inhaled the steam, and sipped. Some decoction of herbs, sweetened with honey. John stood as the woman knelt to peer at Jane, and he moved away to the other side of the fire, looking out towards the blackness of the night.
“I don’t have to tell you that you’ve lost a babe,” the old woman murmured, her eyes intent on Jane’s. “I could see it within thee when we met, and also that its spirit wavered, undecided whether to stay or no. And more than that could I see as well.”
“What—what did you see?”
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