The King's Mistress (27 page)

“Some folk fear what they do not understand,” Jane said, and Marjorie nodded.

“Aye, that’s the truth of it.”

John came in from the outside, his breath visible in the cold air at the cave’s mouth, stamping his feet to get warm.

“It’ll freeze tonight,” he said. “Snow can’t be far off.”

“I’ll be well enough to travel in a day or two,” Jane said.

She wished they didn’t have to leave, but the miles that still lay ahead before they reached Yarmouth would only get harder to travel as the weather grew colder and the days grew shorter. She thought of Henry. Surely he must be safely out of England long since.

I
T WAS PAST THE MIDDLE OF
N
OVEMBER WHEN
J
ANE WAS AT LAST
strong enough to face the remainder of the journey. Her breeches had been soaked in blood, and it seemed somehow a travesty to put on the clothing of a boy when she had so recently passed through the ordeal of a woman. Marjorie brought out a skirt in grey-brown homespun and heavy knitted stockings, and insisted that Jane put them on.

“My daughter’s,” she said. “She died in childbed. She would be pleased to know that they were warming thee.”

Jane worried about leaving the frail old woman on her own in the desolate landscape with winter coming on.

“Will you not travel with us?” she asked, the night before they were to set out. “Come to France.”

A faint smile lit Marjorie’s face.

“To the king? Thinkest thou he’d welcome an old witch to his little court? No, the Beast and I will keep at home here, waiting for the day.”

“The day?” Jane asked.

Marjorie looked at her sidelong.

“When the king enjoys his own again.”

“Then you truly do not think he’s dead?”

Marjorie shook her head.

“Nay. His road is long and furrowed with troubles, but he’s not dead.”

M
ARJORIE’S CAVE WAS LESS THAN A DAY’S WALK FROM
N
ORWICH
. It was the biggest city through which they had passed, and likely to be garrisoned with soldiers, so they would not stay longer than they needed to buy food for the rest of the journey and to hear what news they could. Jane tucked her hair into a white cap that tied beneath her chin and put her hat over that, and shrouded as she was in her coat and cloak, she was confident it would take a sharp eye indeed to discern in her the tall and handsome lady sought for helping the king. She glanced at John. He, too, could probably pass now among people who knew him and never be taken for Colonel John Lane of Bentley Hall. His face was hidden by grey whiskers, his coat was stained and torn, and his hands were browned by exposure and the dirt of the road.

They entered Norwich through St Martin’s Gate. The city, sprawled around the castle and cathedral, seemed a bustling metropolis after the empty heath. At the market they bought bread, cheese, and apples for the journey, and some meat pies to eat on the spot.

“What news?” John asked the pie man. The man glanced at him and took in his traveller’s garb.

“None so great since the news that the king has reached Paris, but perhaps you’ve heard that?”

“The king has reached Paris?” Jane gasped.

“Some two or three weeks since,” the man nodded, gratified at being the bearer of such astonishing information. “Joined there with the queen his mother and his brother the Duke of York.”

He looked around and lowered his voice.

“Oliver’s men are fit to lie down and die with rage and frustration, for they’ll never reach the king now. I’ve the newsbooks with the tidings, if you can read.”

He brought out copies of
Mercurius Politicus
and
The Weekly Intelligencer of the Commonwealth
from a fortnight earlier, both bearing the news that Charles Stuart had reached Paris more than a week before then.

“Thank God!” Jane cried as they stepped away from the pie man’s stall. “Alive and well. Oh, John, it has not all been for naught! But when Henry and I left him on the eighteenth of September, he was within a day’s ride of the sea and there was every hope of a boat. What can have taken so long?”

“We’ll learn when we get there,” John said. “But at least now we know he’s safe, and moreover, we know we will find him when we reach France.”

Happiness suffused Jane’s heart and the very sun seemed to shine more brightly. Charles was safe, and she would be with him again when this difficult journey was at an end.

“How far is Yarmouth now?” she asked.

“Close on thirty miles,” John said, studying the map. “Another three or four days, depending on how much you’re able to walk.”

“And then how long to get to France?” Jane asked.

“I don’t know. It depends on what sort of boat we’re able to find and how difficult that may be. The herring boats go out from there, and there’s other shipping as well. But all sailors are at the mercy of the weather, and so are we, too.”

T
HEY CROSSED THE RIVER AT ONE OF THE GREAT STONE BRIDGES
, and a mile or so out of the city the road sloped down to the river, rushing green in its muddy banks. The land was more populous here, and the way took them past enclosed fields on both sides of the road, and an occasional windmill, but it was bitterly cold.

In the afternoon, about four miles out of Norwich, they came upon that sure indicator of a well-travelled route, a blacksmith’s shop. The friendly blacksmith told them they could undoubtedly get supper and a place before the fire at the house of his daughter and son-in-law, which lay a little way ahead.

“I say we stop there,” John said. “No need to wear yourself out.”

Jane readily agreed. She was feeling much stronger after two weeks of rest, warmth, and food in Marjorie’s cave, but now her legs were not so hardened to the walking, and the skin of her hands was cracked with exposure to cold and wind, though she rubbed salve into them every night.

The smith’s daughter was a pretty dimpled girl and her husband a great strapping farm lad. She was obviously with child—their first, she said blushingly—and their happiness made Jane’s heart ache for the loss of her baby.

The morning was clear and cold. The road passed through groves of chestnuts and beeches, their glowing golden-brown leaves a welcome change from the barren heath. On the second night they stopped at a village called Hales, which consisted of a few houses gathered near the road, and was just large enough to boast a small alehouse with one room to rent.

The afternoon of the third day took them to where the Yarmouth Road veered south to cross the London Road, and a blacksmith’s shop, a few houses, and an inn lay at the crossroads. They had not covered many miles, but the brooding clouds promised rain.

“It’s just as well we stop here,” John said. “We’re not like to find any place near so comfortable if we go farther tonight. And if we get a good start tomorrow we should be able to reach Yarmouth before dark.”

The little taproom was crowded with people making their way to and from Yarmouth, Norwich, and London, as well as the locals, and the travellers exchanged news from their respective parts of the country.

Jane felt more hopeful than she had in weeks when they set off in the morning. From the crossroads, the road ran northeast towards Yarmouth. By nightfall they should be at the coast, and soon, perhaps even the next day, they would be away from England and danger.

The way now threaded through black, sticky, bullrush-fringed marshland, and here and there they had to pick their way across small streams or pay a wherry to take them across the larger expanses of water. Windmills dotted the fen. By afternoon the road ran through drier ground, like the heath between King’s Lynn and Norwich, and as the breeze carried the scent of the sea air towards them, the way became marshy.

“So close now,” John said as the road came alongside a river. “This is the River Yare. The sea lies just there.”

Jane looked where he pointed, off to the right. She could not quite see the water, but the horizon dropped off to deep blue, as if at the end of the world. A little later, the sea appeared, a shimmering silver ribbon, its murmur carried on the wind.

And finally, an hour later, after more than six weeks of travelling, they were there. Yarmouth stood on a thin spit of land between the river and the sea, swept by cold winds. Jane had never seen the sea before, and stood and stared. The choppy blue water seemed to stretch out forever. Great roaring waves broke upon the strand. The air smelled of salt and fish, and gulls swooped and cried overhead.

Hundreds of ships and small boats rode side by side at anchor in the harbour. The quays were aswarm with activity, as men aboard the herring boats loaded their catch into great baskets, others rolled barrels to waiting carts, and sailors hurried to and from vessels. The air was suffused with the smell of fish. A town hall, customs house, and warehouses stood beside the water, and the nearby streets were lined with shops of chandlers and other merchants catering to the seagoing trade, and a few grand houses. Excitement surged through Jane. The last part of the journey lay before them, and at the end of it would be Charles.

Inside the town walls, they ventured into the rows of narrow side streets that ran between the marketplace and the river to find an inn, and Jane was a little taken aback at the number of sailors, ruffianly landsmen, and gaudily dressed women roaming from alehouse to alehouse. The sounds of music came from some of the doors, along with shrieks of laughter and voices raised in song or argument. John took Jane’s arm protectively, and she ducked her head as they passed a trio of chattering and laughing wenches.

They found lodgings at an inn that seemed more sober than most and had supper sent up to their room. Jane could hardly believe that they did not have to set off walking in the morning, and after they ate, she washed her second shirt and a pair of stockings, hanging them to dry before the little fire.

“What sort of boat will we go on, do you think?” she asked, wrapping herself in her blanket and curling onto the bed.

“I don’t know.” John shook his head. “Perhaps a fishing boat, or there may be larger merchant vessels bound for France. I’ll go in the morning to see what I can find. I’ll warrant we’re not the only English folk eager to seek passage.”

Jane would have liked to see more of Yarmouth, but took the opportunity to stay abed in the morning while John went to the docks. He returned about midday, with the good news that he had been able to find the captain of a herring boat who was willing to take them to France, leaving on the evening tide the next day. The captain had carefully not asked questions, but there were soldiers about the town, John said, and he and Jane decided it would be safer for her to lie low until they were ready to depart.

“We’ll land at Dieppe,” John said. “It’s much further by sea than Dunkerque or Calais, but it will save us a hundred miles or more of walking.”

“Good,” Jane said. “Whatever it cost, I’m sure it was worth it.”

“It cost a pretty penny,” John said.

“How much money is left?”

“Enough to get us to Paris, I think. After that—well, we’ll see what we shall see.”

L
ATE THE NEXT AFTERNOON THEY BOARDED THE HERRING DRIFTER
, a single-masted vessel about sixty feet long, with a crew of a dozen men and boys. There was a tiny cabin, but Jane determined to stay on deck while there was light, wanting to see as much as she could, for who knew when she might have the opportunity to be at sea again? As they left the harbour for open water, the sea was rough, and the boat bounded up the steep green slopes and plunged into the troughs between the waves. Jane found it a little terrifying, but also exhilarating.

“Farewell, England,” John said beside her as they watched Yarmouth disappear into the mist.

On the afternoon of the second day at sea, a brown shadow appeared on the horizon.

“That’s France, Mistress,” the captain said.

Jane gazed at the land ahead and said a silent prayer of thanks, for now she was nearly to safety and to being reunited with Charles.

D
IEPPE WAS
F
RANCE’S MAIN PORT
, J
OHN TOLD
J
ANE
. F
ISHING VESSELS
bobbed near the quays, but there were many more merchant and navy ships than at Yarmouth. Jane listened with fascination to the babel of languages. She understood French, and John identified Spanish, Dutch, and Flemish.

There was still a hundred miles to travel to Paris, but now that they were not in England and did not have to use such caution to avoid discovery, they could hire a horse, which could be changed at stages along the way.

“We should be able to reach Paris in about four days,” John said as they made for a stable a little way from the waterfront.

Jane was eager to reach Paris as soon as they could, and chafed at the thought of how slow the trip would be if she rode pillion, but her body still felt broken and vulnerable and she didn’t think she could ride astride, even if John did not object, which she knew he would.

The French countryside was beautiful, but it was December now, and each day the sun rose a few minutes later and dusk fell a few minutes earlier, enveloping the land in wintry dark. Jane was grateful that the road was well travelled, and they never had too far to ride to find food or an inn. The people they met accepted their presence with a lack of surprise that made it apparent that they were not the only English folk who had made their way to Paris recently.

“With luck we should be in Paris by sunset,” John said on the fourth day of their ride.

In the midafternoon two men on horseback galloped past them, and hearing a snatch of their conversation in English, John hailed them. As the men turned, Jane was astonished to see that one of them was their cousin Henry Lascelles, and the other Colonel William Carlis, a neighbour from Market Drayton in Staffordshire. It took the men a moment to recognise John and Jane.

“God’s my life,” Henry said, staring. “Jane. John.”

He leaped from his horse and pulled Jane into his arms, holding her tight to him as if he thought she might disappear, and Jane clung to him, only now that she knew he was safe allowing herself to realise how worried she had been about him.