Royal Mistress

by Anne Easter Smith

  Tom Grey looked up at the maiden’s head sign swinging over the door to John Lambert’s mercery and smiled at the memory of Jane’s remark of a few days earlier. He had not been able to get the buxom, green-eyed young woman out of his mind. He was twenty years old and confident in his good looks, and what he had liked about Jane was that she, too, knew she was comely. They were well matched, he thought as he had walked away that first morning, and if he did have the chance of seeing her again, he might tell her so. His confidence had been gained by watching and aping the seduction techniques of his stepfather, the king, and his stepfather’s best friend, Lord Hastings, who, much to the frustration of his mother, began to take Tom with them when they enjoyed a rollicking evening in the taverns and stews of London as soon as the youth was old enough. His mother had hoped they would have given her pleasure-seeking oldest son sage paternal counsel on behaving like a gentleman instead.

  Thus it was with more than three years of wenching experience tied up in his codpiece that Tom now clicked open the latch on the sturdy wooden door that led into John Lambert’s flourishing mercery. Shelf upon shelf was weighted down by bolt upon bolt of magnificent silk, satin, damask, cloth of gold, silver cloth of gold, wool, velvet, sarcenet, scarlet, grosgrain, kersey and cambray, and in one corner, looking like delicate, magnified snowflakes, lengths of lace from Venice, Antwerp, and Bruges vied for a customer’s discerning eye. Gorgeous tapestries hung on the walls and fine lawn bed linens were cleverly displayed on a long table, where two women were fingering the quality and discussing the price with a sturdy middle-aged man whom Tom took to be Mercer Lambert. The wide window along the front, which in more clement weather would have been opened to the air to facilitate customers’ viewing, gave adequate light through its leaded glass panes, but the back of the shop was only lit by a wheel chandelier of wrought iron hung high from a sturdy beam. One carelessly dropped taper and John Lambert’s fortune could disappear in a fireball that would light up London. As he searched the premises for Jane, he noticed the mercer paid a small boy to sit close and watch, alerting an apprentice when a candle got near the end of its wick.

  Tom ducked behind a gaudy display of velvets and saw his quarry entering from the small garden at the back of the shop. Jane spied him instantly, and her heart raced; she could not believe he had actually sought her out. Checking that her father was still in deep conversation with the shilly-shallying buyers, she beckoned to Tom to join her in a less conspicuous corner. One of her father’s apprentices, who was fond of Jane, turned his back as Tom sidled past him to Jane’s side.

  “Master Grey, may I help you?” Jane said pertly, already intoxicated by his scent of leather and musk.

  Tom merely raised her hand to his lips, his eyes alight with humor.

  “You know full well why I am here, mistress,” he told her. “I had to see you again, ’tis all.”

  Jane raised her voice and pulled her hand away. “A short mantle for the summer, you say, sir? Let me show you the lightest of wools we have.”

  “Good day to you, sir.” John Lambert’s voice behind him made Tom swing round to face the unsuspecting father of the alluring target of his visit. “Is my daughter serving your needs? She knows as much about our wares as any of my apprentices—if not me.”

  Tom saw John appraise his customer’s apparel and knew by the genuine smile that the mercer had discerned from the fashionable gown that Tom was a man of means. Mercer Lambert was deferent with members of the gentry, Tom was relieved to note; the man had not guessed the real purpose of his visit.

  “You are kind, Master Lambert—if I have the pleasure of speaking to the owner of all this,” he gushed, and he airily waved his hand to encompass the shop, “but I had only just stated my business. I did not know this young lady was your daughter. Mistress Lambert, your servant,” he said, nodding to her. “I would be happy to see the worsted you recommend.”

  “Then I shall leave you to Jane,” John said, bowing and rubbing his hands, which always made Jane cringe. When her father anticipated a worthwhile sale, the gesture never failed to annoy her. She hurried past Tom toward the shelf of wools. “And thank you for choosing my humble shop, Master . . .” John raised a questioning eyebrow, expecting the man to give him a name, but Tom merely nodded in acknowledgment and quickly followed Jane.

  “Thank you for not saying your name, Master Grey,” she said as they fingered three different bolts of blue cloth. “I was seen in your company the other day, and ’twas reported to my father, you see. He was not kind.” And she lowered her eyes to the cloth, her hand going protectively to her ill-used cheek. “What do you want of me, sir?”

  “I know not why, Jane, but I cannot get you out of my head. If you tell me where you live, I can send a message there to arrange another meeting.”

  “In truth it cannot be here or Father will suspect,” Jane replied, titillated by the notion of a secret tryst. “Our house is the largest on the east side of Hosier Lane before Watling Street, anyone can tell you which. Mayhap somewhere quiet, like”—she thought quickly back to other times when she had allowed an ardent young man to kiss her and rumple her bodice, and made up her mind—“like the churchyard behind St. Paul’s.” It was quiet, and the buttresses created shadowy shelters for young lovers. “Send me a message with but the day and time and I shall be there.”

  She took a deep breath to calm herself; she could not believe she was arranging a rendezvous with this stranger and under her father’s rather long nose. But it seemed that God had answered her nightly prayer for the love of a handsome young man and had sent Tom to her. Perhaps now she might know the delights of the romantic love depicted in the old poems. Secrecy was of the essence, she knew; she would worry about the more mundane aspects of courtship, like obtaining her father’s permission, once she and Tom had expressed their love for each other.

  She felt more alive than she had in several months, and as she counted out three ells of the midnight blue wool for him upon a tacit agreement that he must buy something, her palms were sweating and her mouth felt dry.

  Tom grinned, delighted he had secured an assignation so easily. He took the measured cloth and walked boldly up to John, who was now seated on a high stool, working on his accounts. “How much do I owe you for three ells of this worsted, Master Lambert?” he asked pleasantly, undoing the pouch at his belt and jingling the coins. “And how much for your daughter?” was on the tip of his tongue to add, but he buried the mischievous urge.

  Not a week later, the cloak on his spare six-foot frame running with rain, William Shore, a mercer from Coleman Street, stood on the same spot as Tom Grey had and heard the creaking of the wooden sign above him in the gale. He noted the fine carving on the door to Mercer Lambert’s shop before pushing it open and stepping into a far more lavish establishment than his own. Hanging his dripping cloak on a peg near the door, he smirked as he estimated the wealth of his fellow mercer spread before him in the colors of an exotic eastern bazaar he had heard about on his travels to Burgundy. If Lambert’s daughter might inherit even a fourth of this, he thought, she would be worth taking under my roof. Then the familiar knot in his belly interfered with his mercenary thoughts; he had carefully avoided the unpleasant duty of husband for all of his eight and thirty years. However, when John had approached him about the possibility of marriage with his eldest daughter—together with a handsome dowry and the promise of inheritance—the temptation to add to his already burgeoning business was too great, and so he ignored his gut. As well, John Lambert had impressive credentials: he had once been elected as a city alderman, been appointed sheriff, and had once served as master of the mercers’ guild.

  And so, here William was to inspect the goods—all of them—and make a decision. He saw John examining a bill of lading and walked over to him.

  Jane had been helping an elderly matron and her reticent son choose a damask for the son’s presentation at court when she heard the door open and saw the middle-aged, lanky man enter the sh
op. His face would not set any maid’s heart aflutter, Jane thought, although he was pleasant-enough looking. She watched as he went to speak to her father, his long hair limping damply to his shoulders from under his close-fitting cap, and she recognized the same mercer’s murrey livery that her father wore. She only half listened to her customer’s efforts to decide which patterned satin to choose and instead eyed the two men, who kept looking her way while in earnest conversation.

  “I think the brown, do you not, Mistress Lambert?” the woman asked, and Jane quickly refocused her attention on the sale. The son was gazing at Jane with admiration, and she gave him a quick smile. It never hurts a sale to flirt a little, she told herself, enjoying the male attention as she always did.

  “Aye, my lady, I believe the blue would inadvisedly draw all eyes to your son, and I hear the king does not like competition,” Jane said. As his mother turned to hold the fabric up to the light, Jane added with a wink, “Your good looks should garner you enough favor with the ladies, in truth.” The young man beamed at the compliment. “Now I shall have Matthew measure you, sir, and I thank you for your patronage.” She waved at the apprentice, watching at a discreet distance, who hurried to take charge.

  “Come here, daughter,” John Lambert called to her when he saw Jane was free. “I wish to present you to a fellow guild member, Master William Shore.”

  Jane had to look up a long way to her father’s friend. At a little under five feet, she was used to craning her neck to talk to men, but it seemed to Jane that Master Shore was uncommonly tall. He stared down at the comely young woman and was disconcerted by her unabashedly curious gaze. Had William been at all interested in women, he might have noticed the almond shape of those green-gray eyes, or the way her generous mouth appeared ready to laugh and how her nose came to an upswept end, making her look younger than her twenty-two years. Instead he cringed at her forthrightness as immodest and regarded her beauty as Satan’s bait. But as a businessman in search of an advantageous marital match, he inclined his head graciously and gave a suitably agreeable response.

  Jane, unaware of the man’s disapproval—or indeed intent—began cheerfully enough: “Master Shore, I give you God’s greeting. Is your business with me or with my father?” Noting the man’s unusual disinterest in her looks, she became more businesslike. “I doubt not that I can help you find something, if that is what you have in mind, but you may have to wait if my present customer has a question of me.”

  “Certes, Master Shore’s business is with me, Jane,” John snapped. “Do not be impertinent.”

  “But, Father . . .” Jane said, indignant; after all, he had summoned her. But seeing both men’s disapproval clearly written on their faces, she held her tongue. God’s truth, now what had she said to anger her father?

  “I wanted Master Shore to know you better, ’tis all,” John Lambert answered, not troubling to give her an explanation. He peered up at William, hoping Jane had not already disheartened the sober suitor.

  Had she known William before? she wondered. But as she was certain she had not, she was puzzled. Gripping her hands together, she inclined her head in William’s direction. “Forgive me, sir, if my forwardness offended,” she apologized, giving him a reluctant curtsey, “ ’twas not my intent.”

  “You may leave us and attend to Lady Margaret,” John said, pleased with his daughter’s deference. “Come, Shore, we can talk privately in my office.”

  Jane had noted her father seemed a little more unctuous with the guest mercer than he was wont to be with those he considered inferior, arousing her natural inquisitiveness. Did her father owe the man money? She could not think so, for hadn’t John lent the king a large sum recently for Edward’s great venture to fight the French? Was William perhaps part of a council that was able to reinstate her father as alderman? But nay, that unpleasant incident had been more than ten years ago, and John’s legendary temper would not be put to the test again by the city fathers. So, who was this man to her father? She did not have time to contemplate further as at that moment the candle boy slipped a note into her hand and then sidled back to his perch. Jane looked at the small wad of wet paper and then at the boy and raised an eyebrow, but the boy turned up his hands and said, “A man give it to me when I went to take a piss outside.” He chose not to show the shiny farthing the man had given him in exchange for being a messenger, but he could feel it tucked into his grubby, damp shirt.

  Friday at nones was all that was written in the bold hand, but Jane felt her stomach turn over and gooseflesh prickle her arms. She gave the boy a quick smile, stuffed the note down her bodice, and went back to see how her customers were doing with Matthew.

  When William Shore left the shop half an hour later, he was surprised—and gratified—to receive a nod and a smile from the young woman who might one day be his wife.

  “You will obey me in this, Jane,” her father said at supper that night and was relieved that Jane appeared acquiescent for once. “Master Shore has excellent prospects, and you will treat him with respect when he calls courting. You will not toss this one aside, do you hear?” Jane toyed with her fingers in her lap as she remembered how she had managed to rid herself of two other unappealing suitors, once by feigning madness, she recalled, suppressing a smile. “Your mother and I believe it is the only chance you will have to wed, and we need to be thinking about Isabel.” He gave his younger daughter a kindly smile.

  But Jane’s silence caused Amy to reach over and shake her daughter’s arm. The half-eaten serving of fish pie lay on Jane’s trencher, and she appeared intent on shredding a hunk of bread crumb by crumb.

  “You must thank your father, Jane,” Amy said, not unkindly. “What? Would you rather remain here as a spinster for the rest of your life?” Jane did look up then, and her mother was horrified to see two large tears spill down her cheeks and onto her spotless linen napkin. “Tears!” Amy exclaimed in surprise as John downed his wine, angrily pushed his chair back from the table, and strode from the room. “I thought you would be pleased. I know how long you have wanted to escape from here,” Amy confided.

  Jane stared in awe at her mother and wiped her tears. “You do?” she said. “But, Mother, am I not to have any say-so in this decision?” She blew her nose and asked Bella to leave, which the girl did with sulky reluctance. Then Amy pulled her stool around to Jane’s and poured them both another cup of wine.

  “Your father is not an ogre, Jane, although I know you imagine him one. He does care about you, although ’tis true he favors Bella. I have tried to compensate, but you do not make it easy. My dear, you remind me very much of myself when I was young. Aye”—she nodded when Jane’s eyes questioned—“I was as rebellious as you, but I settled into marriage because it was expected and because I wanted my own household and children. We have been blessed with six . . . seven if you count poor little Meg, may she rest in peace . . . and I am proud of you all. Your father wants you settled, and I want you happy. Perhaps William Shore can provide both. Now promise me you will give the man a fair chance.”

  Jane’s eyes stung again, but she did not dare tell her mother she desired someone else—someone else whom she had just met and who, with time, would surely declare himself. Now was not the moment, however, but as soon as Tom came forward, surely his suit would be considered as good as William’s. It was plain he was gently born, and surely her father would be ecstatic if she raised the Lamberts up to the gentry or perhaps even the nobility. There was an air about Tom, although perhaps it was because he was already a prince to her. How she would gloat when Tom came to ask her father’s permission to woo her. Now, knowing her mother was waiting, she shifted in her seat and promised to walk out with William, and Amy was satisfied.

  “You’ll see, my dear. Once you get used to a man, you can love him and be a good wife. And then you will have the gift of children. ’Tis they who bring a woman the greatest joy.”

  “Aye, Mother,” Jane acquiesced, imagining a son she might have with Tom Gre
y and not Master Shore. “I dream of holding my own babe, ’tis true, and I pray for it nightly . . . with whomever I wed.”

  The next few weeks were as confusing as they were titillating for Jane, believing she had two men vying for her hand. To placate her father, she allowed William to come courting and hoped that, before the slow-moving, deliberate mercer signed the formal contract, Tom Grey would declare his intentions.

  It was not long before William came to Hosier Lane and sat with Amy Lambert and her daughter as he struggled to find common ground for conversation. All he knew was his trade, and he had never sought much female company in his almost forty years. Growing up, he had found his several younger sisters foolish and had chosen to escape the wilds of Derby as soon as his long, narrow feet could take him to London. There he had worked hard for the customary seven years as an apprentice to Mercer Reynkyn and received the freedom of the city when he was in his mid-twenties. As a guild member, William had associated with many of the most prosperous merchants in Europe, and his shop in the Coleman Street ward, although not as extensive as John Lambert’s, was making him a comfortable profit. Even his forays to Antwerp and Bruges had been all about business, and if the truth be told, he had never paid much attention to his surroundings and was able to offer the two women but minimal details of those cities. Aye, he was good at conversing about all things commercial, but in front of Jane and her mother he was quite at a loss for words. In fact, he was uncharacteristically nervous and was annoyed to see his hand shaking as he picked up his cup of wine. He saw Amy confide something to Jane, and so anxious was he they were talking about him that when Jane suddenly laughed at Amy’s innocent joke, he started abruptly and spilled wine all over his fine grosgrain gown.

  “God’s truth,” he mumbled, brushing off the tawny liquid with the back of his hand as his neck flushed red around the fur of his collar. “Your pardon, Dame Lambert, so clumsy of me.”