Royal Mistress

by Anne Easter Smith

  Sophie clicked her tongue in disapproval. “You must not seek him out or speak his name, Jane. He is not for you, you know this. Promise me you vill pretend to be a lady today for Villiam’s sake. He is not so bad, my dear, and he secures for you a future.” She looked wistful. “I can only dream of a life like yours, Jane. Do not throw it into the river, I beg of you.”

  She looked so serious that Jane flung her arms about the staid young woman, laughing. “You worry too much, silly Sophie. I promise not to draw attention to myself, if that will make you feel better, but I shall do it for me and not for William. You forget, I have a friend at court now,” she added, her eyes twinkling. “Lord Hastings will see me and tell me what to do and say, so have no fear on my behalf.”

  But Will Hastings was not there, much to Jane’s chagrin. She discovered soon after her arrival at the palace that he had returned to his responsibilities as captain of Calais and would be gone for several weeks.

  To Jane’s astonishment, William chose to open his purse and take a wherry upriver to the Westminster pier. They would arrive in style like the wealthier courtiers instead of riding through the muck in the marshy road from the city to the palace and risk being robbed. William had taken great pains with his own wardrobe, Jane observed, and she complimented him on the fox-fur trim on his mercer’s dark blue robe. Jane was pleased that this year’s livery color was less garish than last year’s burnt umber; the hood in particular had given most mercers’ skin a deathly pallor. His hair even smelled clean for once, she noted, and the excitement of the event gave his pale face some color and his eyes a sparkle.

  Westminster Hall was ablaze with light, putting the White Hart insignia of the second King Richard into sharp relief along the window embrasures. Jane lifted her eyes to the massive hammer-beamed rafters high above and wondered at the carpenters’ courage. William hailed a fellow mercer and Jane found herself in conversation with his clatterer of a wife, while her eyes roamed the room doing exactly what Sophie had warned her not to do: search for Tom.

  A fanfare of trumpets heralded the arrival of the king and queen, and all necks stretched a few inches in order to catch a glimpse of the royal couple. Jane was so short, she saw nothing, but would have enjoyed watching Edward clap a merchant here and there on the shoulder and move among his subjects like a man rather than a king, although there was no mistaking who was the monarch in the room. However, later, as she munched on a sweetmeat, she saw the couple plainly as they mounted the canopied dais and sat side by side on outsize, high-backed thrones.

  “Ah, but she is beautiful,” Jane declared to her awed companion as they gazed at Elizabeth with her perfect oval face, creamy white skin, pink-tinged cherubic mouth, and large almond-shaped eyes. “She is almost too beautiful to be real.”

  Jane then turned her attention to the king, whose weight had caused him to lose the five years of youth he had on the queen. She had, of course, seen him riding through the city streets on several occasions, and she had always liked the way he engaged with his subjects. You could almost imagine he was one of them, she had noticed, as he would wave expansively, smile, and even shout “God’s greeting to you!”

  What a handsome couple, Jane remarked to herself, staring at the queen’s magnificent crimson satin overdress encrusted with seed pearls, a jeweled collar about her slender neck. Edward wore a deep purple long velvet gown trimmed in ermine, the fur exclusive to royalty. A simple coronet crowned his thick golden-red hair and a heavy gold collar of his favorite double S hung about his shoulders. A lesser man would have been weighed down by it, Jane thought, but Edward was no widow’s mite. He was a giant among his people, standing six foot and three inches, and he was beginning to get a girth to match.

  Soon the line formed for the presentations, and conversation came to a halt as the merchants and their wives jostled for position. Jane suddenly saw her mother and father near the front of the queue but refrained from waving or calling out, which she might have done on any other occasion. It took an hour before she and William reached the dais, but not before there had been several older female casualties behind her, women overcome from standing on the stone floor in their heavy gowns for so long, and who had to be escorted out to an antechamber to sit down or out into the fresh air.

  “Mercer William Shore and Mistress Shore of Coleman Street,” Chamberlain Roger Ree intoned after William had given their names. Jane thought William’s back would break in two so low did he bow, and she smiled to herself as she sank into her own reverence and peeked up at the king. The expression she saw on his face wiped the smile from her own. She knew only too well the look of lust.

  Sweet Jesu, she said to herself, he has seen something he wants; what now?

  Edward liked entertaining his subjects. He liked being king and dispensing goodwill, whereas Elizabeth had complained that she was having to spend the afternoon watching a parade of peasants faun in front of her while she pretended to enjoy it.

  As he watched the wealthy men of the city show off their finery, it gave him immense satisfaction to know his reign had resulted in a new prosperity for England. After a hundred years of war with France followed by a costly civil war between his own house of York and his predecessor’s house of Lancaster, the treasury was being refilled with profits from trade, not taxes for war. These merchants were reaping the rewards of his policies, he was thinking proudly, when his thoughts were instantly quelled as “Mercer William Shore and Mistress Shore of Coleman Street” rang out, and he saw perfection step in front of him.

  Bones of Christ, but this must be Hastings’s paragon, he thought. And that lazy stepson of his, Tom Grey’s. They did not exaggerate, he noted, and he gripped his seat arms, sat up, and sucked in his belly. Immediately, Elizabeth’s uncanny intuition told her to beware of this petite but buxom beauty, and she registered the name just in case.

  “We are pleased to greet you, Master Shore, mistress.” Edward smiled and bowed his head first to the husband—thinking to himself that Will was right, he is insignificant—and then to Jane, although his eyes had never left Jane’s face. What brazenness that she was meeting his look, and he was immediately intrigued. He loathed simpering women who flattered him, hoping to win his favor. Rarely had he taken up with a milk-and-water female; his Bess had taught him to enjoy a woman of spirit, and anyone lacking it bored him.

  Edward appeared transfixed, and Elizabeth, annoyed, waved the couple on.

  “He spoke to us, wife!” William exclaimed when the Shores were out of royal earshot. He was as animated as his sober personality allowed. “Did you notice? We were the only ones in our group he spoke to.”

  Jane despaired of him and grimaced. If he had eyes in his head or one jealous bone in his sexless body, her husband might have deduced the real reason for the king’s unusual interest in Mercer Shore and his wife.

  Two days later, when William had been called away unexpectedly on a business venture in Kent, a messenger came to the Coleman Street house not long after terce and left a packet for Mistress Shore. He told the servant he would return at the same time the next day for an answer.

  Curious, Jane used her knife to open the bulky missive, not recognizing the rose seal, and gasped as she looked inside. A pearl the size of a filbert and set in the center of a golden rose dangled from the end of a velvet ribbon that was wrapped around a piece of parchment.

  I would see you again, Mistress Shore, if you will accompany my man on the morrow. Fear not, your husband is detained and shall not hinder you, should you choose to come.

  Jane blinked several times before she believed the signature: Edward R.

  “The king,” she said out loud, and Ankarette looked up from her mending and asked if Jane had spoken. Quickly stowing the letter and necklace back into the packet, she replied:

  “Aye, I do believe I need a cup of ale, good Ankarette. When you have fetched it for me, I would like to be alone apace before I prepare to tend the shop.”

  When she was finally by hersel
f, she sat by the window, removed the contents of the packet again, and placed the necklace and the letter beside her on the window seat. She stared at them both for a long time, her mind moving as fast as a hare fleeing a hound. She was no fool; she was certain she knew what this meant—what Edward wanted. But was it what she wanted? Or did that matter? How could she refuse? He was the king; she was his subject.

  Jane knew she should enlist God’s help or at least the Virgin Mary’s, and maybe even Sophie’s. But her instinct told her to make her own decision and sort it out with God later. If the truth be told, she was disappointed in Him after her dismissal by the dean of the Court of Arches. God obviously did not listen to insignificant young female supplicants, so why should she consult Him now.

  She hugged herself and knelt upon the seat, opened the window to the wintery sky, and stared over the rooftops of her beloved London. Having the city thrumming below her always gave her strength; she could disappear in the alleys if she chose and still find friends to shelter her should she decide to run away from the king’s advances. It comforted her to know that London would hide her.

  But why run away, Jane Shore? her mischievous imp asked her. Had she not wanted to escape from this prison of a union, this sham of a marriage bed? Perhaps William would divorce her once he knew she had given herself to the king. Aye, he could wring whatever business deal he could from Edward as the price of her freedom, could he not? She had to laugh at herself then. Imagine William threatening the king, she thought, but she could not. From all she had heard, Edward did not seem to care one whit for a lady’s virtue or her husband’s price. She rightly assumed he would not give a fig about cuckolding her husband. She felt a pang of guilt thinking about her husband, but as he was absent, he would never know, she tentatively reasoned. And if he did, would he care? She could not say, but she imagined he might tell her to “be pleasant, wife,” as he had with Hastings, hoping for royal business. But what of her own virtue? If she were ashamed of the looks she had received in Greenwich Park, how much more viciously the tongues would wag if she were to become the royal mistress.

  What of the queen? Did the king not care about his wife’s feelings? The Grey Mare, as she had been dubbed by Londoners many years ago, was known to be a cold, unapproachable woman, for all her beauty. However, Jane had to admit, she had never heard a whiff of scandal about her, unless you counted the gossip about how potions may have been used to win Edward. Ah, but mayhap Queen Elizabeth was a cold fish in bed and that was why Edward, disappointed, cast elsewhere. And now apparently she, Mistress Jane Shore of Coleman Street, had swum unsuspecting into his net.

  She groaned. What was she to do? She longed to leave dreary, impotent William and discover what it was like to be cherished and desired. She looked down at the necklace and lightly rubbed the lustrous surface of the pearl with her fingertip. She did not dare put it on lest its temptation decide for her. But the thought shamed her; it was shameful to be bought thus, and how dare the king think she could be!

  She held the necklace against her throat and imagined facing Edward, alone somewhere in the labyrinth of the king’s apartments, his enormous figure making her feel like a small child. Would wearing the necklace signify her consent, or would it merely signify flattery and gratitude for such a gift? If she wore it and then refused him, would she have to return it? Would he snatch it from her throat? She held the jewel to her skin, the cold gold causing her to gasp. She imagined his fingers caressing her neck, and she grew afraid of her own thoughts.

  “Mistress, you are needed downstairs.” Her servant’s voice broke her reverie, and she hurriedly hid the necklace.

  “Thank you, Ankarette. You may enter and ready me for the shop,” she called, going to the large wardrobe and selecting a simple but elegant sage green gown. She was grateful for the interruption, she had to admit, and hoped the morning routine would divert her mind.

  But later at the shop, where she would preside whenever William was out and now found herself reorganizing a shelf full of delicate gauzes, she was unable to occupy her mind with anything but the king’s summons.

  Was she so certain the king expected her to come to him on the morrow? And if he did, would the encounter be a one-time event? What if she refused? Could she send the necklace back with a polite note? What happened when one said no to a king? Could that be construed as treason? She had no idea, but she shivered, imagining how she and William might be punished. Dear God, she panicked as a bolt of silk slipped from her grasp, could he throw her in prison? Surely not, she told herself, picking up the blue cloth and examining it for dust, but she sensed that refusing the king was a good deal more serious than refusing Will Hastings.

  Will’s kindly face came to mind, his hand lifted in salute as it was on that day in Greenwich Park. He, too, had desired her, she knew, and she had deftly discouraged him. There had been no recriminations, and she had not heard from him anew. True, he was in Calais, but had he been intent upon catching his sea nymph, as he had called her, surely he would have written or tried again. She pondered the contrast between these two powerful men, both attempting to reel her in like some elusive grayling: Hastings’s bait had been a subtle and respectful invitation to her and her husband to ride into the country with him; the king’s was a costly bauble and a cryptic note delivered to her in secret. Despite his reputation with ladies, to Jane there was something in Will Hastings’s aspect that was trustworthy. And his unswerving loyalty to Edward was renowned throughout the realm.

  It occurred to Jane that had the lord chamberlain been in London, she might have consulted him. He would have advised her, she knew it in her heart, and the idea of sharing an intimacy with Hastings intrigued her: she had never befriended a man before. For good St. Cuthbert’s sake, she reprimanded herself, why was she thinking about Hastings? Holy Mother of God, but her mind was running like a brook in springtime, her silent babbling never-ending.

  “Good day to you, Mistress Shore.” The man’s voice so close by made Jane jump. “I beg your pardon, mistress, I did not mean to alarm you. Your journeyman told me where to find you.”

  In the gloom at the back of the shop, she made out the White Boar badge on his tunic and knew him for Richard of Gloucester’s man. “Sir? How can I help you?”

  “My lord duke asked me to give this to Master Shore or to you,” he said without expression, bowing slightly and holding out a letter. “He said you might be expecting it.”

  Jane thanked him, unsure if she should give him a groat for his pains but decided against it. The man had a haughty air and might be offended. It appeared he did not expect a response to the letter as he turned on his heel and exited into Coleman Street. She smiled. It seemed Richard of Gloucester liked to surround himself with men as solemn as himself.

  Master Shore, we greet you well. As I promised when last we met, I would like to purchase three ells of the gold-and-green damask in question and whatever trim Mistress Shore deems appropriate for my consort, her grace the duchess, who has a delicate complexion and brown eyes. I pray you, forward the invoice along with the cloth to my town house, Crosby Place in Bishopsgate, and my treasurer will see you are properly recompensed.

  R. Gloucester

  The order distracted her from her dilemma, and she whiled away another hour holding up lace, fur, and embroidery trims against the satin cloth before making the perfect choice.

  Back in her chamber, she paced about the room. By all that is holy, she was not thinking clearly today. She knew after all the to-ing and fro-ing she had done earlier that her decision could only be made by stripping her soul bare. She must burrow down to the most important question and answer it, if she were to sleep soundly that night. Ah, but did she dare voice that question?

  Jane took a deep breath and forced herself to probe the secret part of her heart, that part where morals and conscience dwelled and where she feared to linger. Was she indeed an immoral woman . . . a trollop? There, she had said it. In truth, it was not easy to define what she
thought she was, and she balked at thinking herself wanton. And yet . . .

  “Admit it, Jane,” she said aloud. “You desire to know love with a man yet fear being dubbed a common wagtail.” Aye, that was the nub of it. “ ’Tis the devil’s work. He is tempting me, I am certain of it,” she said, and she crossed herself. She wondered what her family might say. She smiled to herself as she imagined Bella’s shocked face. Or, might she be envious?

  Jane was indeed facing a moral test, with or without God’s probable ire. However, at that moment, she would not worry about her soul, for she was certain merely wanting to bed a man other than her husband was a grave sin, and she was guilty of that every time she imagined herself in Tom Grey’s arms.

  However, she reasoned, did she not love Tom with all her heart? Surely that made her desire for him better than mere lust. Besides, at the time she would have offered herself to Tom she had been free. If the king wanted her, and she said yes, it would be adultery for both of them. She slapped the post on her tester bed, sending a shower of dust from the canopy above onto the coverlet. Was she willing to sin with Tom but not with the king? Sweet Mary, Mother of God, these were heady thoughts for the young woman, who had never before been permitted to make such a life-altering decision in her twenty-three years.

  And then she came to a dazzling solution thanks to a sliver of London gossip she had remembered. If she disappointed the king, he would surely reject her. He could not punish her for being inexperienced, for not knowing how to please, could he? But, and so it was said, when the king was bored with a mistress, did he not pass her on to Will Hastings or, more importantly, to his stepson, Tom Grey? She hugged herself. Aye, she would agree to give herself to Edward on the morrow, but she would lie there like a dead fish, and he would be frustrated, impatient, and throw her aside as usual. “And, as Lord Hastings is in Calais,” she crowed to the woven woman holding a rose in the tapestry opposite the bed, “the marquess of Dorset, my Tom, will be the lucky man.”