The King’s Mistress. Gillian Bagwell

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      “And with that,” Charles continued, “he was put off from thinking any more on it but desired that we might drink a pot of beer together. Which I excused by saying that I must go wait upon my master and get his dinner ready for him, but told him that we were going for London and would return about three weeks hence, and then I would not fail to drink a pot with him.”

      “Quick thinking, Your Majesty,” Henry grinned.

      A knock at the door heralded the arrival of dinner. Once the kitchen boy was gone, Jane made to serve Charles, but he waved off her attentions and begged her and Henry to sit and eat with him.

      Riding pillion for so many miles was wearying, and Jane’s body ached in unaccustomed places. The men appeared exhausted as well, and hot food and warmed wine brightened their spirits and revived their energy.

      “Do you know”—Charles smiled over a leg of chicken—“I begin to think that I may be safe after all. Only one more day of riding, and we shall be at Bristol.”

      “And nothing will hinder us from getting you there, Sire,” Henry said, “though it costs my life.”

      Charles looked from Jane to Henry. “I can only hope that I will see the day when I can honour you as I wish for the help you have given me. I have been much humbled by the love and care shown to me by so many of my people these last days. Most of them have been poor folk with little enough for themselves, but they’ve risked their lives to keep me safe, and offered all they have. Indeed, one of them gave me the shirt off his back, quite truly.”

      He plucked at his shirt, now grimy from the ride but clearly new.

      “The people love you, Your Majesty,” Jane said. “And pray for your return.”

      But none of them love you so well as I do, she thought, watching the flickering firelight play on his face.

      Charles looked around the room, cosy with the fire crackling, its light chasing the shadows away, and smiled.

      “A bed to sleep in tonight! I will ne’er take such comfort for granted again.”

      “Of course you shall have the great bed, Your Majesty,” Henry said, “and I will take the pallet.”

      “Even a pallet would be welcome,” Charles laughed, “and a great improvement from doubling myself up in priest holes, and a day spent sleeping in a tree.”

      “In a tree?” Jane asked in astonishment.

      “Yes,” Charles said. “When I was at Boscobel, the Giffards feared I would be discovered if I stayed within, even in the priest hole, so I spent a long day in an oak some little way behind the house, my head resting upon the lap of one Colonel Carlis, who I think you know?”

      “Yes, an old friend,” Jane said.

      “Cromwell’s men were searching in the woods nearby, and it scarcely seemed possible that we should escape detection. And yet despite all that, I was so tired, having gone three nights without sleep, that I slumbered, my head resting on the good colonel’s lap.”

      “Will you tell us of the fight at Worcester, Your Majesty?” Henry asked, pouring more wine for all of them. “We’ve only heard pieces of the story, and none from any who know what happened so well as you.”

      Charles’s eyes darkened, and Jane thought of the stories of confusion, despair, and horror she had heard from the soldiers fleeing from the battle.

      “It was a desperate venture, in which people were laughing at the ridiculousness of our condition well before the battle. We had been three weeks marching from Scotland, with the rebels pursuing us, when we limped into Worcester. We knew Oliver was on his way with thirty thousand men, and I had but half that number, hungry, sick at heart, already worn out, many lacking even shoes to their feet.”

      Jane thought of the ragged survivors on the road past Bentley the day after the battle. It was a wonder any had survived at all, she thought, if they had begun in such desperate condition.

      “We needed every advantage we could get. We blew up the bridges leading to the town, dug earthworks, built up the fort, and waited. When at length Cromwell came, he fired upon the city, but made no further move for three days.”

      Charles was on his feet now, pacing. Jane could imagine only too well the tension of the young king and his soldiers, knowing the battle would come but not when, having to stay vigilant and ready despite their exhaustion and apprehension.

      “He was waiting, you see, for the third of September.” Charles turned to them, a bitter smile creasing his face. “A year to the day since he beat us at Dunbar. And when that day dawned, he moved.”

      “John Lane and I were on our way to Worcester on that day, even as the fight was under way,” Henry said. “I would we had reached you in time to be of use.”

      “I would you had, too. Had we had but a few thousand more so stouthearted, perhaps the fight would have ended differently.”

      He leaned a hand on the mantelpiece and stood staring down into the fire. Jane tried to imagine how a battle started.

      “How did it begin? How did you know what to do, how to place your men?” she asked.

      “I began the day atop the cathedral with my officers,” Charles said. “Where we could see for miles in every direction. My heart was in my throat, I can tell you, to see the enemy off to the south, so numerous.”

      Jane’s throat tightened to think what he must have felt, seeing the possibility of death and destruction marching inexorably towards him.

      “I cannot say whether our hopes or fears were greatest that morning, but we had one stout argument—despair. For we knew that everything rested on the outcome of that day, and for me it would be a crown or a coffin. I took a last look at that great sweeping view, the wind on the river, my men massed and waiting, and went down to fight.”

      Jane pictured him, mounted and armed, raising his sword aloft, rallying his men to battle.

       Follow your spirit; and upon this charge

       Cry “God for Harry, England, and Saint George!”

      “If bravery and determination alone were enough, you would have won,” she said.

      “You held the fort and the city walls for most of the day, did you not, Your Majesty?” Henry asked.

      “So we did. The tide turned, alas, when they overran the fort, and turned our guns against us. The Duke of Hamilton, who led the Scots so valiantly, was grievous wounded by a cannonball.”

      Jane winced. A cannonball could easily take off a man’s head or cut him in two.

      “His men held off the charge at Sidbury Gate as long as they could, but once the enemy was within the city walls, the day was lost.”

      “My lord Wilmot says he never saw a fiercer fight,” Henry said.

      “My men made a last stand near the town hall, and I hope I may never see such a sight again as the red of the setting sun on the blood in the streets. СКАЧАТЬ