in that gallery, I must! I don’t suppose I’ll be granted permission, so I’ll just go.”
“No, you won’t…no, listen! You’re right to want to get away, unless you’re prepared to end up as another concubine, in wedlock or out of it, living in luxury and the target of spite and not only from the other girls. The Duke of Norfolk wouldn’t be your friend either. I told you I’m always willing to help a young lady in distress. And I’ve always had a liking,” he added with a grin, “for doing lawless things, especially in a good cause. As it happens, I’m leaving the court myself tomorrow—with permission—to visit my mother in Devon. She’s been lonely since my father died.”
“But how…what…?”
“Listen. Let me think. Yes, I know. I’m good at getting into trouble and getting out of it as well, but there’s no need to ask for it. Here’s what you must do…”
“I’d better leave word of some sort,” Jane said as his instructions ended. “I’m part of the queen’s household. She’ll feel responsible. She might send after me! Maybe King Henry will, too!”
“King Henry,” said Peter, though he kept his voice down, “is still officially a married man, and—this is treason, of course, kindly don’t repeat it—what with putting Queen Catherine aside, beheading Queen Anne and now planning to annul his present consort, he’s getting a reputation. If he goes chasing, either personally or by proxy, after an errant maid of honour, there’ll be talk and even laughter. He won’t want that! Leave a note for the queen. Don’t mention the king. Say you were homesick. Say you’re going home with a reliable escort. That should reduce the chance of any pursuit. Can you trust your tirewoman?”
“Lisa? Yes.”
“Does she need to travel by pillion or can she ride?”
“Lisa rides very well. You won’t fail me?”
“I won’t fail you. I love an adventure,” said Peter, laughing. “Oh, and don’t worry. You will travel as my sister and I shall not treat you as anything else. I’ll bring you home unharmed, I promise.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Wrong Response 1540
Afterward, Jane marvelled at how smoothly it went. The following evening, as Peter had suggested, she pretended to feel unwell. In the morning the other maids of honour went to the chapel with their tirewomen, but Jane, still complaining of illness, stayed behind with Lisa to look after her. Once everyone else was out of sight, she rose and prepared a note while Lisa packed a hamper with essentials. Then she put the note half under her pillow. It would be found, but with luck, not for some time.
Because the hamper was heavy, she helped Lisa carry it outside and down to the landing stage. They were stopped only once, by a White Stave who was not for some reason in the chapel, and who called to them, quite jovially, to ask where they were going. Jane had planned for this sort of thing and answered unflinchingly that they were on a char itable errand for the queen.
“What’s in the hamper, then? Clothes for the poor?”
“Yes,” said Jane, and opened the lid to show the respectable but dull cloak she had deliberately put on top. Queen Anna collected plain and hard-wearing items of clothing to be sent to the people responsible for distributing charity: the vicars, mayors, parish overseers in charge of housing orphans and apprenticing them to trades. The White Stave nodded, smiled and stepped back to let them pass.
“Come, Lisa,” said Jane briskly. “We should hurry. We mustn’t be late back.” Whereupon the White Stave escorted them to the landing stage in person and hailed a boatman for them.
Jane gave the boatman his instructions while Lisa, who had grasped her conspirator’s role very well, busily thanked the White Stave and prevented him from hearing the words White Bull Inn. They boarded and waved goodbye to him and then they were off on time, making for the inn three miles upstream. Peter Carew was there, as he had said he would be. He introduced them to the landlord as his sister and her woman servant, and since neither of them had breakfasted, ordered refreshments. After that, the two grooms who were with him saddled the horses he had hired and they set out again, by road.
Jane was still afraid of possible pursuit, but Carew was not. There was something very resolute about him, Jane thought.
“The court’s like a rabbit warren,” he said, “especially at Whitehall. Everyone will think you’re just somewhere else. By the time your note is found, we’ll be leagues away. Don’t be anxious.”
He added, as they rode on, “That landlord thinks you’re my sister, but the grooms know who you are and that you’re escaping from the court to protect your good name. They approve. Have no fear of any of us.”
It took eight days of steady riding, but there were no alarms and Peter never seemed uncertain of the road. “How is it that you know your way about so thoroughly? I thought you’d been abroad for years!” Jane asked him once.
“I was, but since I’ve been back, I’ve travelled with the court on royal progresses and besides, I always make sure I understand the world I’m living in and how to get from here to there. You never know when it may come in useful.”
He grinned at her, a bold, adventurer’s grin. Combined with his air of experience and maturity, it created a heady attraction. Jane, looking at his strong brown face with its aquiline nose and shapely chin, experienced a curious physical sensation, as though a warm and powerful hand had gripped her guts and jerked.
This would never do. She must not indulge such feelings. She had no business to have them. She must not fall in love with Peter Carew! He came, and she knew it, from a family even more in the habit of making wealthy marriages than Ralph’s. A Sweetwater wouldn’t qualify. That was the way of the world.
Peter showed no sign of falling in love in return. Both he and his grooms showed Jane and Lisa the utmost respect. Jane knew she must be grateful for this and quelled the regrettable part of her that seemed, mysteriously, to be wishing the contrary. She kept Lisa always by her side and guarded her tongue, to the point, she sometimes thought, of seeming dull and prim. On the morning of the ninth day, she came home.
When she was once more within sight of the Exmoor hills, she felt a relief so great that she could almost have fallen from the saddle to kiss the ground beneath. It was raining, but the soft drizzle of Somerset felt like a caress. The very village seemed to welcome her. She looked with delight at the tower of St. Anne’s church, built of pale Caen stone, imported for the purpose long ago by one of Jane’s own forebears. And there on its knoll stood Clicket Hall, which was similar to Allerbrook House but older, the battlements of its small tower more genuine looking and less ornamental than Allerbrook’s.
Even the thatched houses of the village seemed to smile at her. This was home. She would never go back to the court. The king would probably turn his attention to poor little Kate Howard now and she pitied the girl, but Kate must look after herself. Jane Sweetwater had escaped, and forever.
They started up the combe under the dripping trees, the pinkish mud of the track squelching beneath the horses’ hooves and splashing up their legs. The main track to Allerbrook House led off to the left about two-thirds of the way up to the ridge. Then the house was in sight, with smoke drifting from the chimneys. “Home!” said Jane ecstatically. Peter, who had a bigger horse, looked down at her and laughed.
“You would never survive years abroad, would you? You’re no wanderer. Not like me.”
The thought shot through her mind that if she had Peter Carew for company, perhaps she could bear to travel; perhaps, with him, everything would seem different. But she mustn’t say that, or even let her eyes betray it. “Here we are,” he was saying. “Your very own gate.”
“Our very own dogs and geese, as well!” said Jane as the usual cacophony broke out to welcome them.
It