Royal Mistress

by Anne Easter Smith

  “And what reward were you hoping from the king for this little favor, my lord Buckingham?” Richard demanded, following hard on Harry’s heels. “Were you not satisfied with becoming constable of England? Or with my promise of the rest of the Bohun inheritance that would make you, next to me, the wealthiest and most powerful man in the kingdom?” His voice rose with each question until his fury exploded, and hurling a goblet across the room, he shouted, “Christ’s nails, I trusted you! Get out of my sight!”

  Harry glowered at him for a moment, then turned on his heel and strode to the door. “Their blood is as much on your hands, coz, as mine,” he hissed. “Do not deny you wished it. I was merely your instrument.”

  “Get out!” Richard bellowed, and Harry went, slamming the door behind him. Within a few minutes, he was galloping out of Gloucester, over the little channel to Alney Island, through the handsome gate guarding the bridge that spanned the Severn, and onto the road to Wales.

  Alone, Richard slumped into a chair and stared despondently at the black and red tiles that checkered the floor. In the space of a short half hour, he had succeeded in making an enemy of his closest advisor, and more important, he was sure he had consigned his own soul to hell.

  “Edward,” he addressed his dead brother aloud, “your sins have come back to haunt me.”

  PART FOUR

  1483–1484

  My great mischance, my fall and heavy state,

  Is such a mark, whereat each tongue doth shoot,

  That my good name is pluck’d up by the root.

  This wandering world bewitched me with wiles,

  And won my wits, with wanton sugared joys,

  In Fortune’s frekes,I who trusts her when she smiles,

  Shall find her false and full of fickle toys.

  Thomas Churchyard, “Shore’s Wife,” 1562

  * * *

  I. whims

  SEVENTEEN

  LONDON, AUTUMN 1483

  Jane ran her hands down the smooth skin of her belly to her thighs, still tingling from the sensation of Tom’s body upon her, and hoped she had more than pleased her lover. She wondered he had still desired her; after all, she was now, at thirty-one, past her prime. She turned on her side and watched the sleeping Tom, marveling at his handsome profile, broad chest boasting curling chestnut hair, and strong, capable hands. Their new hiding place, to which Tom had had to move after the dismal failure of the Tower rescue had alerted the authorities to the fact he was still in the city, was a small room in the attic of a warehouse in Billingsgate.

  “I am afraid I stink of fish, Jane,” Tom had apologized when he had eventually made his way to St. Sithe’s Lane a week ago, and Jane had not disagreed with him. She had begun to believe Tom had forgotten about her when he came knocking on the door that day and slipped inside the house wearing Lincoln green, the garb of an archer. He had taken her breath away with his bold kiss, and she almost forgave him the unexplained delay in seeking her out.

  “Why have you taken so long to come?” she had asked when they were seated in the shade of the Vandersands’ apple tree in the hot mid-August sun. “Jehan informed you I was here, did he not?”

  Tom had avoided her eyes. “It was too dangerous,” he excused himself.

  Jane hoped he would ask her about her ordeal in prison and her penance, but he appeared preoccupied with winding his finger round an escaped lock of her hair. In Jane’s care while Sophie was spinning inside, little Pieter was playing with a ball nearby. Jane finally could not wait. “Did you hear about my penance, Tom?”

  “Hear about it? I was there, Jane. I saw you.”

  Jane gasped. “I did not see you. But you came?” She hung her head. “ ’Twas the worst day of my life,” she admitted, mortified anew now she knew that Tom had seen her.

  Tom leaned over and kissed her cheek. “I pray it has not spoiled you for becoming my leman after we have waited for so long, mistress?” he teased. “You will, won’t you?”

  Jane had been surprised by her own reaction then. She had removed his hand from her shoulder and stood up. “Come, Pieter,” she called to the child. “ ’Tis time for your dinner.”

  She turned to Tom, who was scrambling to his feet. “I must think about that, Tom, if you please. You forget I confessed my sins that day and swore to reform.”

  Tom’s face had darkened. “Are you playing with me, Jane? I do not enjoy being made a fool of. With every meeting, you have led me to believe you wanted me, and I tasted your desire in today’s kiss. Do not dissemble. Not now.”

  If she had trusted her first instinct to turn away, Jane might not have hesitated. She could not lie; she wanted him, but her horrific penance had had its effect. Did she want to be branded a harlot again? Risk her immortal soul? “What about your wife? Does she know where you are?” she asked feebly. The marchioness was rarely at court and seemed content to stay on her country estates giving birth to Tom’s children. Tom seemed to care not a jot about her.

  “No one will know while I am in hiding,” he had persuaded her. “And my wife does not care, as long as she can cleave to her estates. So, let us not waste the time we have.”

  The scene from last week faded as Jane now contemplated Tom’s profile in the candlelight. It had not taken her long to succumb to his advances, and last night she had agreed to lie with him. All those years of yearning for him had led her to expect that something mystical would happen between them, that because their love was true, God would be kind. But if she were honest, it had been nothing more—or less—than lusty passion. She blamed her disappointment on the foul-smelling attic, the lack of a feather bed, and her usual grumpiness before her courses came, but Tom had groaned in ecstasy several times during the night, and so she knew she had not lost her gift for pleasing men. Then why did she feel unfulfilled? Had she changed? She closed her eyes and, to her dismay, instead of pleasurable thoughts of the night of lovemaking, the shame of her walk filled her mind, and she opened them again quickly. Was that it? she wondered. Had her penance truly changed her?

  “What is it, Jane?” Tom asked, sensing movement beside him. “I beg of you, seduce me no more tonight, my lovely siren. I am spent!” He reached out and pulled her to him, and she snuggled gratefully into his embrace. Things would look rosier in the morning, she thought, blowing out the candle and finally closing her eyes.

  Jane and Tom made love countless times in the next few days, rarely leaving the attic except for food and in Jane’s case, a visit to Sophie. Tom was a demanding and sometimes rough lover, and Jane discovered soon after they had spent two weeks together that he had a jealous streak that manifested itself when, one day, she lingered longer than planned at the market.

  It had been almost two months since her penance, and Londoners, if they did recognize her, were too preoccupied with their own lives to pay her any attention. She had hidden her hair in a simple hood with a wimple, and her borrowed oversize gown disguised her charms so that, with a basket on her arm, she resembled any other goodwife off to market. The only place she chose to avoid was her old house on Thames Street. She had heard the king had placed guards outside, as it belonged to the Crown, and as she had no desire to remind Richard again of her existence, she had put off stealing into the house to collect her box of jewels. But Tom was rapidly depleting the money he had sequestered with him from sanctuary and she would need to retrieve her valuables if he were to eat.

  That day she had encountered Master Davies’s wife along the way, and she spent half an hour hearing about the friendly mercer’s court proceedings and release from Ludgate. Then she had seen Buxom Betty sipping a cup of ale outside a tavern in the Poultry, and the two former inmates greeted each other like long-lost friends. Jane heard from Betty the unsettling rumor that Londoners believed the princes had been murdered. Nay, Betty said she had not heard it from a witness or anyone who worked in the palace. “Cock’s bones, Jane, if anyone was there, they was probably threatened with torture or worse if they said something. ’Tis a
mystery all right.”

  Jane had nodded. “You are right, Betty. We shall probably never know.”

  When she arrived back in Bosse Alley, she found Tom waiting for her on the bottom step of the outside staircase. “Where have you been?” he demanded, jumping to his feet. “Did anyone follow you? Or did you find some other man’s bed to warm?”

  Jane froze. “How dare you accuse me?” she retorted, but then, seeing he had been drinking, and her innate generosity understanding the anxiety he had lived with for three months in hiding, she sought to mollify him. “There is none but you, Tom,” she soothed him. “And no one followed me, I am sure. Now, if you will, take my basket. You must be hungry?”

  When with the back of his hand he slapped her cheek, she dropped the basket in shock, scattering plums, bread, and a pie onto the dirt. But as soon as she put her fingers to her smarting face, Tom was all contrition. “I am so sorry, Jane. Forgive me, I was overcome by jealousy.” He knelt down and began retrieving the fallen items, apologizing further as he went. When he stood up and faced her again, he looked so much like a small boy, she could not forbear a smile of forgiveness.

  “I swear, it will never happen again,” Tom promised, tenderly touching the welt on her cheek. “You know that I adore you, Jane.”

  Sophie saw through the cheerful facade Jane put on when she went to St. Sithe’s Lane to look for Ankarette.

  “Vat is wrong?” Sophie asked as she bent to pick up a fallen tassel she had just finished crafting. “You have Tom at last. Is that not vat you vanted?” She shook the silken bauble and laid it next to three identical ones that would decorate some gentleman’s jacket. Sophie had been opposed to Jane’s new liaison, believing it would bring Jane no good. But her soft heart wanted her friend to be happy after the heartaches of the past few months, and she had eventually given up preaching. Jehan had been surprised when Jane had left the house, and he was unhappy to know where she had gone. “Let us hope our involvement with a royal fugitive does not bring disaster on our house, wife. Could you not remind her of the perils of living in sin? Has the foolish woman forgotten so quickly?” And Sophie had recounted Jane’s long history with the marquess and how Jane believed Tom was her one true love, to which Jehan had scoffed: “Love? ’Tis only for poets and troubadours.” He failed to notice his wife’s subsequent lapse into silence.

  Jane fingered the beautiful black and gold tassels, weighing her words. She would not tell Sophie about Tom’s violence; it had been simply an act of pent-up frustration, she was sure. It would not happen again and thus was not worth dwelling upon. “Aye, Tom was my heart’s desire,” she began, “but either he has changed or I have, Sophie. Something is missing between us—at least for me. There seems to be no love in our lovemaking, and yet I have dreamed of being with him for so long. Is there any such thing as real love, my friend? If there is, I fear I shall never know it now.”

  These ramblings were a little lost on Sophie, only ever having known Jehan, but she thought carefully before giving her opinion. “Perhaps ’tis a contract that he is unable to give you,” she offered. “You are both living dangerously. When you are young, is no matter. It is delicious. But you are grown up now and you, Jane, know vell the consequences of this unlawful liaison. I ask you again to leave this man. He can hurt you, my dear friend, and bad.”

  Jane put her arms around her childhood companion and gave her a squeeze. “You are no longer ‘silly Sophie,’ are you? Now you have enough common sense for both of us.” Aye, her own had vanished with that first exquisite night of passion with Tom. She wandered to the hearth and stirred the contents of a pipkin, inhaling the aroma of bacon and cabbage simmering over the fire. “I expect you are right about Tom, Sophie, but I cannot give him up—yet. Please try to understand, and let us change the subject.”

  At that moment, Ankarette arrived back from the Mercery with more silk for Sophie to work, and she exclaimed in delight at seeing her mistress.

  “I am glad you are returned, Ankarette,” Jane said, leaving her task. “I need both of your help in a venture that requires your secrecy.”

  Again? Sophie thought to herself, wondering in what Jane might embroil her next.

  “Can you visit Sophie tomorrow after terce?” Tom asked Jane a few days later after a meager supper of stale bread and cheese. “I must meet with some of my mother’s friends, and they do not need to know of our arrangement.”

  Jane nodded. “Nor does your mother,” she quipped, and Tom grinned. “Is there another plot afoot?”

  “Perhaps. The less you know, the safer you will be. I hear Gloucester is none too kind to those he extracts information from,” he teased with dark humor.

  Tom refused to acknowledge Richard as king, continuing to use his former title, and Jane had gladly acquiesced; she had no reason to think kindly of him. They had just heard how Richard’s son had been created Prince of Wales while the king was on his progress in Yorkshire. “ ’Twas the only place in the kingdom where Richard would feel safe to hold the investiture,” Tom had remarked, bitterly. “How those clotpole northerners love him. In the meantime, my stepbrother, the true Prince of Wales, lies languishing in the Tower”—his brow furrowed—“if the poor brat is still alive,” he finished.

  “Aye, it seems all London thinks they are dead,” Jane told him. “It puzzles me why Richard would put them to death. They are no threat to him now. Poor boys.”

  Tom was thoughtful for a moment as Jane cleared the remains of the food off the rickety table they had found in another empty room above the warehouse. He was more curious about his mother’s cryptic message, which had been delivered earlier that day.

  We are looking across the water for deliverance from the usurper surely meant Henry Tudor in Brittany, he thought. So did Mother know for certain young Ned was already dead? How he hated his confinement and lack of information other than whatever Jane could glean from gossip. He had heard the rumor from one of his co-conspirators in the failed rescue of the boys, but no one seemed to have proof. And he could well imagine that had they been murdered, any witnesses would have been threatened with torture or death if they so much as breathed a word. Nay, there were few minions these days who could not either be bought off or punished for blabbing.

  How he longed to escape London, where Gloucester’s spies must be everywhere. He would not risk returning to his estates, and the prospect of facing his complaining wife was unappealing. Besides, Tom was a creature of habit, and he was used to doing his imperious mother’s bidding. He was not her favorite for nothing, he told himself. He still admired her strength of purpose and her wily intelligence enough to do as he was told. If his mother required him to stay in London, then in this hell-hole he would stay. It had been greatly enlivened by the presence of the beautiful and willing Jane Shore, he admitted, but he still chafed to be free and do something useful.

  He bade Jane stay away the next day until at least the bells rang for sext, and watched her departure from the small door under the roof, which must have been used when a rope and pulley outside would hoist bales of hay and other merchandise into the loft. The opening served as the only source of light but meant the rain and wind penetrated the space on less summery days.

  Jane hurried up St. Mary Hill Lane to Eastchepe and traversed the long street until it turned into Watling Street. Within ten minutes of leaving Tom, she was knocking on Sophie’s door.

  “We must do it today, Sophie,” Jane said before Sophie could greet her guest. “Is Ankarette here?”

  “I am, mistress.” Ankarette peeked out from behind Sophie, and Sophie drew Jane into the house and shut the door. “I have been watching your old house, as you asked, and there appear to be only two guards on duty at any time. They are bored and mostly sit on their arses, scratch their loins, and pick their noses.”

  “Thank you, Ankarette, although we do not need so much detail,” Jane said, hiding a smile. “Now, ladies, are you sure you understand the plan? Aye, then let us go.”

&n
bsp; Sophie and Ankarette left first, linking arms and gossiping, and later Jane, carrying a covered basket and taking a different route that would allow her to arrive at her old house on Thames Street several minutes after her friends. She sent a quick prayer to St. Elizabeth, although she usually made supplications to her name saint for her barrenness and not to help her break in to a house. Rounding the corner onto Thames Street, she was relieved to see Sophie and Ankarette already there fulfilling their end of the bargain. One of the guards was peeking into Ankarette’s basket to see what she was offering, and straitlaced Sophie was successfully flirting with the other. Neither man saw the tiny figure slip around the back across the garden and into the house through the kitchens.

  Sadly, Jane took in the bare walls of her once richly decorated solar and a gulp wedged itself uncomfortably in her throat. Nay, she must not give way to moroseness, she quickly told herself, and hurried into the garderobe. There, undisturbed after these many weeks, the loose floorboard revealed its hidden treasure, and concealing the box in her basket, she ran down the back stairs, through the garden, and into the street. Sophie saw her, and when Jane nodded and walked away, Sophie slapped the guard’s encroaching hand from her thigh, called to Ankarette to hurry along, and the two women marched off, leaving their unwitting victims staring after them in bewilderment.

  Jane was so pleased with herself, she forgot Tom’s admonishment to stay away until sext and ran up the stairs and into the attic room waving the box and crying: “Tom, Tom, look what I—”