Georgette Heyer by Royal Escape

him, or splashing ankle-deep through a puddle of muddy water. Once his hand brushed a clump of nettles, and the smart and itch of it was an added ill so petty and yet so maddening that he swore aloud.
      Richard hushed him quickly, warning him that they were passing close by a cottage.
      'The devil take the cottage and all inside it!' said the King savagely, licking the back of his smarting hand. 'I have put my hand into a cursed bed of nettles!'
      It was plain that Richard thought this a trivial matter. He said soothingly: 'The itch will soon go. If there were light enough, I would find a dock-leaf for your honour to rub on you. 'Tis wonderful how a dock-leaf eases nettle-sting.'
      This remark exasperated the King, but just as he was about to return an acid answer, the humour of the situation struck him, and he began to laugh. Richard, forgetting the respect due to Royalty, grabbed his arm, and gave it a little shake. 'Give over, give over! Ye will have the neighbours out on us, as sure as check, my liege!'
      They went on for another mile. The King found nothing more to laugh at, but had instead some trouble to keep himself from groaning at the pain of his cramped and blistered feet. He had never been so tired in his life; his head swam, and sometimes seemed to be a long way from his body, so that he walked uncertainly; his hat felt like an iron band, tightening about his forehead, and when he shifted it he got no easement thereby. He set his teeth, and limped on, but every step hurt him, and at last he was unable to endure it any longer, and called to Richard to halt.
      Richard stopped at once, and turned to find that the King had sat down on the damp ground. He knelt beside him, anxiously asking if he were ill, or had hurt himself.
      'No,' Charles said faintly. 'If you have a knife, give it to me!'
      'A knife?' repeated Richard stupidly.
      'Yes, a knife!'
      'What would your honour want with a knife?' Richard asked, fearing for a distorted moment that the King was out of his senses.
      'To slit these shoes, fool!'
      Relieved, Richard put a hand into his pocket, and produced a jack-knife, which he gave to the King. Charles pulled off his shoes, and slashed them across and across. It cost him a good deal of pain to put them on again, but he managed to do it, gripping his underlip between his teeth as he pushed his raw heels down into them. He gave the knife back to Richard, and struggled up again, saying with an attempt at cheerfulness: 'Now I have room to move my poor toes. Lead on, Trusty Dick!'
      'I do fear it be hard going for your honour,' Richard said, concerned for his evident exhaustion. 'You'll be glad of a bed at Mr Wolfe's, I warrant.'
      'I shall indeed,' Charles replied.
      They went on, the slits in the King's shoes at first affording his swollen feet some relief, but soon causing him a new pain, since they let in mud and small sharp stones.
      After an interminable trudge up hill and down dale, during which Richard was occasionally at a puzzle to find the way, they came to a rough lane, which Richard recognized as a track joining the highway to Madeley at Evelith Mill. The hour was by this time far enough advanced for him no longer to fear meeting anyone on the road. For his own part, he would have preferred to have continued across country, but he thought the King would find it easier to walk along the highway, pitted with holes though it was, and so helped him over a hedge into the lane, telling him, to encourage him, that they had only five more miles to go.
      The King did not answer him. He seemed to himself to be plodding through a nightmare from which he must soon awake. He was so remote from reality that when his struggling brain asserted, I am Charles Stewart, King of England , the phrase conveyed no meaning to him. It was a mere string of foolish words which drummed irritatingly in his head. From time to time, he made an effort to drag his mind from the only