Gillian Bagwell - The King’s Mistress

WORD OF THE EVENTS AT WHITELADIES AND MOSELEY SPREAD, AND at supper the entire household seemed on edge, though no soldiers had appeared to search for the king. Jane was lost in thoughts of the next day’s journey and did not at first hear Withy speaking to her.

“Do you hear me, Jane?” Withy repeated, rapping Jane’s wrist sharply with her spoon. “We’ve decided to leave with you in the morning.”

“What?” Jane put her wine glass down hard, sloshing a few drops onto the tablecloth. “I thought you weren’t going home until next week?”

“We hadn’t planned to,” Withy said, shaking her head and dabbing at the spilled wine with her napkin. “But after these past days I’d rather be at home, and I’d prefer the safety of travelling in company than taking to the road on our own.” She speared a piece of meat from her plate and popped it into her mouth.

Jane’s heart sank. Setting off with the fugitive king disguised as a tenant farmer’s son would be difficult enough without Withy travelling along, sure to stick her nose where it had no business. What could she say to dissuade them? She cast a glance at Henry, listening from across the table. He seemed to read her mind.

“If I were you, John Petre,” he said to Withy’s husband, “I’d hold off a few days before taking your wife abroad. By then Cromwell’s men are sure to be fewer on the ground, and the roads will be safer.”

“That’s true,” Jane said.

Withy’s husband opened his mouth to speak, but Withy cut in. “Then why don’t you wait?”

Jane could think of no answer and flushed in consternation, and to her annoyance, a knowing smile crept over Withy’s red face.

“Maybe Jane is in such a hurry because she plans to elope,” she simpered to the table. “It’s not Ellen Norton but some lover she’s riding off to!”

Her scornful laugh made it only too clear that she considered the idea ridiculous, and Jane bit her lip to keep from flying out at her sister with angry words.

“Nonsense. Of course it’s Ellen I’m going to see. How could it be otherwise with Henry along? I would delay my travel myself did not Ellen expect me every day. Of course you’re welcome to ride with us, Withy.”

Withy looked put out at Jane’s capitulation, but only turned to her husband and said, “That’s settled, then. We’ll leave in the morning.”

JANE WENT TO HER ROOM AFTER SUPPER TO FINISH HER PACKING. SHE could not carry much, only what would fit in the saddlebags, and she was debating whether to bring along the book of Shakespeare’s sonnets when there was a quiet knock at the door. John slipped in, shutting the door behind him.

“I’ll be off to Moseley about ten,” he said. “And return with Lord Wilmot and—and the other gentleman. You have the clothes?”

Jane took from a large chest the grey broadcloth suit that had been made as Sunday best for one of the servants but had never yet been worn, and a pair of shoes belonging to Richard, who had the biggest feet in the family.

“Good,” said John. “Those will do well. He can have a bath and shave in the kitchen and sleep in the servants’ quarters, and keep out of sight until we’re on the point of leaving.”

“I’ll make all ready,” Jane said, “and have food waiting when you come back.” She turned back to her packing, but John put a hand on her arm.

“Jane, it would be better if you didn’t see him until morning.”

“But I want to make him welcome and see that he’s comfortable,” Jane said. “It’s little enough to do.”

“I know,” John said. “But if you don’t meet with him tonight, then if it comes to it, you can truthfully claim you never laid eyes on him until he brought out your horse, and you knew not who he was. If we’re discovered, that could be the difference between life and death for you.”

They stood in silence for a moment, listening as the case clock in the hall below struck eight. Fear lurked in the pit of Jane’s stomach, but she looked up into John’s worried eyes and spoke calmly.

“I had rather be hanged for a sheep than a lamb. I’ll heat water for his bath and give him his supper.” She gave a wry smile. “And beg his pardon in advance for the nuisance Withy is sure to make of herself.”

“Well, that can’t be helped. But they’ll part from you before the end of the day. Between you and Henry I’m sure you can keep her off the scent for a few hours.”

IT WAS NEAR MIDNIGHT WHEN JANE HEARD THE SOFT WHINNY OF A horse in the darkness of the stable yard. John was back from Moseley. She could hardly believe that the king would really be in the house in a moment. She lifted the candle to view herself in the mirror above her dressing table. She looked anxious and white-faced, her eyes wide in the darkness of the room. She attempted a smile. Better. She wondered if she should change clothes. She had pondered what to wear. It was the king, after all, whom she would be greeting, and yet she would be meeting him in the kitchen in the middle of the night. She had settled on her favourite gown, a brocade of dusky rose, set off by the lace-trimmed sleeves of her shift. Her bosom swelled at the neckline of the bodice, and she draped a white kerchief around her neck and then tossed it away. It was the king, and she would look as pretty as she could, whatever the circumstances. She tucked a stray curl into place, and crept silently out of her room.

As Jane approached the kitchen door, she could hear men’s voices. She paused to listen, her heart beating fast. John’s voice, quiet and steady, but intense with emotion. Wilmot’s tenor whisper. And a lower voice, speaking only a few words, which could only be the voice of the king.

She took a deep breath and entered the kitchen. The men were huddled near the warmth of the fireplace, their faces eerie in the flickering firelight. She stared with shock at what appeared to be a tall scarecrow standing between John and Lord Wilmot. Beneath a greasy and shapeless grey steeple-crowned hat, bloodshot eyes shone from a face that was freakishly mottled sooty black and greenish brown and creased with sweat and dirt, dark hair hanging lank and damp on either side. A threadbare green coat, too small for the broad shoulders, stretched over a battered leather doublet and ragged breeches, and the stockings of coarse yarn were heavily darned at the knees.

The king it must be, but if Jane had not known otherwise, she would have thought him some desperate beggar or Tom O’Bedlam. The men were looking at her and she collected her wits enough to curtsy deeply.

“You are most welcome, Your—” she began, but the scarecrow hastened to her and raised her, whispering fiercely, “No formalities, I pray you, Mistress. I thank you for your hospitality, but the less said the better for all.”

Jane looked up into the shining dark eyes of the king. She was astonished to see him summon a weary smile, and she found herself smiling back, her nervousness melting away.

“Then I will say only I pray you sit, sir, while I get you some supper.”

Wilmot’s serving man settled himself on a stool by the fireplace and the others sat at the kitchen table, seeming near to collapse now that they were safe inside. Jane drew a pitcher of ale and put it before them with slipware mugs, and then dished stew from the kettle that hung on a hook to the side of the fire. She was pleased at the smile on the king’s face when she set a steaming dish before him, and when she came back a minute later with bread, cheese, and butter, he had already eaten most of the stew.

“Forgive my animal nature, Mistress,” he said, meeting her eyes. “It’s little I’ve had to eat in the last days, and this meal is the best that I can recall in my life, it seems.”

Jane blushed, and took up his empty dish. “Then I beg you let me give you more, sir.”