Royal Mistress

by Anne Easter Smith

  The idea that she might use her position to influence the king in this manner had not occurred to her. She warmed his bed and made him laugh, but she was a mere commoner with no knowledge of politics. She stared at the anxious mercer for a few seconds and felt sorry for him. “If you swear to me that your story is true, perhaps I would speak to the king about your case. I cannot say if it will help, but I can try.”

  Etwelle was on his knees and kissing her hands, and although he was a man, he seemed to have wetted them with his tears. She gently pulled away and helped him to rise. “No need for such a show, Master Etwelle, and I am not Lady Jane but plain Mistress Shore. We are all equals, are we not, both proudly brought up in the mercers’ company, you a freeman and I a freewoman of London. Rise up, I pray you, sir, for I am no better than you.”

  Etwelle was wringing his hands, a silly grin on his face. “Aye, both Londoners, mistress, and proud of it. I cannot thank you enough for receiving me,” he said, and for the first time he stared about him at the sumptuous surroundings.

  Jane hoped he would tell her father how well she was situated, and she leaned forward to ask him about her family. She had not seen her mother or sister since that awkward meeting when first she moved to Thames Street. “Will you tell my sister Bella that I think of her often, Master Etwelle?” The mercer nodded, eager to oblige.

  “And I beg of you to stop by my shop at the Mercery and take your pick of any cloth you like,” he said. “I am most grateful to you, mistress.”

  Jane smiled. “I have not succeeded in my task yet, sir, and besides, I will not accept your bribe. For, in truth, that is what it is.” Seeing him demur, she held up her hand. “Nay, my reward will be knowing that justice has been served and your family is provided for. I will speak to the king on the morrow.”

  “I can see this means much to you, sweeting,” Edward said when she had timidly described Master Etwelle’s visit. “I confess I know nothing of it. In truth, it is a minor matter with which only my treasurer would concern himself.” He stood behind her and began to unlace her bodice, impressed that she had not deferred her request until after she had pleasured him, when he might have been more inclined to grant this favor. He slid his hands around her body to cup her warm breasts, and she gave a little squeal of protest.

  “My lord, I hope your heart is not as cold as your hands.” She laughed, already responding to his teasing fingers. “Shall you help Mercer Etwelle or must I have his detention on my conscience? I believe ’twas an honest mistake.”

  Edward nuzzled her ear as she leaned back against him. “You are too kind, Jane. ’Tis one of the things I adore about you. Do not fret, I will excuse the man of his debt to me.”

  Jane twisted in his arms and laid her head on his chest. He always made her feel so delicate when he embraced her like this, and she inhaled his favorite scent of orrisroot, believing she had never been happier. “Thank you, my lord,” she said sincerely. “You are a most generous king.”

  “And you a most generous mistress,” he replied.

  He carried her to the mauve and white bed, and for a while they shut out the dreary winter day, losing themselves in love.

  Jane begged Edward to let her dress him, and so he told his squires to wait in the hall. He was glad of the opportunity to talk further about Jane’s visit from the freeman.

  “I have to warn you, Jane, ’tis common for those close to the king to be asked for favors. Every day the queen, Will, Thomas Howard, Dorset, Stanley are petitioned by men and women alike to speak to me on their behalf. This Master Etwelle may be the first, but he certainly will not be the last. He is no fool. He knows you from your former life, and he knows your position now. I must caution you to pick your causes carefully. There are those who will use you for political gain, and ’twould be easy enough to put yourself in danger. A smile at court can hide a false friend who will betray you ere you can spit on the floor. You must learn whom to trust. Margaret Howard might be your guide in this. You do understand, my dear?”

  “I do, your grace,” Jane replied, soberly. She hoped she was clever enough to know when she was being fooled, but she was learning that courtiers were more devious than her friends and acquaintances in the city. She shivered slightly, hoping she would not fall into a flatterer’s trap, and determined to ask Lady Howard for help. The kind-hearted Margaret was also a good friend to Kate Haute, so Jane knew the older woman must be unconcerned about consorting with concubines.

  Edward checked his appearance in her polished silver mirror and settled his black velvet bonnet on his head.

  “And now I have to call another great council to debate the matter of my brother-in-law of Burgundy’s demise and my sister’s preposterous suggestion that young Mary marry my widowed brother Clarence. Over my rotting corpse!”

  “Christ’s bones, George!” Edward shouted. “How stupid do you suppose I am? Allow you to wed the Burgundy girl and you would soon chafe to assert her paltry claim to my throne. Nay, do not turn away from me. You have tried to wear my crown before, or are you too drunk to remember?”

  George of Clarence’s bloodshot eyes were full of hatred. The queen sat quietly gloating over her brother-in-law’s discomfort. She would never forgive the man for turning against Edward in 1469. Moreover, now that her bitterest enemy, Warwick, was dead, she held Warwick’s puppet Clarence responsible for the executions of her beloved father and her brother John in the ensuing civil war. Banish the measle, she wanted to tell Edward; the man was a pus-laden boil under the royal family’s skin that should be lanced and drained, leaving naught but a withered scar to show he had been there.

  George, in his cups, foolishly did not let the matter rest. “Meg thinks I should wed Mary, and I want to, too,” he retorted. “Why do you thwart me at every turn? Have I not proved loyal these past five years? Can you not forget my youthful mistake? I swear I will not work against you if I become Burgundy’s duke.” George snatched up one of his gloves from the table and threw it back down as he cried, “I want to wed Mary. Why should I not?”

  The room went silent as all eyes riveted on the glove. Then Edward raised his to George’s handsome face, anger boiling in him now.

  “Hear this, and hear it well, little brother. I do not trust you, and I never shall. Our lord father told us once if he told us a hundred times, look to your family in the hard times for they will not let you down. I am happy he is not here to see how wrong he was. I shall keep you close, George. You will not run off to some foreign part and plot against me again. Now, go back to your claret and stay out of my sight!” Edward spat, turning his back and walking to the hearth, where the crackling logs competed with the angry discourse.

  George snatched up his glove and nodded to his squire, who came forward to wrap a mantle around his lord. “You have not heard the last of this. I shall go and seek our lady mother’s advice. At least she will be fair.” He moved to Edward’s side, and when only his brother could hear, he hissed: “Have a care, Edward. I know things about which loyalty has kept me silent. Do not provoke me, brother.” As he turned to the door, he made a great show of twirling his fur-lined mantle behind him and left, somewhat unsteadily, in a blur of red velvet.

  Edward stared into the fire contemplating his brother’s words. To what was George referring? he wondered briefly. Nay, it was George who had always been the offender, he decided and, exasperated, sloughed off the ominous remark.

  Edward was busy for the next few weeks after he called a great council at Westminster, leaving Jane to her own devices. While Edward was absent, he did not forget his mistress, and soon her ornately gilded casket was overflowing with tokens of his devotion. As much as she loved all her new finery, Jane was not greedy. She had a particular fondness for the pearl necklace and her little emerald ring, but some of the larger items she found ostentatious and knew not when she might wear them in public. She was certain many of the trinkets had been chosen by one of the king’s squires, John Norrys perhaps, and so as she fingered a few o
f the less valuable pieces, she began to plan how to sell them.

  After she had come to terms with her status as a royal mistress, Jane had bargained with St. Catherine that she would do what she could for others not as fortunate as she, if the saint would intercede for her with God when the day of judgment arrived. But there was another reason for being generous. She had been surprised at her joy when Edward had indeed pardoned Master Etwelle, and the mercer and his wife had visited her with their profuse thanks. She had vowed then she would not sit idle in her comfortable Thames Street house but would do what she could to ease others’ burdens. Certes, she had always looked to help her neighbors back on Hosier Lane and Cordwainer Street and never minded visiting a sick wife or a hurt child with small gifts of food, but the act of charity toward the Etwelles had been of a more serious nature with greater stakes. She began to understand her power, and it seemed even more satisfying because she was a woman. As she contemplated where to bestow a gift, she thought of the Vandersands’ leaky roof. Certes, she would begin with Sophie.

  It was a showery day in late April when Jane picked her way in her high wooden pattens around the puddles and muck on her way to the Jewry. She hoped one of the Italian moneylenders she had known since her childhood would give her a fair price for one of her baubles wrapped in velvet in the pouch at her waist. An hour later, with Ankarette trailing tut-tutting behind, she emerged from a doorway and into bright sunshine, the concealed pouch now heavy with coins.

  As she rounded the corner into the Poultry by St. Mary Colechurch, humming Sumer is icumen in and exhilarated by her success, she failed to see a horse-drawn cart lumbering toward her and too close to the building. Just in time, Ankarette pulled her mistress to safety, but not before Jane’s skirts and mantle were soaked in foul-smelling spray from a deep rut in the road.

  “Look where you’re going!” the carter yelled back over his shoulder.

  Jane crossed herself twice and thanked her resourceful servant for her escape. She well knew that other than pox and the plague, accidents like these were the commonest cause of deaths in London. She leaned against the church wall, her chest heaving and her heart pounding.

  “Jane, lieveling, vhat are you doing here?” Sophie Vandersand’s motherly voice came out of nowhere, and Jane had never been so glad to see her friend, who was accompanied by two of her children. “Look at you! In Godsnaam, you are filthy. You must to come to our home.”

  Jane was soon wrapped in Sophie’s wool cloak and ensconced by the smoky fire of the downstairs room, her outer garments hanging to dry among the earthenware pots and iron utensils in the large kitchen hearth. The two younger children were sitting cross-legged in front of her, gazing in awe at their mother’s friend with her soft velvet bonnet and bejeweled fingers. Sophie was wringing out a cloth in hot water from the kettle over the fire before sponging Jane’s cold feet, shooing Ankarette away when the servant insisted it was her job to care for her mistress.

  “Look at that, Sophie,” Jane said, pointing to her foot’s bright green color. “When will they ever invent a dye that does not come off leather when it rains? I do so hate getting my feet wet. Aah, that feels wonderful.” She looked around the once-familiar house and felt a pang of remorse that she had not visited Sophie before now. In truth, she had been avoiding Sophie’s censure and was unsure how to reestablish their friendship. She knew Sophie could not approve of what Jane had become, and now they seemed worlds apart.

  “I would have come sooner, Sophie, I promise you,” she began by way of an apology. “I hope you are not too disappointed in me?” She observed the prim line of Sophie’s mouth and hung her head. “Aye, I can see that you are, and ’tis the reason I have not invited you to visit me. I cannot bear your disapproval. Would it help if I told you I am happier than I have ever been? Nay, I suppose not.” Then her eye lighted on her pouch that had been set on the table while her clothes dried, and she reached for it. “You asked me what I was doing in the Jewry. I have been wanting to help you and Jehan for so long, and now I can,” she cried happily, jingling the coins. “I was on my way here when you found me. This is for you. ’Tis for a new slate roof so your children will be safe from fire and you do not have to worry about all those leaks. I pray you, take it and make me happy.”

  Sophie’s expression went from sober to surprised and finally back to disapproving. “I cannot take your money, Jane. It is”—she searched for the right word—“stained.”

  “You mean tainted,” Jane corrected, coloring. “Oh, Sophie, please take it in friendship.”

  From the loft above where she was caring for little Pieter, Sophie’s eldest daughter called down: “Take it, Mother, please. If Aunt Jane gives it in friendship, you would be unkind to say no, and besides, a slate roof would mean we won’t sleep in a wet bed all winter.”

  “You see, Sophie, Janneke understands,” Jane pleaded. “I do not need the money, but your family does.” She stroked Sophie’s rough hand, noting the calluses and cuts from years of working with a spindle and raw silk, her care-worn plain face already showing signs of age, and Jane’s heart ached for her less fortunate friend. “I beg of you, think of them.”

  Sophie looked into Jane’s eyes, the firelight making them more hazel than green, and saw that for all her friend was living a life neither God nor Sophie would condone, Jane’s generosity and kindness had not changed. She smiled and nodded. “If it is vhat you want, Jane, I vill take it.” Then she put her hand to her mouth. “But how do I tell Jehan? He may not accept.”

  Jane laughed. “My dear Sophie, I have learned much about men in the last year, and I will tell you that very few have scruples enough to turn down money”—she was thinking of Edward and Will’s French pension—“no matter how it was earned. Here.” She pressed the bag into Sophie’s trembling hand, and Janneke clapped her hands with delight, which made the other children get up and dance, pulling Ankarette into the circle. Soon Jane and Sophie could not resist joining in, and it was a bemused Jehan who walked unexpectedly into the midst of the revelry and stood staring at the laughing, jigging group singing “Ring-a-ring-o-roses.”

  Jane had been right. The weaver was not too proud to take the gift. All smiles, he picked Jane up and swung her around with enthusiasm.

  “The Vandersands thank you, Jane Shore,” he said later, when Jane was ready to leave.

  “Ja, lieveling,” Sophie agreed, embracing her friend, “from the bottom of our hearts.”

  On the way home to Thames Street, Jane felt light-headed from the good she had accomplished, and she waved at a surprised carter pushing his barrow home from Paul’s Market. She had even sent Ankarette ahead to ready a bath. As she slowed near the house, she began humming the children’s tune again merrily to herself, unaware she was being watched by a young man leaning on a tree nearby.

  “This is almost the Jane Lambert I remember,” he said, stepping out in front of her, halting her progress. But he did not smile. “Carefree and innocent. But you are not so innocent now, are you, Jane?”

  Jane felt the air rush from her lungs and put out her hand to steady herself on the tree. Tom Grey snatched her hand instead and pressed it to his heart.

  “Whose heart is broken now, Jane?” he said low. “You gave yourself to the king after refusing me on moral grounds. Where are your morals now?” And he upswept his arm to encompass her house.

  Jane swiftly withdrew her hand and hoped no one was observing them. “If I recall correctly, my lord Dorset, you refused me first on moral grounds.” Her heart was thumping, and to her chagrin his touch had revived the strong feelings for him she had tried to suppress in the past six months. But she was Edward’s mistress now, and she had no wish to betray the love with which the king had honored her, so she attempted to move on with a curt “Good day, my lord marquess.”

  “Not so fast, Mistress Shore,” Dorset said, piqued by her cool dismissal and stepping in front of her again. “I beg of you, give me five minutes of your time.”

  �
�For what, my lord? Will you lecture me on morality? Will you risk being seen accosting the king’s mistress?” she added. And again she brushed past him and reached her door.

  “I have never forgotten you, Jane Shore,” Tom confessed, his sincerity making her hesitate. “I would hear from you that I am forgotten, so I may shut you out of my heart.”

  Jane almost swooned. “You must go, my lord,” she whispered, “or I shall be undone.” Then she pleaded with him and could not keep the sadness from her voice. “Please, Tom, go.”

  Just then, upon hearing voices, Jane’s steward opened the door to his mistress. Before Tom could stop her, Jane disappeared inside the house, and the door was firmly shut.

  Tom stood staring at the oak carvings, deciding if he should risk Edward’s ire and barge in to claim her or quietly walk away. He chose the latter, Jane’s parting telling him what he needed to know: Jane Shore loved him still.

  Jane was relieved that Edward did not return to her bed for a week or more for it took her several days to recover from the unexpected meeting with Tom Grey. During one of her sleepless nights, she had consumed a whole jug of wine and had dozens of imaginary conversations with the young marquess. Most of the daydreams ended with Tom declaring his undying love and the two of them fleeing abroad, but then there were other daydreams where she spurned him in favor of the king.

  And all night, she ruminated on love. She did love Edward for his charisma, for his generous, easygoing nature, his sense of humor, and for the way he awakened new sensations in her every time he touched her. But was that love? How she wished she could talk to Will, who made her feel safe and respected her opinions. Perhaps, in his wisdom and, according to John Norrys, his experience with women, he could advise her, but he was still in Calais.