John Huddleston, the young priest who acted as tutor to the boys at neighbouring Moseley Hall.
“You’re wet to the bone, sir,” Thomas cried. “Come down to the kitchen to dry yourself.”
“I thank you, Mr Lane.” The old man shivered. “But better I ask the favour I’ve come for and be on my way.” He glanced at Jane.
“You can speak before my sister,” John assured him. “And to tell you true, if I send her away she’ll only pester any news out of me once you’ve gone.”
Old Father William smiled at Jane, as a drop of water gathered on his nose and fell to the carpet.
“Well, then. I’ve two horses below, and Mr Whitgreaves asks if you would take them into your stable for the night, and mayhap for a few days.” He lowered his voice. “There’s a gentleman at Moseley who’s come from Worcester fight. He can be hid well enough, but the house lies so close to the road that any strange horses are like to be noted.”
“Of course,” said John, with a glance at his father.
“Maybe this gentleman will know news of Richard,” Jane cried.
“Just what I was thinking.” John nodded. “Of course we’ll take the horses, sir. But as Jane says, the household is in great fear for my brother, who was at Worcester. Pray tell Mr Whitgreaves that I’ll ride over tomorrow night, to learn what I can of the battle, and how we may help his fugitive. But come, let’s get those horses out of sight.”
“Oh, Father,” Jane said as John and the priest disappeared down the stairs. “The poor old man, walking all that long way back to Moseley in the rain.”
“Old he may be, but he’s a man still, and he’ll not melt. He’s doing what he can for our cause. I would I could do more, could have gone with your brothers to the fight.” Jane, standing behind her father’s chair, leaned her head onto his and put her arms around him. The thought of him fleeing from Worcester in the night was more than she could bear.
“I know you’d go to fight, but I’m glad you didn’t. What would we do without you here at home?”
He patted her hand and nodded. “Yes, yes. But it’s your brother I’m worried about.”
“No doubt we’ll hear more tomorrow,” she said.
JANE AND ALL THE HOUSEHOLD PASSED THE NEXT DAY IN A FEVER OF anxiety about Richard. John went into Walsall and returned with newly printed broadsheets.
“‘A Letter from the Lord General Cromwell Touching the Great Victory Obtained Near Worcester,’” Jane read as Henry and her parents listened.
“I’ll warn you, it makes grim reading,” John said, sinking into a chair before the fire in the parlour.
“‘We beat the enemy from hedge to hedge, till we beat him into Worcester,’” Jane read. “‘He made a very considerable fight, and it was as stiff a contest for four or five hours as ever I have seen.’”
“And I make no doubt he’s seen some bad fighting,” John said, his face grim.
“‘In the end we beat him totally. He hath had great loss, and is scattered and run. We are in pursuit of him and have laid forces in several places, that we hope will gather him up.’” Jane read it over again. “Then they haven’t captured the king yet. At least that’s something.”
“Not yet. It’s hard to see how he can escape being taken, though.”
Athalia came in with a mug of something steaming. She brushed a lock of golden-brown hair from John’s forehead as she gave him the drink, and he kissed her hand and smiled up at her, his face tired.
“Here’s another,” Henry said, “‘A Full and Perfect Relation of the Fight at Worcester on Wednesday Night Last.’”
“I don’t want to hear it,” Jane said. “It makes me too angry and sad.”
JANE WAS EAGER FOR NIGHT TO COME SO THAT JOHN COULD MAKE HIS visit to Moseley Hall, and she waited up long after the rest of the family had gone to bed for his return, reading in the kitchen by lantern light. She found it difficult to keep her mind on The Aeneid, and realised that she had been staring unseeing at the same page for several minutes, filled with anxiety about what tidings John would bring. It was near midnight when she finally heard his horse, and ran to the kitchen door to meet him.
“Richard’s alive and unhurt, or was two nights since,” John said as soon as he came in, unwrapping his heavy scarf and hanging his coat on a peg near the hearth.
“Thank God,” Jane cried. “Where is he? Did you learn more news of the battle?”
She added hot water and lemon to brandy and brought mugs to the table for both of them.
“Ah, that warms me,” John said, drinking. “Thank you, Jane. Yes, there is much news. It’s my old commander Lord Wilmot who has taken refuge at Moseley. He was in the thick of the battle, at the king’s side.”
He glanced around, as if spies lurked in the shadows, and lowered his voice.
“Jane, the king is alive and nearby.”
Jane smothered a gasp and leaned closer to John as he continued.
“When it became clear that the fight was lost, the king took flight from Worcester with the remains of his cavalry. A few hundred men, Wilmot said. Most of them headed for Tong Castle, having got word that General Leslie and what was left of the Scots infantry had gone there. Richard went with them, but Wilmot heard that all were taken prisoner before ever they reached Tong.”
Jane felt a cold knot form in the pit of her stomach. Richard a prisoner. He could be dead even now, perhaps shot or hanged with no deliberation or trial. She felt furious at her helplessness.
“And the king?” She spoke so low that she could hardly hear her own voice.
“The Earl of Derby urged the king to make for Boscobel, where Derby had been concealed after his defeat at Wigan. Charles Giffard of Boscobel was with them, though, and said that it had been searched but lately, and that Whiteladies might be safer. So the king, with only a few companions, rode through the night and reached Whiteladies about three in the morning.”
The hairs on the back of Jane’s neck stood up to think of the king being so near. The old Whiteladies priory, now owned by the Giffard family, was only some dozen miles away.
“There are cavalry patrols looking for him,” John continued, his voice rough with exhaustion and emotion. “So the Penderel brothers hid him in the wood nearby, and there he spent the day.”
“Dear God, in the rain.”
“Better wet than captured. Wilmot would not say more than that the king is now being helped by other good neighbours of ours, and with God’s grace will soon be on his way to safety.”
“What will Lord Wilmot do?” Jane asked. “He, too, must be fleeing for his life.”
John’s eyes met hers and he paused before he answered.
“Now must I tell you that we can help him. That you can help him.”
“How can I help him?” she asked in surprise.
“He must get to Bristol, where he can arrange for a boat to take the king to France.” Bristol. Only a few short miles from Ellen Norton’s home.
“My pass to travel.”
“Yes. Wilmot must play the part of your serving man, and ride with you to Abbots Leigh.”
The news took Jane’s breath away. She felt a thrill of fear, but it instantly gave way to excitement. An adventure. Lord Wilmot, friend of the king. She had never met the man, but his name conjured in her mind an image of a handsome and dashing officer. He would sweep her into his arms and together they would ride through peril. Once at Abbots Leigh, he could doff his disguise.