Royal Mistress

by Anne Easter Smith

  “ ’Tis the least I can do for you,” Thomas told her as she promised to pay him back. “My stepmother has a fondness for you, and she would expect me to be kind. You know Lady Margaret.”

  The gaoler picked up a heavy bunch of keys, jerked his head in the direction of a door in the back of the room, and barked at Jane, “Come with me.”

  Jane turned her sad, sea-green eyes to her escort and thanked him for his courtesy. “If you would speak up for me, Sir Thomas, I would be forever in your debt. You must know I am innocent.” Sweet Jesu, how fleeting are life and happiness, she said to herself. In truth, she felt she had only herself to blame, for she had chosen her path many years ago and had few regrets. Will’s cruel death must surely have been the greatest.

  She was shaking as Thomas bowed over her hand, stifling a strong urge to protect this fragile creature. He could not imagine Mistress Shore surviving in the cold, dank prison after so many years of luxury. “I am heartily sorry for you, mistress, and I shall keep you in my prayers,” he murmured. “Will Hastings was a good man. Nay, he was the best of men, and my family shall grieve for him, too.”

  Jane nodded her thanks, and seeing the warden’s back turned as he unlocked another door, she fumbled with the pouch at her belt, freed it, and pressed it into Thomas’s hand. “If you loved Lord Hastings, I pray you keep this safe for me. ’Tis all I have left of him.”

  Thomas tucked the bag inside his tunic as the warden returned and grabbed Jane’s arm. “God bless you, Jane.” Thomas’s words were sincere. “If it helps at all, I do believe in your innocence.”

  He watched her be led from the room, clutching her folded mantle to her chest, and he wondered at her courage.

  * * *

  I. actual text

  FIFTEEN

  LONDON, JUNE 1483

  All of London was abuzz over the shocking news of Hastings’s death and that Edward’s loyal councilors, Rotherham, Morton, and Stanley, were imprisoned in the Tower. It was then that rumors began to spread that Richard of Gloucester might have designs upon the throne. No one had seen the little king outside the Tower walls for nigh on a month, the queen was still afraid to leave sanctuary or relinquish her younger son, and it was rumored in the lanes and alleys of the city that Gloucester was removing those loyal to the old king to make way for his own circle of advisors. People did not care for change, especially after twelve peaceful years under Edward’s prosperous rule, and they grumbled.

  Jane spent a sleepless night in the foul-smelling gaol, the stench from two dozen dirty inmates, soiled straw, and the jakes overpowering, in fear one of her fellow inmates would try to molest her, steal her cloak or the shoes from her feet. She was horrified when she felt a rat tug at her sleeve. She dozed off a few times and dreamed first of Tom, and then the nightmare of the boy kicking Will’s bloody head about in the street returned. She awoke weeping.

  In the light of day, she looked about her and thought her fellow inmates did not seem as threatening. She rose stiffly from her straw pallet to use the jakes, turning her back on the others in embarrassment. The blaring of a trumpet diverted the prisoners’ attention, and they crowded around the window to see who was arriving at St. Paul’s. A few moments later, Jane joined them just in time to hear her own name upon the lips of the herald.

  “Good citizens of London, draw near and hear this, that yesterday William, Lord Hastings was executed for treason after it was discovered he was conspiring with others, including the queen, to overthrow and kill his grace the duke of Gloucester, the lord protector, and his kinsman, Henry Stafford, duke of Buckingham, and seize his grace the king. Furthermore, ’tis well known that this same Lord Hastings led our late, lamented King Edward into debauchery and certain death, and had taken to bed the harlot Jane Shore, with whom he had lain nightly even unto the day of his death.” Jane gasped and fell back, confirming her identity to the curious inmates. “This Mistress Shore was also in secret counsel with the queen,” the herald went on, “and thus, for the comfort of their graces of Gloucester and Buckingham, and for the surety of our gracious king, she is now languishing in the Ludgate goal at the protector’s pleasure.”

  Jane shrank back from her fellows, feeling dozens of pairs of eyes on her, and her shame showed rosy-red on her neck and cheeks. “ ’Tis a lie,” she averred. “I have never had counsel with the queen. Sweet Jesu, she hates me! And I swear I never did anyone harm.”

  Many of the prisoners were, like Jane, of the merchant class and thus freemen of the city. Unlike the Fleet and the Clink, where the more dangerous criminals were held, their crimes were minor, and they were either awaiting a hearing or for a relative to pay their fines for debts unpaid or customers cheated. Two or more of the women were whores, and Jane hoped they would feel a kinship and stand with her. But they eyed her fine gown and mantle, creamy, pampered skin, and soft hands, all of which marked her as wealthy, and said nothing. Finally a man Jane recognized as a customer of her father’s stepped forward. “Good day, Jane,” he said not unkindly as he herded the others back.

  “I know this woman, and apart from shaming her father all these years, she was never one to tell a lie. Let us not forget how she used her favors with the king to help some of us. You have all heard of the kindness of Jane Shore, have you not?”

  Jane watched as one by one the men and women nodded and drifted back to conversations on their pallets or stools that relatives had brought in to them. She was now clearly the focus of their gossip, but there was nothing she could do about it. She approached her champion and after thanking him for defending her, she asked, “Master Davies, I trust your wife is better? I heard she was suffering from a palsy. I am heartily sorry for it. I remember her well as a cheerful, merry soul.”

  And with her gentle concern, she won the respect of another man. Master Davies kept her company during the interminable daylight hours in the stuffy, ill-lit cell, which allowed a grateful Jane a less fitful second night.

  Then on that balmy Sunday in June, when the city was still in turmoil and many were gathered on street corners or crowded into taverns to discuss the sudden turn of events, a carter with his load passed under the Ludgate in full view of the prison window and began to shout his news to all who would listen.

  “There are soldiers and dogs scouring the marshes,” he cried, jerking his thumb back in the direction of Westminster. Expectant, people moved toward him and the man played to his audience. “The queen’s son has escaped from the abbey. Leading ’em a merry dance, he be.”

  “The little boy?” a woman shouted back. “You mean the little duke? God save ’im!”

  “Nay, you foolish woman!” the carter scoffed. “Not ’im! The queen’s oldest. Thomas of Dorset, ’e be!”

  Jane and her fellow prisoners crowded round the window, exclaiming at the carter’s news, but her lack of inches meant she was easily pushed aside. She fell back and went to sit on her bed of straw. She put her hand to her cheek, hot to the touch now, as she thought of Tom hiding among rushes or at the bottom of a cart carrying him into the city. He must have chosen today because the streets were full of townspeople eager to hear more news of the lord chamberlain’s death. Aye, the wharves might be deserted as all would wend their way to Paul’s Cross for any announcements. ’Twas a perfect time for Tom to sneak to the Pope’s Head and take up his lodging, she thought with relief.

  Then she shook her head, trying to comprehend what had happened to her in the past forty-eight hours: she had bidden farewell to her dearest friend and lord unsuspecting it was an adieu; Will had then been put to death; she had been accused of witchcraft, arrested, and incarcerated; her belongings had been confiscated, she had learned from Ankarette on her visit the previous day; and she was once again alone. And just when her life might have been salvaged by Dorset’s escape, she was a prisoner in this hellish prison fighting off lice, bedbugs, rats, and a lecher. She realized Tom could not help her; he was a fugitive and must lie low. A feeling of utter hopelessness now washed over h
er.

  She lay down on her stomach, hid her head in her arms, and cried. Even through all the years, first with her father and then with her husband, William, Jane had never really despaired—until now.

  Tom heard the dogs baying in the distance as he lay curled up inside an empty wine barrel among others on a shout sailing down the Thames. He should have gone upstream, he decided too late, when he witnessed the number of soldiers sent to beat down the rushes east of Westminster. He hoped they would find the cloak one of his adherents had planted by the riverside and assume he had drowned. His friend, the bribable guard, had arranged for him to be smuggled inside the barrel on board the small vessel, and as the hue and cry had begun after he was safely under way, he tried to make the best of his discomfort and await unloading at Hay Wharf at the bottom of All Hallows Lane.

  Thanks to his years of philandering, he knew every rat-run between taverns and brew houses and would have no trouble evading capture. He patted the bulge tucked inside his undershirt, concealed by the monk’s habit he had been given as a disguise, and smiled. Gloucester would not get some of the king’s treasury back, he swore to himself. How clever his mother had been to insist they take much of it with them into sanctuary. It would come in useful for bribes, he mused, and his possible flight to Flanders if the circumstances warranted it.

  As he congratulated himself on his escape, he could hear the lapping of the waves against the sides of the boat. He hoped Jane’s friend was trustworthy; he would reward the man certainly for his pains, he told himself. Yearning for Jane, he was tempted to go straight to her house on Thames Street instead of to his hiding place, and her lovely face swam into his mind. Aye, she would be alone, in need of comfort now, and would gladly welcome him to her bed, he had no doubt. He was counting on taking refuge with her after hiding at the Pope’s Head. His and Jane’s names had never been linked, he reminded himself, so that measle Gloucester would not look for him there.

  The reason for Jane’s empty bed brought Tom solemnly back to Will Hastings’s awful fate, and he shuddered. The queen had fallen on her knees when she was told the news, and Tom had been surprised to see his mother weep so for her husband’s best friend. Her own charge of conspiracy seemed to Tom not to have affected her as much as Hastings’s death. What could the man have possibly done to warrant such a swift death? he asked himself. Aye, he and Will had never rubbed together well, but Tom had admired his statesmanship and his loyalty to Edward. And occasionally, the two of them had shared a drink and a wench in good companionship, he remembered. Nay, Mother’s instincts were correct, he thought. Gloucester was a dangerous man, and she was right to stay in sanctuary. The former frequent visits from Bishops Morton and Rotherham, as well as Lord Stanley and his wife, had kept Elizabeth positive that she would prevail and see Gloucester put aside. She had thus been devastated to learn of those men’s arrests but had dismissed her own accusation as “unprovable.”

  Footsteps hurrying across the deck and loud shouting from the wharf alerted Tom that the boat was about to dock, and he braced himself for the jolt. In very short order, his conveyance was rolled off the gangplank and onto the pier and then stood in a cluster with others. When the double knock signal was given him, he pushed off the lid, climbed out, and disappeared up All Hallows Lane.

  It was as well Tom had left that day, for on the morrow, Elizabeth was once again visited in sanctuary by a delegation from Richard. This time it was headed by eighty-year-old Thomas Bourchier, Archbishop of Canterbury, who bowed into the queen’s presence with Jack Howard and Bishop Russell of Lincoln flanking him.

  “Not again,” Elizabeth protested, kissing Bourchier’s ring and kneeling for his blessing. “I have not changed my mind, my lords, so I pray do not waste your time.”

  It was Jack Howard who responded. “The lord protector is angered by the marquess of Dorset’s flight, madam. He is most anxious that you should know he does not hold it against you, and warns you he cannot look upon Dorset’s action as anything but mischief-making.”

  “Christ’s bones, but the lord protector,” and she mimicked Howard’s words, “is taking his position far too high-handedly. My son has every right to walk the streets of London like any other loyal subject of his brother and my son, his grace King Edward. Therefore, Jack, I should say—enough of this nonsense. Why are you really here? To accuse me of witchcraft again?”

  Jack Howard bowed and stepped aside for the archbishop to state his mission. He marveled again at the Woodville woman’s composure and astonishing beauty. Even in her midforties, Elizabeth dazzled. Edward certainly had known how to pick his women, he thought, although Jack preferred a woman of a more cheerful disposition than Elizabeth, and his Margaret suited him well. He listened as Bourchier rambled on about how deeply disappointed the English people would be if the young king were crowned without his brother in attendance. “May I suggest strongly that you let your son, Richard, go to be with his brother. The king is lonely and asks for his brother daily. I can assure you, the protector only wants what is best for his nephews.”

  The three men were not prepared for the torrent of expletives that erupted from Elizabeth’s weeks of confinement and frustration. Bourchier physically flinched at the venom that the queen spat at her visitors. “I do not even know if my Ned is safe and well, and Gloucester accuses me of witchcraft and would no doubt like to see me burn. Why should I release my other son to him, my lords? You tell me why.”

  Then she broke down and cried. “You would take away my darling boy, my sweet Dickon? When shall I see either son again?” Her bosom began to heave, and her loud lamenting embarrassed the archbishop, who kept motioning his hand up and down in a futile effort to calm her.

  Jack Howard stared at the weeping woman, relieved his wife had never succumbed to wailing. Is she feigning? he wondered briefly, but when her oldest daughter, Bess, came running into the room, he assumed the hysterics were not usual. Bess was followed by the other daughters, all gathering around their mother like protective pups. Finally, the object of the discussion arrived from a different part of the lodgings and ran headlong into Jack Howard’s legs, almost knocking the stocky lord over.

  Jack bent down and sternly gripped the boy in an attempt to restrain him.

  “What is wrong with Mama?” Dickon cried, trying to shake lose from Jack’s hold. “Leave me be, sir. I am the duke of York and you must obey me.”

  If the scene had not been so fraught with drama, Jack Howard might have laughed. Instead he seized the moment to entice the ten-year-old boy with the prospect of joining his brother.

  “How would you like to see Ned again?” Jack asked, crouching down to the boy’s level and loosening his grip on Dickon’s arm.

  Dickon’s eyes lit up. “Is he coming to see me, my lord?”

  “Nay, he is not allowed here,” Jack lied. “But you can go to him. He asks for you every day, your grace. He is lonely in his big apartments at the Tower. He has no one to practice with at the archery butts, no one to wrestle with, and most of all no one to share a bed with and fight off his fears in the dark. He needs you, Dickon, and you could go to him if you but ask your mother.”

  “Truly?” the boy answered, looking over at Elizabeth, who was now seated calmly and having her face wiped with wet linen. He ran to her and knelt at her knee. “Is it true, Mama? I can be with Ned if you say I can? Please, please let me go. I hate it here with all of these silly girls. They don’t want to play kick-ball or shoot arrows, and I could do that with Ned.” He focused his pleading blue eyes on her, one of his eyebrows slightly misformed and reminding her so much of his father that Elizabeth finally relented.

  “Oh, take him, you wretches! You have worn me down these past weeks, my lord bishop,” she addressed Russell, who had been Richard’s chief envoy until today, “and I am tired. My heart will break, but it seems Gloucester does not care a damn about my heart or my family.” She gathered Dickon into her arms, and the men were dismayed to see her sob once more. “When will
I see you again, my dearest child? Or my beloved Ned? Life is too cruel; I do not know why I do not simply take my own life and end it all.”

  The two clerics gasped at the heresy, and Elizabeth gave a derisive snort. “Fear not, my lords, you will not see the end of this Grey Mare so easily. He may have dispensed with Edward’s loyal Hastings, but I would not give Richard of Gloucester the satisfaction of my death as well. Tell him that, Jack Howard. Her grace the dowager queen is not finished with him yet.” She gave her son one last kiss, admonishing him to be good and to give his big brother a kiss from her, and set him down. As he turned to walk toward Howard, Elizabeth suddenly swept him back into her arms. “Nay, I cannot allow it!” she cried. “He has to stay with me.” But she had not counted on her son’s yearning for his brother, and Elizabeth, no match for a ten-year-old’s strength of will, finally gave him up. “Go now. Take him! Before I change my mind.”

  When the three men, Jack holding Dickon’s hand, turned and walked through the arch to the cloister, Elizabeth shouted ominously: “Beware Gloucester, my lords. He plans to take the crown for himself.” Then she laughed harshly and muttered softly to herself, “Although how he will justify that, God or the devil only knows.”

  The duke and duchess of Gloucester took little Dickon of York to the Tower, and they stood back to watch the two brothers reunite.

  “Uncle Richard told me you might come, Dickon,” Ned said, his face glowing. “Now I shall have someone to talk to who isn’t old and boring.”

  “Aye, and we can have sword fights and shoot arrows and play fox and geese and pretend we are on a crusade and . . .” He stopped as Ned laughed and said: “And what, Dickon? You are still a clacking magpie, I see. Our sisters must be glad you left them behind.”