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.”
The king consumed the second plate of stew hungrily while John and Wilmot and Wilmot’s man ate at a slower pace. Jane lit some more candles, and as the light fell on the king’s feet, she was shocked to see that his shoes had been slit around the sides, and that his protruding toes were bandaged and dark with dried blood. What a terrible ordeal he had already passed through in the last few days, she thought, and what unknown dangers lay ahead of him.
“My brother has fresh clothes for you, sir,” she said, setting another loaf of bread upon the table. “And water for a bath is hot and ready.”
“The happiest words I’ve had in a week.” He smiled, and she was pleased that so simple a thing probably was the most welcome gift she could give him at that moment.
“Then I will bid you good night,” she murmured, with a half curtsy.
“And I will see you on the morrow, a changed man.”
Jane turned to go, but the king took her hand and spoke again. “I thank you, Mistress Lane, most humbly, for your kindness and your bravery.”
Jane felt herself lost in his eyes, and was conscious of the other men watching her.
“Not at all, sir,” she murmured. “I’m happy to do whatever I can in your service.”
The king raised her hand to his lips and kissed it, and she felt as though a bolt of lightning had shot through her. She tried to speak but no sound would come, and she could only nod and smile as she fled into the darkness of the hall.
IN BED, JANE LAY LOOKING AT THE STAR-FLECKED NIGHT SKY OUTSIDE her window. She touched the back of her hand, where the king had kissed her. She seemed to feel the imprint of his lips on her skin and shivered. She was excited, but a thrill of terror was roiling her belly. Only a few days ago she had been longing for adventure, but what lay ahead of her was no story out of a book, but a real journey fraught with danger. The plan that had seemed thrilling now felt like madness. The king was a big man, not easily disguised. What hope was there that they could make their way undetected along a hundred miles of roads teeming with enemy troopers, and pass among countless common people for whom a thousand-pound reward would mean a life of security?
Guide us and protect us, Lord, Jane prayed. Make clear our path and cloud the vision of our foes. Preserve the king, that he may live to protect our beloved England. And help me to have the courage to see the journey through, whatever may come.
IT WAS STILL DARK WHEN JOHN KNOCKED ON JANE’S DOOR THE next morning. Her stomach felt shaky with nerves as she washed and dressed, and she tried to shut out Withy’s chatter as she breakfasted. Henry seemed in good spirits, which helped to calm her. He would know what to do if trouble came, and of course the king was a capable soldier. All she really had to do was sit behind the king on a horse, she thought. And keep her head about her.
As the first streaks of pink dawn shot through the grey clouds, John came into the dining room, pulling his coat on.
“It’s time you were off,” he said. “Jane, your horse stands ready.”
When Jane emerged from the house a few minutes later, Withy and her husband and Henry were already mounted, and John and her parents stood waiting to bid them farewell. Jane stared. The young man who held the bridle of her grey mare was unrecognisable from the ragged fugitive of the night before. A bath, a change of clothes, and further cutting of his hair had transformed the king. He was strikingly handsome, his face shaved clean and the mottled brown scrubbed away. His dark hair was now evenly trimmed so that it just brushed his jaw and was combed neatly back. If she had not known the truth, she would have regarded him warily as a Roundhead.
The new suit of clothes in grey wool Jane had provided fit his tall frame admirably. His snapping dark eyes met hers as he pulled off his hat and bowed to her, the very picture of a deferential retainer.
“Good morrow, Mistress. William Jackson, your humble servant.”
“Thank you,” Jane replied, probably too curtly, in an effort to conceal her discomfiture.
The king swung himself into the saddle and offered her his arm—his right arm, the wrong one to enable her to mount easily, and there was a moment of awkwardness as she tried to hoist herself into position. John saw the difficulty and managed a laugh as he came forward to help her.
“The other arm, fellow. You must not be awake yet.”
The king ducked his head in apology and offered his left arm.
“I’m sorry, Mistress,” he said easily. “You’re right, sir, I must still be half dreaming.”
Jane heard her mother give a snort behind her and mutter, “Blockhead.”
John helped Jane settle herself on the pillion behind the king, her feet perched on the little planchette that dangled against the horse’s belly. The