Georgette Heyer by Royal Escape Page A

realities of his aching body, and lacerated feet, and to think of the future; but again his brain betrayed him, reiterating dully, I must get me to France , which seemed as wildly impossible a thought as that this weary frame could belong to that same Charles Stewart who had led an army into battle on Wednesday, the third day of September, in the Year of Our Lord, One Thousand Six Hundred and Fifty-one.
      He tried to think how long ago that had been, and in the end was forced to ask Richard what day of the week it now was. When Richard replied that it was Thursday, he said fretfully that Richard was mistaken, but after he had thought it over for a while, he real ized that Richard was right, and that it was indeed only twenty-four hours since he had been riding through the night with Wilmot and Talbot beside him, and Buckingham close behind, making some joke about an ox for the King's supper.
      Richard, who was now walking beside him, suddenly touched his arm, and pointed ahead. A new moon, which had just risen, shone in a bare patch of sky like a sliver of silver, but it was not that which had attracted Richard's attention.
      At the foot of the hill they were descending, the dark hulk of a building could be seen. A light shone through the chinks of the shutters on the ground floor, and the sound of voices could faintly be heard, mingled with the purling of the mill-stream.
      'Go softly, my liege,' Richard whispered. 'Seemingly the miller has company. But so late as it is – Mind, master, if we come upon any stranger, do you stay mumchance!'
      They trod on as quietly as they could down the hill to the wooden bridge across the stream at its foot. A gate gave access to the bridge; it scrooped harshly on its hinges as Richard pulled it open, and made him curse under his breath. He let it go, not daring to risk a second scroop as he shut it, but it was set at a slight angle, and swung to behind him with a clap that brought the miller out of his house, calling in a deep bass voice: 'Who goes there?'
      Richard shouted over his shoulder: 'Friends, home ward bound!'
      'If you be friends, stand and show yourselves!' commanded the miller, advancing towards the bridge.
      Richard seized the King's hand, whispering to him, 'Run!' and set off as fast as he could up the lane on the farther side of the bridge. The sound of heavy-footed pursuit drove them on, splashing through deep puddles, and stumbling over the wheel-ruts, until the King, tearing his hand away, gasped: 'Over the hedge!' and himself, summoning all his remaining strength for the effort, leaped over the low hedge into a ditch on the other side, and lay prone there.
      Richard followed suit, and for some minutes they lay recovering their breath, and listening for sounds of the miller's approach. When it became apparent that he had abandoned the chase, and gone back into his house, Richard became urgent with the King to continue their journey.
      'I had rather you buried me where I lie,' Charles sighed, between jesting and earnest. 'I can go no farther.'
      Richard sought his hand again, and tried to pull him up. 'Nay, nay, master, never say such foolishness! Come now, there's only a little way to go, and you may rest your fill.'
      The King gave a groan, but struggled to his feet. The danger they had run into at Evelith Mill made Richard afraid to adventure farther along the highway. He again took to the fields, but he did not realize how spent the King was, and was presently aghast to see him sink down upon the ground, half fainting. It was only with difficulty that he persuaded him to struggle on a little farther, promising him better going in just a few more minutes.
      The rest of the journey was only accomplished thanks to Richard's dogged persistence. It was no longer a matter of King and subject between them. To Richard, the King had become just an exhausted young man whom by hook or by crook he was determined to bring to safe shelter.