Royal Mistress

by Anne Easter Smith

“Ha!” Richard cried. “You are condemned by your own admission. Away with him,” he ordered, raising his left arm and pointing at the door. “Find him a priest to shrive him, but I will see him dead with his secret before noon!”

  The room swam dizzily as Will fought to remain erect. “Dead, my lord? You mean to execute me? Here? Now? Without trial?” In a tremendous force of will, he threw off his guards and stood his ground. Now he regarded Richard with contempt. “You are a hypocrite, Richard of Gloucester!” he cried, red spots of anger standing out on his cheeks. “It seems you use your ‘useless’ arm quite well again,” he could not stop from saying. “And you stand there and pontificate about morality and justice, and yet you refuse me a fair trial. Who are you to be judge and jury? Who are you to play God?” The guards were fighting with Will now, and he fell to his knees. “I have been York’s staunchest supporter for all fifty-two years of my life. You at least owe me a trial.” But Richard had turned toward the window and avoided Will’s accusing eyes.

  “Take him away, I say!” Richard barked, his fists clenched and his mouth a thin, grim line. “Find a place to punish him. I will see him no more in this life.”

  The guards pulled Will roughly to his feet and all but dragged him from the room to the staircase. It was so clear to Will that Richard intended to take the crown that, having nothing to lose now, he began struggling with his captors, shouting: “Remember your oath, Richard of Gloucester! You pledged to protect your nephew’s right. God help you if you fail.” Then he made a last desperate attempt to appeal to Buckingham and Jack Howard. “Mark my words, my lords, Gloucester seeks the crown.”

  The three men left in the room above stood silent, each with their own memories of the man who had all but ruled England for the past fifteen years. Only Jack Howard felt pity for the councilor and friend who had served his king loyally and with honor.

  Yet no one had stepped forward to defend him.

  A solitary magpie hopped upon the lawn outside the White Tower searching for grubs, but it took flight when soldiers clattered down the staircase and out into the sunshine. Will saw it and then his brave heart succumbed to tears. “One for sorrow,” he quoted the old adage, wondering why his legs would not support him. His guards dragged him along the path, looking for somewhere to carry out the protector’s orders.

  “There, John,” one of the group said, pointing to some timber stacked for building near the Beauchamp Tower. A small curious crowd of people who worked inside the Tower walls gathered, and when they recognized Will Hastings they gasped in surprise. Understanding what was about to happen, they all fell to their knees to pray for a swift passage to heaven for Lord Hastings’s soul. A priest hurried from the Tower chapel of St. Peter ad Vincula, summoned to give the prisoner his last rites, which he did as Will was flung to the ground and told to remove his jacket. How ironic, Will thought with wry humor. How often had he wished himself out of this uncomfortably tight fashion, but now all he wanted was to wake from his nightmare and be happily marooned in the safe haven of Jane’s sunny solar.

  He could scarcely hear the priest’s words for the blood rushing like an angry sea through his brain. His fingers were trembling as he unhooked the many buttons on his jacket, and he did not resist when one of the soldiers ripped it open and pulled it off him. A large timber of oak was transported by three of the men-at-arms and flung down beside the kneeling Hastings.

  “God have mercy on your soul,” the priest intoned, dropping oil on the head of one of England’s most respected councilors. What must the man have done to earn such an unworthy death? he wondered. Even those hanged at Tyburn were allowed to be shriven quietly in private and to speak out upon the scaffold. “In nomine padre, filii et spiritu sancti,” he blessed the victim as a huge man carrying an axe arrived on the scene.

  In that moment, Will knew there was no hope of rescue, no hope of pardon, and he would come face-to-face with his Maker in a matter of seconds. He crossed himself and prayed for God’s mercy and forgiveness for his many sins. Perhaps He would be kind to the man who had never broken his king’s trust, even in death. Then he looked up into the perfect blue sky for the last time before the blindfold was placed over his eyes and he could see no more. But in his mind’s eye he could envision Jane, lying on the pillow as she had the night before, her hair shimmering around her and a smile of contentment on her face.

  “Jane!” His anguished cry touched all who had come to watch, even the hardened soldiers hovering nearby. “I am so sorry, so heartily sorry. Forgive me, my love, and may God protect you.” A moment of humor caused him a wry smile as his head was forced upon the damp wood. “I have broken my promise again, have I not,” he apologized under his breath. “I shall not be home—”

  The axe flashed through the air, the blade blinding in the sunshine, and cut off the final words of the man who died certain he was guilty of nothing more than faithfully loving Jane Shore and having honorably served his beloved king, Edward Plantagenet.

  Not a mile away, as Will’s last hour played out, Jane was poring over her new gift, smiling with delight at each brilliant illumination, colorful flowers in relief decorating their borders, and saying the devotions to herself. The book was small enough to slip into a tapestried bag she hung from her waist, and she knew she never wanted to be parted from it.

  She had just turned to the page titled Office of the Dead with its macabre miniature of a richly clad skeleton lying on a bier in a garden of white roses, when heavy blows rained down on her front door, making her jump and Poppy bark ferociously for one so small. Hurrying to the window, she flung the casement wide and saw armed soldiers gathered below behind a grim-faced Thomas Howard. Her heart began to race; they did not look as though they were making a social call, and when the servant opened the door downstairs and the men surged in, Jane intuitively knew she was in trouble.

  Pushing the book into her pouch, she ran to her wardrobe chest and removed the hidden box of coins, fumbling open the lid. Then, stripping her fingers of rings and snatching several other pieces of jewelry, she crammed them all into the box. She did not know what made her do this, but every instinct of self-preservation she had learned over the last eight years sprang into action. As she ran into the tiny garderobe and found the loose plank she had often idly thought might make a cache for valuables, she could hear the men’s footsteps tramping up the stairs. She pushed the box out of sight, trod heavily on the board to press it flat, and exited the privy just as Thomas Howard flung open the door to the solar. Poppy bared her little teeth and snapped at him until Jane drew her into her arms and calmed her pet.

  “Sir Thomas,” she said with as much composure as she could. “What can possibly be the matter that you must break down my door to discuss? You are always welcome here.”

  “Jane Shore, I arrest you on suspicion of witchcraft,” Thomas pronounced, and Poppy snapped at him again.

  Jane clutched the dog to her and the blood left her face. “Witchcraft, my lord? What is your proof?” Had she not been so terrified, she might have laughed. “ ’Tis a monstrous lie!”

  “ ’Tis for your accusers to deliberate, madam,” Thomas told her, having no idea what proof Richard of Gloucester might have against a woman who only knew how to use the gifts God had given her for pleasuring men. Thomas was certain she needed no witchcraft to accomplish that, he himself having been enchanted by her beauty and wit more than once. “You must come with me at once and leave all behind,” he commanded a little more kindly, feeling awkward now that he stood face-to-face with the victim of Richard of Gloucester’s accusation—unfounded, Howard had thought when told of his duty. Thus he decided to salve his conscience by allowing Ankarette to accompany Jane into custody. Surely there was no harm in it, he assured himself. He did not have the heart to add to her woes by telling her of Hastings’s arrest. One calamity at a time, he decided. “You may, however, have your servant accompany you,” he told her. “Come, mistress, do not make me have to remove you bodily.”

/>   “Then who will care for my dog, Sir Thomas? Nay, I shall come alone and leave Poppy with Ankarette. May I fetch a mantle? You would not wish me to die of cold in a cell before I am burned as a witch, would you?”

  One of the men-at-arms sniggered, and Thomas suppressed a smile. “This is no joking matter, Jane. Aye, you may take what you need to be comfortable, but hurry, my orders are that you must be in custody by noon.”

  Thomas knew full well what was happening at that moment behind the high walls of the Tower, and he felt sympathy for the petite woman with the angel face once she knew of Hastings’s arrest and imprisonment.

  “You do know that as the former wife and daughter of guild members, I am a freewoman of the city, my lord?” Jane asked. “I have the right to say where I shall be held before a trial. I choose to stay at the Ludgate gaol, if you please.” She was relieved to see Thomas nod, afraid she would not have the courage to fight him if he refused. She had visited a petitioner there once and taken his case to Edward, who had pardoned the man his minor crime. The prison was one large cell with windows overlooking St. Paul’s and less dank and odoriferous than Newgate, the bigger of the two gaols on the western end of the city.

  Ankarette set to weeping as soon as she was told she had to stay with Poppy. “I will not abandon you, mistress. Why can’t Martin or Cook take Poppy?” she wailed, jerking her head in the direction of the kitchen.

  Jane was stern. “All will be well, my loyal Ankarette. There is no need for both of us to suffer the ignominies of the Ludgate. You have done nothing wrong. In truth, neither have I,” she lamented, “but the duke of Gloucester is angry with me, and I must be detained at his pleasure, it seems. You must visit me there and bring me food, you understand.” She turned back to the steward and instructed him to run the little household as best he could, then she bent forward to give Poppy into Ankarette’s reluctant arms and whispered, “Mistress Vandersand must know of this. Tell her what has befallen me, and if aught happens to me, she will help you.”

  Kissing Poppy’s soft head, and folding her warmest woolen cloak over her arm, Jane nodded to Thomas, and sandwiched between two hulking men-at-arms with Thomas following, Jane emerged into the sunshine to find a crowd gathered in the street. Jane was aware of a large cart pulled up beside the house but did not give it a second thought; she was too intent on putting one foot in front of the other and reaching her prison without a stumble. Thomas noticed with satisfaction that no one gloated or jeered as the escorts marched their prisoner along Thames Street, past Baynard’s and up to Ludgate Hill.

  “Poor Jane,” a man opined. “How quickly the wheel of fortune turns. She has done no one harm and many good.”

  “Aye,” his neighbor replied, “and they called her the Rose of London in her youth. She will take on another scent after a few days in the Ludgate, I’ll be bound.” He felt sorry for her anyway.

  It was as well Jane did not give her house a backward look, in spite of Ankarette’s loud lamentations, because no sooner had the group gone out of earshot that those soldiers left behind began to ransack the house under the supervision of their captain and throw priceless objects from the second-story solar into the cart. Richard of Gloucester had ordered that the harlot Shore be stripped of all her possessions, claiming that they had been paid for by King Edward and thus belonged to the Crown. Never again would Jane delight in her Galatea tapestry, the books Edward had given her, her luxurious tester bed and its heavy velvet drapes, the Turkey carpets on the floor, her silver platters and Venetian glass goblets, her gorgeous gowns and jeweled headdresses, her necklaces and brooches, all, Richard had seethed when he heard of them, worth a king’s ransom. It was as well Jane did not see the disaffection with which her servants were turfed out onto the street with naught but the clothes on their backs, Cook pathetically holding on to a large copper ladle.

  “What will become of us,” Ankarette cried to the neighbors who were dispersing and returning to their tasks, the excitement over for the day, they thought, when a horseman came galloping along the street intent upon reaching Baynard’s Castle to deliver his news.

  “The Lord Hastings is dead!” the rider cried to the curious onlookers. “The lord chamberlain was executed not half an hour ago. God have mercy on his soul.”

  Consternation broke out among the bystanders. Hastings had been well known in the city, and some ran off to the closest tavern to spread the shocking story. Jane’s cook, comprehending his situation clearly, took off toward the river. He had no intention of being implicated in any wrongdoing on his mistress’s part.

  Ankarette took in the news, and for a second she looked the picture of calm, but suddenly without uttering a word, she fainted at the steward’s feet.

  “God ’elp the mistress,” Martin cried, kneeling to help the fallen Ankarette. He smiled grimly to himself. “She has no one to protect her now from the lord protector. And, God’s truth, if Jane Shore is finished, so are we.”

  Jane’s little procession did not attract much attention once they turned up the narrow lane known as Athelyng Street and passed by the King’s Wardrobe. When the high wall of the Dominican prior’s garden gave Jane a glimpse of tall trees, she knew they would reach their destination in but a few minutes. Thomas Howard had not said another word since leaving the house, and Jane was grateful for the silence.

  Although the charge of witchcraft was a serious one, Jane was certain there had been some mistake, and as soon as Will heard of it, he would defend and free her. Why would her name be linked to the queen? she puzzled. Everyone knew Elizabeth hated her. And then she thought of Tom and whether he might come to her rescue. But he was still in sanctuary and probably ignorant of her arrest. Her shoulders sagged, as though she were resigned to her incarceration, and reverted to her only hope: Will.

  It was as well he was on good terms with Gloucester, she mused, and surely Will could persuade the oddly sanctimonious duke that his accusation was unfounded. Jane had known many women of the city who were rumored to be witches, and she had learned to rise above such superstition, especially when she had known one of them all her life and that the goodwife had merely been adept with plants and herbs, which she used to cure the incurable. Amy Lambert had staunchly defended her friend, and even John Lambert had vouched for the woman when he had been alderman, and the charges had been dismissed.

  Aye, she had no doubt Duke Richard was disdainful of her relations with the former king and Will, but to retaliate in such a way seemed senseless. She remembered Kate Haute’s loving smile when she had attempted to explain Richard’s flaws, such as his sudden anger, and Jane felt reassured that Will would talk Richard out of these charges.

  By the time they turned down Bower Row, where the imposing Ludgate filled her view, Jane was feeling better. Peasants, farmers, merchants, and priests mingled with gentry and soldiers, all pressing through the narrow opening that led in and out of the city, and some of them stared at Jane, wondering how much trouble the well-dressed woman could possibly be in.

  All of a sudden a rider cantered past St. Paul’s and approached the gate, forcing those nearest him out of his way.

  “What ho!” Thomas cried, stepping perilously into the horse’s path.

  The man skillfully reined in his mount, recognizing the Howard livery on Jane’s escorts.

  “Have a care, man! There are women and children about. What is your haste, sirrah?” Thomas shouted, sternly.

  “Have you not heard, my lord?” the messenger said breathlessly, doffing his cap, his white boar badge now plain to see upon his sleeve. “The king’s lord chamberlain, William Hastings, was executed for treason not fifteen minutes ago on the lord protector’s orders. I am to take the news to Westminster.” A gasp went up from the crowd, and then rumblings of discontent. What had the popular councilor done wrong, they asked one another, anger swelling among the citizens at the suddenness of the execution and the absence of law.

  Her face white with fear, Jane whirled to face Thomas. “Sir
Thomas, can this be true? Will is dead, and without a trial?” Dear God, she thought, fighting desperately to control her trembling. Please God, let the man be a braggart and a liar. How can Will be dead? It must be someone else: the king’s steward perhaps, that mealymouthed Stanley married to that bony Beaufort woman. “You knew! You came to my house and you knew!” she accused Thomas, crumpling to the ground.

  Thomas leaped forward and caught her to him. “How could I tell you, Jane? It was bad enough having to arrest you. I could not find the words to tell you,” he cried. “Aye, I was aware Will would be accused, but I swear I did not know he would be . . . killed. Not today, and”—he held Jane’s reproachful gaze—“not without trial. Please believe me.” Thomas had taken his father’s word that Richard of Gloucester was an honorable man. In truth, the messenger’s news had shocked him, too. He wondered now what his father thought of this hasty execution; Thomas understood why Richard may have felt betrayed, but to execute a patriot of Hastings’s stature without trial was ignominy.

  He steadied Jane’s shaking body and helped her to the entrance of the gaol, its rusted iron bars guarding the friendless gray stone edifice, green slime slipping from its crevices.

  “Open in the name of his grace the duke of Gloucester, the lord protector,” Thomas called to the sentry. “I am here to deliver a prisoner, Mistress Jane Shore, freewoman of this city.”

  Jane allowed herself to be helped up the steps and into the warden’s cheerless office, where the occupant listened as Thomas described her crime.

  “Why, Mistress Shore,” the toothless, bald warden sneered, leering at Jane. “Never thought to see you here as an inmate. Witchery, eh? I pray you will not indulge your evil skills while you are my guest.”

  Jane’s denial of Will’s death was shielding her from grief for the moment, allowing her to state her name and address and listen humbly as Thomas negotiated with the man for a bed of straw and food for the next two days. Some money changed hands, and Jane tried to protest.