Georgette Heyer (22 page)

  'Never that, sir!' Whitgreave said. 'I desire death as little as any other man, yet since die I must, soon or late, I should choose that I should die serving your Majesty.'

  'And I,' Huddleston said. 'But we stay too long! Your Majesty should make haste to Bentley. We forget the poor Colonel by the orchard-stile!'

  'He can wait,' said the King. 'Will you bring your mother in to me, Mr Whitgreave? I desire to take my leave of her.'

  'Sir!' said Huddleston impetuously, 'every moment that you tarry here may endanger your life!'

  The King looked at him, his brows raised in faint surprise. Huddleston, recognizing the expres sion, stepped back, and bowed. 'I crave your Majesty's pardon!'

  Whitgreave went out to summon his mother. She had been hoping to be sent for, and so had not gone to bed. When she came into the parlour-chamber it was with a scallop-dish full of sweetmeats, which, knowing that the King liked such things, she had prepared for him. He ate a St Catherine's prune, and a dried grape, praising them highly, and permitted her to stuff the rest into his pockets, saying, though with a pronounced twinkle in his eye, that he should be very glad of them. He would not suffer her to kneel to him, or to kiss his hand, but bowed over hers instead, thanking her for her entertainment of him. At that she quite forgot he was not a son of her own, and put her hands on his big shoulders, and kissed him, and blessed him. He seemed to like this usage very well, folding his arms about her, and saluting her on both cheeks, and telling her that he should never forget her kindness.

  He was then led out of the house down the narrow backstairs, Whitgreave going before with a lantern, and Huddleston hurrying after with a cloak of his own, which, fearing that the King might be cold on this sharp autumn night, he had run to fetch for him.

  The Colonel was standing by the stile when they came to it. Mr Whitgreave at once presented him to the King, to whom he bowed, with a sweep of his feath ered hat, saying in his strong, firm voice: 'Sire!'

  'I am very glad to see you, Colonel,' said the King. 'I hope you have brought a stout horse for me to ride?'

  'If your Majesty would be pleased to walk to this place they call the Pit Leasow, the horses will be found there, sir. Mr Whitgreave thought it not advisable to fetch them closer.'

  'Let us go, then,' the King said.

  John Penderel was walking the horses up and down in the grove by the Pit Leasow. He held the stirrup for the King, who, however, would not mount until he had spoken a few last words to Whitgreave and Huddleston. The night was cold enough to make him glad of Huddleston's frieze cloak, which, he promised, should be returned to him from Bentley Hall.

  'Certainly!' the Colonel said. 'It shall be strictly attended to, Mr Huddleston. I am grieved I did not bring a cloak for your Majesty. I had not fully under stood the condition in which your Majesty stands. My lord did indeed speak of the mean raiment that you had been forced to put on you, but I did not dream – could not believe, sir, that you were reduced to such straits!'

  He was evidently much shocked by the deplorable appearance of his sovereign; there was even a sugges tion, in his tone, of amazement that any man could demean himself by wearing such a disguise.

  The King gave a chuckle, and bent to give his hand to John Penderel. 'Farewell, my faithful friend! From my heart, I thank you. If it please God to bring me to my Crown, let me see you!'

  He gave his hand in turn to Whitgreave and Huddleston, bidding them have a care to themselves; again thanked them; and only then signified to the Colonel that he was ready to start.

  There was enough moonlight to enable them to see their way. They rode side by side, the Colonel sitting very erect in the saddle, and keeping a sharp watch ahead. The King did not speak for a minute to two, but presently he enquired how far they had to go, and upon being told, four miles, remarked that it was the shortest journey he had yet undertaken.

  'I wish it were shorter, for your Majesty's sake,' the Colonel said.

  'Why, I am very well able to ride as far as I must,' Charles replied. 'These two days I have lain at Moseley have quite restored me.'

  'I would your Majesty had been the while at Bentley!'

  'You are kind, Colonel. But I have been in good hands.'

  'I must own, Thomas Whitgreave seems to be a very honest man,' admitted the Colonel. 'Yet I could not but deplore your Majesty's being taken to a Papist's house, and wonder at my lord's thinking it in any way safe. Such people are much suspected, sir.'

  'So I see,' said the King rather dryly. 'But tell me, if you please, what measures for my escape have been concerted between my lord and you. Am I to have the honour of riding with your sister to Bristol?'

  'Sir? If your Majesty will be pleased to consent to it, the honour will be my sister's, which she is very conscious of, I do assure you.'

  'I hope she is also conscious of the danger she courts,' said the King. 'Is she willing? I will have no woman constrained to aid me to her own undoing.'

  'Your Majesty need be under no apprehension. My sister, I warrant, would count it a blessing to die in your service.'

  'My dear good friend, that is very nobly said, but I do not desire anyone to die in my service. When must we set forth upon our journey?'

  'If your Majesty pleases, it is arranged that you shall leave Bentley in the morning, so that you may lie to-morrow night at the house of a relative of mine, one Mr Tomes, of Long Marston. And, for better convenience, we think you should go by the name of William Jackson, the same being a poor tenant on my father's estate. To this end, I have procured a decent, plain suit. Upon reflection, neither my lord nor I thought it well your Majesty should go as a servant. As William Jackson, you may command fitter lodging upon the journey than would be deemed proper for a waiting-man.'

  'It likes me well,' said the King.

  'Furthermore, sir, we have admitted a young kinsman of mine, that was my Cornet in the late Wars, into the secret. Your Majesty will find him very trustworthy, nor will he leave you until you are safely embarked for France.'

  'I thank him, and you, Colonel.'

  'There is one other circumstance of which your Majesty should be informed. My sister, Withy, and her husband, one John Petre, of Horton, in Buckingham shire, are staying at Bentley upon a visit to my father and mother, and do intend to ride a part of the way with my sister Jane, upon their return to Buckinghamshire. It is unfortunate, for although Mr Petre is a very honest man, neither I nor my lord feel it meet that he should be informed of the secret. Yet to put obstacles in the way of his setting out with Jane must, we fear, occasion suspicion in his breast.'

  'Will he know me?' enquired the King.

  'Nay, sire, he has never seen your Majesty, nor concerned himself greatly with what lies beyond his own demesnes.'

  'Then I see no harm in his going along with us. But my lord I will not take with me.'

  'If it please your Majesty, my lord and I mean to ride abreast of you upon another road, with our hawks upon our wrists, and a couple of dogs at our heels, as though upon a day's sport. We may lie tomorrow night at Sir Clement Fisher's house, at Packington, and so be within reach of your Majesty.'

  'You have thought of everything, Colonel.'

  'Sire, my earnest desire is to serve your Majesty. If there is aught that mislikes you in our schemes, I will instantly order it better.'

  'My dear Colonel, there is nothing I would have altered, save only a certain small matter. And that is that you will bear in mind that I am now become a poor tenant on your estates. Majesty me no Majesties, for if you do not speedily rid yourself of that trick, I am very sure you will betray me.'

  The Colonel did not answer for a moment, but pres ently he said, picking his words: 'I ask your pardon, sir. You are very right. The truth is, I was bred in the old school, and find it hard to treat your – to treat you as any other than my King and master.'

  'When you have seen me in a better light you will not find it so hard,' said the King, a quiver of amuse ment in his voice.

  But this was a subject in which the Colonel was unable to see any humour. He said with strong feeling: 'I am not glib of speech, sir, else I could tell your Majesty of my dismay, my horror, at the disas ters which have befallen you! Sir, do you blame us, your English subjects? I swear to you that I, and a hundred – two hundred! – like me would have rallied to your standard with all our forces, had we but been apprised of your coming into England! When the dreadful tidings of the defeat at Worcester reached us, I was even then marching to join your Majesty at the head of my own men. Sir, I did my possible, but there was no time! No time to muster our men, no time –'

  'Peace, I blame no Englishman!' the King said. 'The Covenanters would not let my letters to you go out of Scotland.'

  'Would not
let
!' the Colonel exclaimed. 'You were the King, crowned and anointed!'

  'Oh yes, I was the King. Also I was a prisoner, but no matter for that.'

  They rode on in silence, the King wrapped in melancholy, the Colonel fuming with indignation at the effrontery of the Scottish Covenanters. In a little while they had reached the confines of Bentley Hall. Entering, not through the great wrought-iron gates, but by a farm-gate reached by way of a miry lane, they rode for some distance across a deer-park, arriving at length at the house, which was a large mansion, set in well-ordered gardens, and displaying imposing rows of windows along its extensive façade.

  The Colonel led the way past the house, skirting its gardens, to the silent stables, where he begged the King to be pleased to dismount. A stately figure emerged out of the shadows, and bowed deeply.

  'Robert Swan, my lord's man,' explained the Colonel.

  The King laughed.

  Robert Swan, who, though not as portly, was quite as dignified as his master, held the King's horse while he dismounted. He was one who had been accustomed all his life to wait upon exalted personages, and not by the smallest sign did he betray that he found anything at all out of the way in the arrival of the King at such an hour, and in such a guise. His punctilious manner seemed to people the deserted stableyard with a throng of courtiers and lackeys. He went backwards before the King into the stable, and ushered him into the harness room as though it had been an audience chamber. Not even when Charles stepped into the light of a lantern hanging from the roof, and he was able to see his cropped head and stained skin, did his countenance lose one jot of its lofty impassivity.

  'Before I escort your Majesty into the house, I will discover whether all is quiet there,' the Colonel said. 'My father is sometimes wakeful, and we think it best he should not know of your Majesty's presence, since he is an old man and in failing health.'

  'Oddsfish, is the sight of me as bad as that?' asked the King.

  'Sir! Your Majesty mistakes! No such thought was in my mind!'

  The King perceived that he had to deal with one who did not share his own love of a joke. He glanced from the Colonel's concerned face to Swan's rigid one, and choked down the laugh that rose to his lips. 'I know, I know!' he said. 'Go and do your scouting, Colonel; I will await you here, I promise you.'

  The Colonel bowed, and took a step backwards to the door. As he reached it, a footfall sounded outside, and a moment later, a girl had entered, so lightly that it seemed as though the wind had blown her in. She wore a gown of some pale stuff, and over it, caught carelessly round her shoulders and held together by one hand, a dark, flowing cloak. An oval face, faintly tinted with colour, a lovely, proud mouth, and glowing eyes under the sweep of drooping lids swam before the King's vision. In her left hand she carried a lantern of gilded tin. She held it out to her brother, but not looking at him. Her gaze was fixed on the King, and as the Colonel took the lantern from her, she released her cloak, letting it fall in a heap upon the floor, and sank down in a profound curtsey.

  'Sir, I beg leave to present my sister to your Majesty!'

  The King stepped forward, and raised Jane Lane. As his brown hand closed on her wrist, she lifted her head and looked up into his face. He noticed that her hair, which was of a light, lustrous brown, lay on her fore head in ethereal ringlets, and that her expression was one of sweet seriousness. He put out his other hand to take hers, and she bent her head to kiss it before suffering him to pull her upright.

  He withdrew it gently, saying: 'Mistress, I am one William Jackson.'

'Pardon, Sire!'

  Her voice was low-pitched, a pretty, youthful voice, not shy, but grave.

  'Jane, is all safe?' demanded the Colonel. 'I would not keep his Majesty standing here!'

  'Oh no!' she agreed. 'Everyone is asleep but my lord. Will you come in, sir? Indeed, all is secure.'

  'Yes, I will come in, so you will lead the way,' answered the King. He bent, and picked up her cloak from the floor, and put it round her shoulders.