The King's Mistress (15 page)

“Then I bid you good night and good rest,” Charles said.

His eyes flickered towards Jane as Henry bowed, an invitation in his glance, and she smiled her acquiescence. But Henry stood holding the door for her, and she followed him out, intending to return to Charles when Henry was safe in his room.

“More of an adventure every day, isn’t it?” Henry said in a low voice as they reached the door of Jane’s room.

“Indeed. But all in a good cause. Good night, Henry.”

She shut her door and listened to his footsteps continuing down the hall to his room. She was sure Charles was expecting her to return, but how long should she wait to be sure the coast was clear? She counted a hundred slowly, and then again, more impatient with every second to be in Charles’s arms. Softly then, she opened the door of her room. All was quiet and dark, and shoeless, she crept to the narrow staircase that led to the garret where Charles’s room lay. A shadow loomed before her and she stopped short with a gasp of surprise.

“And where might you be going, cousin?” Henry’s voice was quiet, but there was no mistaking the steel within it.

“Nowhere,” she faltered. “I mean, I—I remembered something I need to ask the king.”

“Indeed. And what could be so important that you creep to his room in the wee hours, on stocking feet? He may be the king, but I’ll not have you playing the whore to him, Jane.”

The word struck Jane as hard as if Henry had given her a blow to the face.

“How dare you?” she whispered fiercely. “It is none of your concern what I do.”

“You don’t even bother to deny it, then?” he demanded, grasping her forearms with hard hands.

Jane shook herself free. She could protest her innocence, but what was the point?

“I don’t answer to you, Henry Lascelles,” she spat. “I am no child. And if I choose to go to the king’s room or to the king’s bed, it’s my own business. Now let me pass.”

They stood facing each other in the dark a moment, their laboured breathing the only sound. Henry’s rangy form blocked her way, but she would not turn back. At last he stood aside, but he seized her by the shoulders as she moved to pass him, and spoke low and angry into her ear.

“You’re right, I cannot stop you, without I lock you in your room. Were he any other man than the king, I would challenge him. And even though he is the king, I’d do the same, though it meant my death, were it not that on his head rests the future of the kingdom. But your father and your brother shall know of this, and the shame you have brought on our family.”

He thrust her away from him and she nearly lost her balance as he stalked down the stairs past her. She felt herself flush with anger and humiliation, and a new sense of shame as she saw how he must think of her, and how anyone else would, too, did they know how things stood with her and Charles. She leaned against the wall, trying to still her galloping heart. It was not fair for Henry to chastise her so, she thought. In ordinary circumstances, she would never behave as she had done for the last several days. She had lived virtuous and quiet her whole life. But these were not ordinary circumstances. It was the king to whom she had lost her heart. And he didn’t treat her like a whore, but like an admired friend or even sweetheart.

Didn’t he? Cold panic surged through her stomach. She felt suddenly as if she had been swept into a raging river, the cold water swirling her deeper into trouble. What if Charles did not care for her beyond taking pleasure in her body, and would forget her as soon as she was out of his sight? Fear and humiliation swept over her at the thought. And, oh, God, if Henry did tell John and her father … The king’s cast-off whore. That is what she would be forevermore.

She found she was weeping, and knuckled away her tears. She couldn’t let Charles see her like this, but neither would she miss the chance of going to him, for who knew whether they would find another chance to be alone before they parted.
Well,
she thought, squaring her shoulders,
if I’m his whore, another night won’t make a difference.
She straightened her dress and climbed the stairs.

Charles was waiting in the dark when Jane slipped into his room and shut the door softly behind her.

“I thought you’d changed your mind,” he said in her ear as he lifted her skirts. His hands were eager on her flesh and his fingers sought the place between her thighs. Her heart felt like ice. She loved him, loved him with her soul. But maybe Henry was right, and this was all she meant to him.

“Treat me like a whore,” she said, her voice hollow.

He jerked away from her.

“What?”

“I am your whore, am I not? So use me as you would do a whore.”

Charles looked down at her, peering at her face in the moonlight. Did he see the traces of tears on her cheeks?

“What’s got into you, Jane? Why do you say such a thing?”

“Do you care for me?” she asked, regretting the words as soon as they were out.

“Of course I do. You’ve risked your life—”

“I don’t mean that. Do you care for me? Would you care for me, were things not as they are?”

Tears welled in her eyes as she waited for him to speak. It seemed a long time, and she shivered, her skin going to gooseflesh in the cold night air.

“Sweetheart.” Charles took her into his arms and kissed her eyelids. “I care for you. You are sweet and courageous, and I pray I may get the chance to tell all England how good you have been to me.”

She longed to melt against him, but stayed rigid, as if by controlling her body she could control her heart and soul.

“But after tomorrow, or soon, you will be gone, and I’ll never see you again.”

Charles sighed and shook his head. “What would you have me say? I must be gone, if I value my life and my country. You know that.”

“Yes, I know that. And I have been a fool to let myself love you as I do. So do not use me as a lover. Use me as you would a whore. As rough and uncaring as you please.”

“Jane …”

“Do it.” She marvelled that she could speak so to the king.

“Very well.” He let go of her and stood motionless a moment. “Then onto your knees and serve me.”

“I don’t know how.”

Now it had come, she was afraid, far more afraid than she had been. What had she sought to prove?

His voice sounded like that of a stranger when he spoke. “It’s easy enough. Come, wench, onto your knees.”

He grasped her hair and forced her down as he unbuttoned his breeches. His cock stood hard and he pulled her mouth onto it.

“Suck. Yes, like that. That’s what a whore does.”

Jane let him guide her movements. She felt a twist of shame, and then wondered why it should be so. He had done the same for her, and it was a gift of exquisite pleasure. But this was different somehow, and she knew it. She heard his breath come quick, heard him stifle a low moan, and then he pushed her onto the bed, rucking her skirts up behind as he entered her. He thrust hard and she knew he sought his pleasure only. It gave her pleasure, to know she pleased him so, and there was a power in it, too, though it did not have the sweetness of love.

He spent soon and rolled off her. They lay in the dark silently for some time, not touching, and she listened to his breath slow to its normal rhythm. Finally he spoke.

“I cannot think of you as a whore, for you are none.”

He pulled her to him, cradling her against his chest, and his eyes shone in the dark as he caressed her, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

“Oh. I am glad.” Her heart was thawing, and she stroked his forehead, feeling the dampness of the sweat and the dark curls around his ears.

One flyspeck more blotted Jane’s happiness. Better speak of it now than leave it to torment her with uncertainty later, she thought.

“Who did Lord Wilmot mean, when he spoke of ‘dear Christabella’ so smilingly?”

Charles stirred restlessly beside her.

“She was my nurse.”

“Your nurse?” She looked at him in astonishment, trying to see his face in the dark.

“Her husband was governor of Bristol during the war, and when my council came to Bridgewater, she was there. I hadn’t seen her in many years, since I was a child. She petted and cosseted me, as she used to do, and people talked, as they will.”

Jane remembered Wilmot’s raised eyebrow and the insinuation in his voice.

“But you were not a child.”

“No. I was, though, little more than a boy—not quite sixteen—and trying to do the job of a man. I was lonely and sad and terrified, and she gave me comfort.”

“In her bed?”

Charles sighed. “Yes. She was a very handsome girl, not yet thirty, and she taught me that in her arms I could forget my cares for a little and find sweet oblivion.”

Jane’s heart contracted. Of course he had had other women, but to hear him speak of one made it particular, not general. It was her own fault, she knew. She had asked.

“And where is she now?”

“With her husband. I haven’t seen her in five years and more.”

They lay silent for a little while, until Charles pulled Jane to face him.

“Jane, our time is short and my life and future are not my own. But in my heart you are my queen, and I swear it ever shall be so.”

She laughed softly and laid her head on his chest.

“If I am a queen, then am I like Dido. You will treat me as cruel Aeneas treated her, going off in pursuit of your crown and leaving me to my grief, and I shall go mad of a broken heart at your faithlessness, as Ophelia did.”

“You won’t go mad,” Charles snorted. “You have far too much sense. And you’re much stronger than poor Ophelia. You might curse me, but you’d never do away with yourself.

“‘May he not enjoy his kingdom or the days he longed for,

But let him die before his time, and lie unburied on the sand.’”

Jane smiled and took up Dido’s curse.

“‘Then, O Tyrians, pursue my hatred against his whole line,

And the race to come, and offer it as a tribute to my ashes.’”

“That’s my girl,” said Charles. “Come, kiss me, and let me kiss you as my love.”

J
ANE WAS RELIEVED NOT TO RUN INTO
H
ENRY AT BREAKFAST
after their encounter the previous night. She and Charles had agreed that there were too many people about for it to be safe for her to spend time in his room during the day, and in any case she was glad of the chance to visit with Ellen while she could. She had said nothing yet of their plans to depart on the morrow, and dreaded it, but thought she would pass it off as some whim of Henry’s to visit farther south, assuring Ellen that they would return in a day or two.

“Shall we walk out this morning?” she asked Ellen as they finished the morning meal alone in Ellen’s little sitting room.

“Perhaps in the afternoon,” Ellen said. “I’m feeling tired and my belly is a bit unsettled.” Jane noted with concern that Ellen’s face was unusually pale.

“Are you well? Should I find Dr Gorge?”

“Oh, no.” Ellen brushed off her worry. “I’m sure it’s nothing. No doubt if I lie down for a bit, I’ll feel better by and by.”

So Jane walked by herself, out through the great walled garden where gardeners toiled among the espaliered fruit trees and into the open meadows that sloped down towards the sea. Great spreading chestnuts and maples dotted the land, little winged flying seedpods twirling down to the earth in the breeze. They made Jane think of fairies, and the stories her grandmother Bagot used to tell her when she was a child about the little people who lived in the woods.

It was a spectacular estate, and it brought to mind Sir Clement Fisher and his lands. She had not yet visited Packington Hall, but John assured her that it was a beautiful and stately house of red brick, surrounded by miles of parkland. There would be something quite wonderful, Jane thought, about being mistress of all that she could see. But she knew that she would cast off the possibility of lands and property in a moment if she could keep Charles with her, could have always the excitement and pleasure she felt in his company.

Ellen did not appear at dinner, and Jane went upstairs to find her. Ellen was lying with her eyes closed on her daybed, an open book beside her.

“Shall I read to you?” Jane asked. Ellen opened her eyes and smiled.

“Yes, I’d like that. Do you know, I don’t think anyone has read aloud to me since my mother when I was little.”

“I always loved it when my father read to me,” Jane said, taking up the book. She had barely begun to read when Ellen gave a little groan. Jane looked up and saw that Ellen’s face was covered by a sheen of sweat and contorted with pain.

“What is it?” Jane cried. “Are you in labour?”

“No, no, no,” Ellen cried. “It’s too soon. It cannot be. Oh!” She gasped as with a sharp pain. “Oh, Jane, something is quite wrong!” Jane saw with horror that a crimson stain was spreading across Ellen’s skirts.

“I’ll run for the doctor,” Jane said, dropping the book as she started to her feet.

“No, don’t leave me!” Ellen cried. She rose and tried to go to Jane but collapsed to the floor.

“Help!” Jane shouted, yanking the door open. “Fetch the doctor quick!”

She sank to the floor beside Ellen, who was now unconscious, the front of her gown soaked in bright red blood.

T
WO HOURS LATER
D
R
G
ORGE EMERGED FROM
E
LLEN’S BEDROOM
, his face grey. Jane waited there with George Norton’s sister and a few others of the household. At the sight of Dr Gorge’s face her heart sank.

“Is she dead?” she cried.

“No. But the baby is lost, poor thing. And Mrs Norton is very weak and in grave danger, I fear. She may recover, but only time will tell.”

“Can I see her?”

“For a few minutes. Don’t talk of the child, if you can avoid it.”

Jane was shocked at Ellen’s appearance. She had been washed and dressed in a clean nightgown, but her colour was so pale as to be almost blue, and though the covers were pulled to her chin, she was racked with shivers. A maid, tears running down her face, carried away a basket with bedclothes soaked in blood. No one else was in the room.