Royal Mistress

by Anne Easter Smith

  Jane was ushered up alone first and admired the painted room, lavishly decorated with tapestries that could only have come from the finest weavers in Brussels or Bruges. Aye, she thought, turning to contemplate one depicting a unicorn hunt, Lord Hastings had fled into exile with the king five years ago when Edward took shelter with his brother-in-law Charles of Burgundy in Bruges. Hastings must have made the most of his time there, she concluded, throwing back the veil that William made her wear whenever they were in the street. He could not abide the lecherous looks his wife invariably attracted, and Jane, amused more than irked, had acquiesced with grace.

  “The workmanship is beautiful, do you not think, Mistress Shore?” The voice was so close, Jane jumped and clutched her heart. Will Hastings smiled. “Forgive me for startling you. You were expecting me, I hope?”

  Jane turned back to the wall hanging, aware Hastings was watching her. “I am very fond of the hunt, my lord, though I have been unable to pursue it lately, more’s the pity.”

  After her self-arousal the night before, Jane was hungry to be desired that morning. She saw again the frank admiration in Will Hastings’s look, and it warmed her. She noticed that, despite his age, he still had all his teeth and his legs were strong and straight. What stood out, however, were his eyes. Brown and kind. Aye, she could see the intelligence behind them, but their kindness mattered more to her. She made him a small curtsey and smiled coyly up at him.

  “My lord, my husband is downstairs overseeing the unloading of his cloth. But may I tell you that we are humbled by your patronage.” She smoothed the folds of her soft satin skirt to draw Will’s attention to it. “My husband told me to wear this, so you might examine it more closely,” she said, and saw to her sudden understanding that his eyes had not left her face and were clearly uninterested in her gown. Why, it was she whom Lord Hastings had wanted to see again, not her green-and-golden gown! The king’s chamberlain was interested in her, she thought, only slightly flustered. She knew of his reputation with the wenches in the city—his and his sovereign’s. And only recently had she learned to her chagrin that Tom Grey was a part of this trolloping trio. She had witnessed the landlord at the Lamberts’ favorite tavern in the Chepe, where the family would take their weekly Sunday dinner, gossip about the seduction of one of his serving girls by a disguised Edward. “Imagine the king in The King’s Head,” he had chortled to Jane’s father, “and then taking a maiden’s head.” Jane had seethed silently as he and John had winked and enjoyed the joke at the violated servant’s expense.

  But Jane was no tavern wench, and the king’s most trusted councilor—arguably the most powerful man in England after the king—was treating her like a lady. Far from being cowed, she was spurred on to take a risk, especially after her unhappy evening with William. She lifted her skirt an inch or two and revealed an ankle in the process. “This is what you have a liking for, is it not, my lord? ’Twould be imprudent for me to invite you to touch, as we are alone, but as soon as William arrives with the rest of the material, you will be allowed to finger it.”

  Will laughed. “Why, Mistress Shore, I do believe you are flirting with me.” He was delighted. The meeting was going far better than he could have dreamed, and he was charmed by her saucy innuendo. Voices in the back staircase made him seize the moment, and taking her hand he pressed it to his lips. “Indeed, you are correct. This is what I am interested in,” he assured her before swinging around to greet the panting William, who was somewhat obscured by the bolts of cloth he carried; he was followed closely by his apprentice, Wat, and the page. “Master Shore, we greet you well. Your wife was admiring my unicorn tapestry,” he remarked with bland smoothness. “It seems she enjoys the chase; I shall have to take her hunting one of these days.”

  William’s astonishment made him let go of the cloth, his mouth agape, and then he remembered to bow. “M-my lord, you d-do us a great honor, does he not, Jane?”

  Jane nodded an assent as she bent down to help neaten the bolts and cover her red face.

  “Nonsense, sir, it will be my pleasure to—” Hastings began.

  “Ah, husband, there you are,” a woman’s sharp voice intruded, cutting him off, and Jane could not help noticing the guilty look that crossed the chamberlain’s face as Katherine, Lady Hastings, approached them. She was the sister of Warwick, sometimes called a maker of kings, and thus cousin to King Edward, and she had her brother’s haughty bearing despite her lack of inches. Her Neville blue eyes darted from Jane to William and back to Jane before resting with suspicion on her husband’s face. How long before he takes this wench to his bed, she was thinking, while dutifully acknowledging the reverences of the mercer and his wife, whom Will had hastily introduced. Despite her three dozen years, she was still a striking woman, especially when she smiled, although Jane thought the pale eyes mirrored a less attractive character underneath, and she shivered suddenly, as though a shadow had fallen over the proceedings.

  “My lady, I am glad you are come, albeit you have spoiled my surprise,” Will bluffed. He made convincing sheep’s eyes at Katherine and explained: “I asked Mercer Shore to attend me to procure a length of this satin as a gift for your birthday. As soon as I saw it, I was determined to have it. I am particularly grateful to Master Shore for allowing me to see it fully made into a gown. Are you not as delighted by it as I am?”

  William, eager to have the nobleman’s business, pushed Jane forward for inspection. “Turn around, wife, and let her ladyship see the damasking properly.”

  As Jane did as she was told, Katherine sniffed. “And what makes you think I would want the same gown as a merchant’s wife, my lord,” she demanded of Hastings. “And may I add that I have never favored green, and yellow is, as we all know, the color of treachery.” She looked Jane up and down and purred: “Be that as it may, the gown does, however, become you, mistress.” Before Hastings could open his mouth to reproach her for her rudeness, Katherine turned to the mercer and gave him a beatific smile. “But, Master Shore, if you have other silk you could show me. I can hardly disappoint my lord husband in his gift, can I?”

  While Will and Jane stood by in silence, Lady Hastings spent a goodly time pawing bolt after bolt of William’s merchandise, relishing her husband’s prolonged discomfort. She finally settled on a sumptuous blue velvet, and relieved, Will sent for his steward to make the arrangements. Without more ado, Will escorted Katherine from the room.

  “God’s truth, Will, have you not the manners to keep your harlots out of our house?” she expostulated as she dropped his arm and glided away, her attendant scurrying behind her.

  Will scowled and returned to the Shores, who had already measured the desired length of the chosen velvet and were gathering up the rest of the cloth. “I am happy to have satisfied Lady Hastings, and rest assured once the gown is made and seen at court, your establishment will surely benefit, Master Shore.”

  William bowed low, his cheeks flushed with pleasure. Jane was afraid he would try and kiss Hastings’s hand and so urged him to pick up the bolts and not waste any more of the baron’s time.

  “My promise will not be forgotten, mistress,” Hastings assured her, watching William and his apprentice struggle to the stairs with their load. “I will invite you to the hunt very soon, if that be your wish. You do ride, I suppose?”

  “And well for a lady, my lord,” Jane remarked. “My father did not fail my sister and me in our education, but my husband has no time for books or hunting. My father took me on a chase once, and I should like to go again.” She was astonished by her forwardness already and did not dare spend any more time in conversation with him but hurried to the staircase and was gone without a backward look.

  I have no doubt you would, but I wonder how much you will enjoy being caught, Jane Shore, Will asked himself, his loins responding to his imagination of the scene.

  Richard, duke of Gloucester, stepped out of a shop along goldsmiths’ row in the Chepe, where he had commissioned a new collar for himse
lf fashioned with the king’s favorite souvent me souvient ornamentation. Recognizing the White Boar badge of his two retainers, several citizens stopped to stare at the king’s youngest brother and marvel how unlike they were to look at.

  “Spittin’ image of ’is father,” one man reminded another as they moved on. “Remember York? He wasn’t tall neither. And both with dark ’air and that worried look. ’Tis uncanny.”

  Richard lifted his hand in salute to the bows he received and shared a quick laugh with his companion, Robert Percy. They had no sooner called for their mounts to be brought forward when a small cart piled high with bolts of cloth and pulled by two strapping youths turned the corner of Bread Street, followed by a merchant—a member of the guild of mercers, judging from the color of his gown—and a diminutive, veiled woman by his side.

  Momentarily distracted, Richard and his friends failed to see the group of unkempt thugs who ran across the street to swoop upon the cart. Jane saw them coming and screamed to Richard’s group, “Behind you, sirs!” before she ducked into the shop doorway that the duke had recently exited. Alerted, Richard and Robert whipped out their daggers, and Gloucester’s escort, believing it was their lords who were the target, pushed the two noblemen back against the shop walls and protected them with crossed halberds.

  But the robbers were more interested in the bulging purse that was giving William Shore’s waistline an unnatural shape. Hastings had paid him the full value of the cloth despite William’s halfhearted refusals, and William had prayed he and his merchandise would make the short trip back to Coleman Street unmolested. He had been right about a disgruntled army after the French expedition, and London was rife with crime. Unemployed and starving soldiers loitered in alleys and on street corners, looking for a carelessly or even carefully secured purse, or a piece of jewelry sparkling on a cloak or a bonnet that was easy picking for a desperate man with a knife or a club.

  Too late, William attempted to bury the purse among the silks and satins, and instead shouted “Stop, thief!” miserably into thin air as the three robbers made off with the prize, hared down Bread Street, and disappeared into an alley.

  “My money!” he wailed, shaking his fist at his bemused apprentices. “Why did you not stop them, you good-for-nothing wastrels? I have a good mind to deduct your wages.”

  The two young men were picking themselves up from the dirt and looked at their master in dismay. Richard and Robert hurried over to help pick up the scattered cloth and Jane ran to William’s side.

  “Do not berate the lads thus, husband,” she cried, standing on tiptoe to add height to the weight of her words. “They were as helpless as the rest of us—nay, they were more helpless in that they were yoked to the cart. Never fear, Jack and Wat, I shall not allow my husband to take one groat off your wages. Now tell them yourself, William!”

  Rob Percy nudged Richard and grinned. “I would not want to be that woman’s husband, would you, Dickon?”

  Richard shook his head and eyed the husband and wife with amusement. He had noted the elegant gown and the way it draped on the woman’s slender form, and he at once knew how to make amends for the mercer’s loss. He knew full well it was Edward’s fault that loyal English soldiers were forced into a life of crime to feed their families. He had been proud that he had been the only one of the king’s entourage to have refused King Louis’s pension; he had wanted to fight the French, not sign some treaty that was no more than a bribe. He did not often disagree with his oldest brother, but in this—and in the lascivious manner in which Edward chose to live—he was adamantly opposed.

  “Richard of Gloucester at your service, mercer,” he said in his serious way. “I am sorry for your loss, and I regret we were unable to stop the thieves. However, I am curious if you have more of your wife’s satin to offer me. It would please my lady, the duchess, of that I am certain.”

  Richard was rewarded by openmouthed disbelief from William. The duke sensed he was also being avised by the eyes behind the veil. Jane curtseyed low when William remained mute.

  “I am afraid my husband must still be in shock, your grace, or he would have thanked you profusely. I will do so in his stead, and if you would be so kind as to send your messenger to William Shore’s shop on Coleman Street, I will personally see to it that you receive a length of silk to your liking.”

  Richard was impressed. “Am I addressing Mistress Shore?”

  Jane’s merry green eyes were just visible through the filmy fabric, and Richard could tell she was smiling.

  “Aye, my lord duke. I am honored to meet you,” she replied, “although, I wish it had been in less harrowing circumstances.”

  Was the woman being forward with him? he wondered. Nay, he must have been mistaken, although just to be certain, he chose to answer her in a more reserved tone; he should end the conversation and be on his way, he decided. He inclined his head enough to be polite and said simply, “God give you a better day, mistress.” He turned to William, who had recovered his composure and was bowing low, and told him, “I can assure you that I shall send my squire to fetch the cloth in a day or so, Master Shore. I am a man of my word.”

  “Coleman Street, your grace,” William called after the retreating duke. “William Shore of Coleman Street.”

  Richard gave a curt nod. “I heard it the first time, mercer. I am not one to forget anything I need to remember,” he remarked. “What an oddly matched couple,” he confided to Rob Percy as they swung up into the saddle and trotted off.

  Jane looked after them, nonplussed. What had she said that had so obviously offended the duke? Ah well, she thought, as I shall probably never speak to him again, I shall not worry about it.

  On the second day of November, as Elizabeth waited at the window, the rat-tat of rain beat on the leaded glass panes, blurring the dozens of boats, shouts, barges, and ferries that plied the gray Thames below her. Not that on this particular day she could care: she was too preoccupied with the all-consuming, painful toil of labor and birthing. When Anne arrived, quickly and without fuss, four hours later, the queen looked at her fifth daughter and marveled again how each child could look so different born from the same parents. Elizabeth, Mary, and Cecily were fair-haired; poor little Margaret, may she rest in peace, was so bald it had been impossible to tell if she would have been fair like her mother, red-gold like her father, or dark like her grandfather York. But there was no mistaking these chestnut glints in the wispy tresses: they reminded Elizabeth of her brother, Anthony Rivers.

  Expecting the customary visit from her husband, and only partly aware of the women who had attended her moving quietly about the chamber, she drifted into the pleasant state between waking and sleeping.

  Would Edward be disappointed she had given him yet another girl to marry off with a dowry? With two sons showing signs of being healthy and strong, she hoped the king would not blame her for not tripling the York succession. She smiled whenever she thought of little Ned and his towheaded two-year-old brother, Richard. She was imagining Ned’s pout when he learned he had another sister and on his own birthday, too. He had so begged his mother to come out of her chamber with another boy.

  Elizabeth shifted her position, wincing from the overstretched muscles and hampered by her heavy breasts, and made up her mind she would try once more for a son, but that at age thirty-eight and after nine children, she was tired of being a brood mare. But try telling Edward, she grumbled. After all these years of marriage, he still sought her bed for pleasure, not merely for duty, and called her his beautiful Bessie. So why did he seek other women to lie with? she wondered for the thousandth time. Granted, she had often refused him her bed over the years, but surely two or three intimacies a month were sufficient for their ages. It was true, she admitted, he is five years younger than I, but even so. She contemplated the large betrothal ring on her finger, thinking back to earlier times. She had been glad when the sensual Elizabeth Wayte had been married off and sent from court, together with Edward’s bastards, Ar
thur and the girl. That mistress had flaunted herself without shame for four long years and had had none of the good breeding of her predecessor, Eleanor Talbot. That poor woman had ended up taking her vows, Elizabeth remembered, wondering now what had become of her. She smiled grimly when she recalled the unkind moniker the nun had earned: King Edward’s holiest harlot.

  Eleanor, however, was out of favor by the time of Elizabeth and Edward’s secret marriage in 1464; and Elizabeth still congratulated herself for winning the most eligible bachelor in Christendom. Some thanks were due her canny mother, Elizabeth acknowledged now, remembering the love potion with which Jacquetta Woodville had tempted Edward. Who knew if her mother’s witchery had worked; Elizabeth tended to put the victory squarely on her own undeniable charms and Edward’s insatiable lust. She had been chagrined when Edward had not wanted to shout their union to the world, but then he was young, she remembered, and under the thumb of the high and mighty earl of Warwick, the devil take his soul. She felt no remorse for the schism her marriage had created between the king and his kingmaker, who had been negotiating a foreign match for the king and was politically embarrassed by Edward’s surprise admission. Elizabeth had got what she wanted—and what her mother wanted—and the Woodvilles had risen to the top.

  Elizabeth ran her hand down her body, despising the havoc birthing did to it. It was no wonder Edward sought out younger, virginal women to fornicate with—aye, that was all it was, she told herself, fornication—and she chose not to berate him every time word came to her that he and Hastings had been seen out whoring in the city. She and Lady Hastings had fallen in together mostly in mutual support against their philandering husbands, despite Katherine’s Neville pride—or was it prejudice—over consorting with upstart Woodvilles. And now the two men were initiating Elizabeth’s eldest and most beloved son, Tom, who was also Katherine’s son-in-law, into their filthy practices. As long as no other concubine was taken under their roof again, Elizabeth had once promised Edward, she would not play the injured wife. “Out of sight, out of mind,” she said aloud now.