He sighed and flicked open his pocket watch. The children were waiting for that story he—no, Kendra—had promised them. One story, then he’d take everyone back to London in the morning. Surely Amy would be awake by then.
And by tomorrow night, his life would be back to normal.
The children waited on the drawing room’s black-and-coral carpet, sitting with their backs to the fire. Weary after the strain of the past two days, their bellies full of Cook’s good hot supper, they watched him walk in with eyes that were already drooping.
Their chatter died down as Colin seated himself facing them in one of the coral-colored velvet chairs. Kendra sat off to the side in its mate, her head bent to her embroidery.
The castle was cool and drafty in the evenings. Kendra hitched herself closer to the fire and struggled to thread her needle. Colin was amused to see her engaged in such a ladylike occupation. It was quite foreign to her nature, but he supposed she considered embroidery a fitting pursuit for a lady passing the evening surrounded by children.
He hoped she’d stick herself in the finger.
The children shifted impatiently on their bottoms. “My lord, what story are we to hear tonight?” Davis asked.
Colin glanced up at the carved wooden ceiling, but there was no help from above. All around the room, large gilt-framed portraits of solemn ancestors watched over him, waiting for him to prove himself a worthy entertainer of children.
When his gaze fastened on a newly commissioned painting of his king, inspiration hit. “Tonight, you will hear the story of the Royal Oak,” he announced.
The children scooted forward in anticipation. Kendra looked up with an approving smile.
“After the Battle of Worcester,” Colin began, “our king, Charles II, endured great hardships in escaping his enemies.”
“Were you there?” Davis’s little brother interrupted.
“No, I was only six at the time. But my father and mother were there.”
Colin saw no reason to tell them they’d both died in the battle. They were already worried about their own parents.
“For nearly six weeks, King Charles was hiding and sneaking about,” he continued. “Sometimes he hid with persons of high rank, and sometimes with those of low. He’d been declared an outlaw, you see, and he was hunted for his life. But the people still saw him as their lawful sovereign and willingly risked their own lives to save his.”
“Our king was hunted?” The girl with the large brown eyes looked doubtful. “For real?”
“Yes, certainly. Cromwell wanted him well out of the way.” When the girl nodded, Colin went on. “Charles rode hastily away from the scene of his defeat, in the company of a few faithful friends. Whenever they came within hearing range of anyone, they spoke French to avoid detection. His friends brought him to a lonely farmhouse where five brothers named Penderel lived. It was death to anyone who dared to conceal the king, while a great reward was offered to any who would betray him to his enemies, but these honest farmers cared neither for threats nor rewards.”
“How much was the reward?” Davis asked.
“A thousand pounds.”
“A thousand pounds?” Davis’s eyes widened. “Are you sure?”
A thousand pounds was an absolutely vast sum, more than the average workman would earn in a lifetime.
“I’m sure,” Colin assured him. “Charles cut off his famous black lovelocks so no one would recognize him. The Penderels dressed him like themselves, in clothes belonging to the tallest brother, for the king is over two yards tall.”
“Like you?” little Mary asked, gazing up at Colin as though he were a giant.
Colin nodded solemnly while quelling a smile. “Yes, Charles and I are almost exactly the same height. He had to wear his own stockings with the fancy tops torn off, because his feet were so big they could find none to fit. And the clumsy country boots they gave him were too small, so he was forced to tramp around all day in great pain.”
“Ouch!” said the apple-cheeked boy.
“Indeed. In fact, King Charles’s memory of those boots is so strong that today he has the largest collection of shoes in the land, each pair made exactly to fit.”
A couple of the children giggled. Colin glanced at Kendra. She was still smiling down at her embroidery. So far as he could tell, she’d yet to complete a single new stitch.
“What happened then?” an impatient little voice asked. The girl had long dark hair and gray eyes, and Colin realized with a pang that she reminded him of Amy.
He gave his head a shake as though to clear it. “I’m just getting to the good part. One day, while the king was with the brothers in the forest, Parliamentary soldiers came upon them. Quickly, Charles climbed up an oak tree and crouched amid the leaves.”
“How long did he stay there?” Mary asked.
“More than twenty-four hours, a whole day and night. The soldiers were certain they’d seen more men, so they rode back and forth searching all that time.”
“How many soldiers?” Mary asked.
Colin shrugged. “I don’t know, sweetheart.”
“How many?” she persisted.
In a quandary, he glanced again at Kendra. She looked up, biting her lip to keep from laughing.
No help there.
“Seven,” he announced finally. “I’m certain there were seven.”
When the little girl smiled happily, Colin tugged one of her bright gold curls. “Charles slept for a time in the tree. When he woke, the soldiers were directly under him, saying how glad they should be to catch him. Hoping they wouldn’t notice him there, Charles held his breath.”
Hearing the children’s indrawn breaths brought him a ridiculous sense of satisfaction.
“Finally, the next day, the soldiers rode off and left him to get down in safety.” Little breaths were released. “That tree, in memory of the good service it had done him, was afterwards named the Royal Oak, and if ever you go to Boscobel you can
