The King's Mistress (26 page)

“Hail.”

The voice was soft, scratchy, almost inaudible, but Jane felt the hair on the nape of her neck rise at the line that floated up from somewhere in the back of her mind.

All hail, Macbeth, hail to thee, Thane of Glamis.

Could she have imagined it, that this crone had actually addressed them so? She glanced at John and was simultaneously relieved and frightened to see that he looked just as discomfited as she. She found her eyes darting around her, as if there might lurk two more hags, sprung as if from the ground. John found his voice.

“Well met, Mistress. It is a barren stretch of country we’ve been passing through. Is there a village nigh?”

The woman shook her head, her eyes fixed on them keenly. Surprisingly clear and blue eyes, Jane thought, for one so aged, and then realised that she really could not tell how old the woman was. Her hair was shrouded under a cap, and her skin, pale and taut over the bones of her face, looked translucent as fine vellum. She could have been forty or a hundred.

“No, Master. No village hereabout or for many a mile.”

Jane’s heart sank. John glanced around and Jane could sense him searching for his next words.

“But you, Mistress, surely you do not live in such wild country alone?”

The fierce eyes blinked and Jane thought of a hawk. Perhaps the question had frightened the old woman. After all, what could she do against two strangers who wished her ill and who had ascertained she was on her own? But the woman looked fearlessly back at them, with an odd little smile, almost a look of careful patience.

“I live where I am.”

There seemed nothing to say to that.

“We seek shelter for the night,” Jane said. “And had rather stop sooner if there is shelter to be had than walk on after dark to we know not where.”

“We all of us walk to we know not where. Young Mistress.”

Jane involuntarily drew a sharp breath, and the woman nodded slowly.

“Aye, I see you what you are.”

The woman’s eyes dropped to Jane’s belly, and as loudly as if she had spoken it, Jane heard the words.

Thou shalt get kings, though thou be none.

Jane shivered.

“There be a shepherd’s hut,” the woman said. “A little off the north side of the road. You’ll pass a stone cross before it. Some four hours’ walk, perhaps.”

All three of them glanced at the sky. The clouds threatened overhead, growing blacker by the minute.

“It will be rain tonight.”

At the old woman’s words another echo pounded through Jane’s head.

Let it come down.

“Then must we make for shelter, Mother,” John said. “Will you not do so, too?”

“My time is not yet. But yours is coming nigh.”

She drew her cloak closer about her, turning from them, like a bat folding its wings about itself, Jane thought, and with surprising rapidity she moved away across the barren landscape.

J
ANE THOUGHT THEY MUST HAVE BEEN WALKING FOR MORE THAN
four hours, but they had seen no sign of a hut. Her lower body was clenching in pain. It seemed she had been walking since the world began.

Night was falling. The grey clouds looked pregnant with rain, and the air seemed to crackle. A wind blew up, shaking the leafless branches of the trees. A crow, winging its way rapidly south, cawed loudly and Jane looked up.

Let us withdraw, ’twill be a storm.

The line from
King Lear
came unbidden into her mind and cold fear seized her heart.

“Shelter.” It came out as a whisper almost. “I don’t think I can go much farther, John.” He glanced at her with concern, and scanned the rocky surroundings.

“Here, let me take your pack.”

He lifted the heavy sack from her and slung it over his shoulder along with his own. The relief from the weight only made Jane conscious of how weak and weary she was suddenly feeling. Her head began to swim and she stumbled against him. He caught her as she sank, supporting her in his arms, his eyes wide with alarm.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured.

“No need to be sorry.”

A drop of rain splashed onto his face and his eyes darted frantically from the sky to the barren wilderness that surrounded them.

“There must be something hereabout.”

Jane nodded, her mind flooded with the pain that was gripping her from somewhere below, reaching up to pull her down into its jaws. She forced herself to move, willing herself forward. The heavens had opened of a sudden, and now rain was slanting down, icy knives cutting into her face.
Keep moving,
she told herself.
Keep moving.
But for how long could she keep herself on her feet? It was almost dark now, and soon they would not be able to find the shepherd’s hut even if they were near to it. They might pass it by. And what then? She shut the thought from her consciousness, focusing her entire being on putting one foot in front of the other. She was almost hanging on John now, could barely keep her other hand curled around the staff. It was so heavy, so heavy. She smothered a sob.

“I think I see something ahead there,” John cried. “Can you make it that far?”

Jane glanced where he pointed, a little distance ahead and off the road. It was barely visible in the deepening shadows, and appeared to be a fallen tree, but she was too weak to question him, all will of her own was gone. She nodded and held to his arm, and together they plodded forward. The rain battered down and a heavy gust of wind swept leaves into a swirling dance around them.

“It’s a hovel of some kind,” John said as they drew nearer. “Perhaps the shepherd’s hut she meant. Whatever it is, it will have to do.”

Jane could see now that it was a primitive structure, no more than four corner poles with walls of wattle and daub and branches laid over the top with rough thatching tied into place, but it was out of the wild weather. She crouched to push aside the sheepskin hung over the low door and almost fell through, overcome with weariness and pain. There was a pallet of sacking stuffed with straw, and she crawled onto it. John followed her inside, pulling after him the two packs and staves. He unrolled a blanket and laid it over her. It reminded Jane of so many nights when Nurse had tenderly tucked her into bed and she longed for home desperately. Tears welled from her eyes.

“What’s amiss?” John asked anxiously. “Are you taken ill or is it just weariness with walking?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I’m weary, yes, but it’s more than that. I hurt. Inside.”

She closed her eyes and tried to locate the pain, discern its cause. It was low in her belly, somewhat akin to the twisting cramps she sometimes felt when she had her monthly courses, but worse. She was afraid to voice the dark terror taking hold of her mind, as if speaking her fears would bring them to pass.

“I’m going to gather some firewood before it’s all soaked through,” John said. “I’ll only be a few minutes.”

He ducked out the door. Jane tried to breathe deeply to calm herself. Maybe she had been mistaken and she was not with child. Maybe it was only her monthlies starting again, and it was painful because it had been so long.
It must be that
.
Let it be that
, she prayed. She drifted into sleep for a few minutes, and roused at the sound of John coming back with a bundle of kindling and some branches, which he laid beside the little door.

“I can scarce light a fire in here,” he said, “without smoking us to death. If the rain lets up, I’ll build a fire before the doorway. Are you cold?”

Jane nodded, her teeth chattering, and John wrapped his blanket around her.

“Have a drop of brandy. It’ll warm you for now. And some food.”

She drank and felt the liquid move down her throat and into her belly, and ate a few bites of bread, and it did give her some strength.

Outside the rain was pelting down with a sinister hiss, pattering against the roof of the hut, and cold drops leaked through, dripping onto the floor and onto Jane. The wind rose to a shriek. No fire would have burned before the door in such a wind, and the draughts coming through the feeble walls would have blown any fire inside onto the tinderlike wattle and daub and the dry straw of the pallet. It was full dark now, and Jane could no longer see John, but found comfort in the sound of his breathing.

Suddenly a sharp pain twisted within her, searing her, and she let out a wild cry of torment and fear.

“Jesu, Jane, what is it?”

John was next to her, his hand seeking hers. Jane felt a rush of wetness and warmth and gasped. She fumbled at the blankets, struggling to throw them off.

“Pull the covers from me, John.”

He yanked them aside and she leaned forward, feeling urgently between her legs. Her breeches were soaked and her hand came away sticky. The sharp smell of blood was in the air, and Jane had a vision of Ellen Norton, her skirts soaked with a flood of bright crimson.

She was losing the baby. In the instant the knowledge came to her mind, sure and terrifying, there was a flash of light from outside the hut. Jane’s first fevered thought was that lightning had struck. But no clap of thunder followed. Instead, the flap of sheepskin covering the door was pushed aside and a bobbing light entered, followed by a formless shape.

“Ee, here’s no place for thee on such a night as this,” the shape said. “Can you carry her, Master?”

The lantern swung towards Jane, and by its flickering light she could see the face of the old woman who had appeared beside the road. The woman clucked and shook her head.

“And here’s blood, too. Quiet your heart, lamb, all will be well. Come out of the storm.”

Jane felt John scoop her into his arms. She huddled against him as he carried her out into the darkness, the cold sharp stabs of rain mingling with the warm tears on her face, and then blackness flooded up and she knew no more.

W
HEN
J
ANE WOKE, SHE WAS LYING IN A SOFT BED OF SHEEPSKINS, AND
swathed in a woolly blanket. A fire was burning, and by its light she could see that she was in a low-ceilinged cave. John sat nearby on a stool, a bowl of something steaming and savoury smelling in his hands, and the old woman was humming to herself as she stirred a pot on a hob over the flames. She threw in a handful of dried leaves, and the aromatic scent took on a deeper cast. Jane tried to place the smell. Exploring with her hands, she found that her man’s clothes were gone, and she was clad in a shift of some kind, clean and dry. Beyond the mouth of the cave, some fifteen paces off, she could hear that rain beat down and wind howled, but the fire lay between her and the outdoors, and she was warm. There was some small but heavy weight at her side, and lifting the cover, she discovered that it was a cat, a grey tabby with white on his chin and throat and the tips of his paws, regarding her with glinting gold eyes. She stroked his fur, and a deep purring greeted her touch.

John looked up at her movement, and setting the bowl down, came and knelt at her side.

“How are you faring, sister?”

Concern was in his eyes, and Jane took the hand he gave her.

“Better.” She was surprised her voice sounded as strong as it did. “How long have I been here?”

“A few hours.”

The old woman came to her with a mug of whatever had been in the pot.

“Drink this, lambkin. It will give thee back some of the strength thou hast lost.”

Jane took the mug and inhaled the steam, and sipped. Some decoction of herbs, sweetened with honey. John stood as the woman knelt to peer at Jane, and he moved away to the other side of the fire, looking out towards the blackness of the night.

“I don’t have to tell you that you’ve lost a babe,” the old woman murmured, her eyes intent on Jane’s. “I could see it within thee when we met, and also that its spirit wavered, undecided whether to stay or no. And more than that could I see as well.”

“What—what did you see?”

“The son of a king it was. How it should be so, I know not, but I saw it clear as day. And that you travel to find this king.”

Jane stared at the woman, wanting to ask a hundred questions but afraid, too, of asking.

“Over the water.” The woman spoke as if in a trance. “Far over the water.”

“Then he lives?” Jane cried.

“He lives.”

John had turned back towards them at the sound of her exclamation, and the woman glanced over her shoulder and then back to Jane.

“Your brother knows it, too, the truth of this babe, and the love that got it. He knows it in his heart, though he has not yet let it in his mind.”

She nodded, and put a soothing hand on Jane’s. “He mislikes it, and tries to keep it from coming clear into his head, but the misliking is not more than the love he has for you.”

J
ANE CONTINUED TO BLEED AND CRAMP OVER THE NEXT FEW DAYS
, but she slept much of the time, the oblivion healing the grief of the lost child and the pain of her body. When she woke, the old woman, Marjorie, was never far away, and the cat, Beastie, was usually curled next to her.

“How came you to be here?” Jane asked one evening as Marjorie sat next to her, spinning a fine grey yarn on a spindle. “Have you no family?”

“No, no more,” Marjorie said, her eyes far away. “They’re all long gone. Burned out, my house was, during the wars. So the Beast and I made for the heath, to find peace and safety.”

Jane glanced around the cave. It was cosy, perhaps twenty feet deep and a little narrower. The fire towards the front warmed the place and frightened off animals, its light flickering on the slanting rock walls above. Marjorie kept a few sheep, and their skins and wool provided soft nests for sleeping.

“Do you not get lonely?” Jane asked softly. “For human company, I mean,” she added as Beastie nestled closer to her side.

Her eyes and Marjorie’s were both on the spindle, spinning, spinning, dropping lower as the thread formed from the handful of soft wool in Marjorie’s lap.

“Sometimes. But perhaps I’m not made for keeping company with others, or perhaps I’m past it. A witch, they said I was.”

Her pale blue eyes turned to Jane, unblinking.