Royal Mistress

by Anne Easter Smith

  Three pairs of eyes swiveled to rest on her, two in wonder and the other in irritation. She recognized the two courtiers from Edward’s household, and her heart sank as they recognized her with flourishing bows.

  “Mistress Shore, what a pleasant surprise,” the younger man said, raising an eyebrow at Tom. “I see you are not quite alone in your discomfort, my lord.” The other man grinned.

  “I . . . I am sorry for the intrusion, sirs,” Jane faltered, backing up to the open door. “I . . . must go . . .” And she flew down the stairs and hid in a shed in the yard until the men disappeared around the corner of the building and into Bosse Alley.

  A pox on them, she thought, climbing back to the garrett. Expecting a rebuke, she was pleased to see Tom seated calmly on the three-legged stool deep in thought. She pretended nothing had happened, knelt at his feet, and took his hand to her cheek.

  “A groat for your musing, my love. Do you have good news?”

  Tom bent and kissed her lips, his eyes merry. “Aye, Jane, I do. I cannot tell you what it is, and ’tis best you do not know, but ’tis good news indeed.” He pulled her to her feet and into his arms.

  Jane was relieved. “Then you do not mind those men saw me,” she said. “I am truly sorry for coming home early but I could not wait to tell you what I accomplished today.”

  She fetched the basket and pulled out the exquisitely carved box. Pressing a concealed button underneath it, the lid clicked open, revealing the contents. “We can buy some good food now, Tom,” she said proudly, knowing some of Tom’s dark moods were attributable to the unaccustomed penury in which he found himself. He had begun to despair that his mother would never leave sanctuary or have a plan for him, and until today, he had thought about slinking home to his wife in Warwickshire. He might have had an uncomfortable moment or two if Cicely had been informed of his liaison with Jane, but at least he would dine off silver again, be able to bathe, and enjoy a change of clothes.

  But, as always with Tom, his mother’s bidding took priority.

  Jane found and slipped on her favorite emerald ring, and she closed her eyes, remembering happy times with Edward.

  Tom was busy counting the gold nobles, and when he replaced them, he laughed. “You never cease to astonish me, Jane. Aye, food, and then send Ankarette to fetch the best wine the master at the Pope’s Head can find for us.” He paused and cupping her breast in one hand and pulling off her ugly widow’s hood with the other, he added meaningfully, “Only, later.”

  Whether it was the lifting of Tom’s black humor or the knowledge they could enjoy some luxury for a while, she did not care, for their lovemaking was long and tender that afternoon, and Jane thought she was finally happy.

  Her euphoria did not last a day. Arriving back the following morning from Sophie’s with a basketful of succulent pies, roasted meats, and even a custard, Jane took the stairs two at a time and entered the darkened room.

  It was empty.

  Jane dropped the basket on the floor, flung open the small door to the yard below, and called her lover’s name. She stared at the pegs where Tom’s second shirt, his jacket, and his cloak should have been, and then she rummaged under the pile of straw where he kept a bag with a comb, his velvet bonnet, extra hose, and quill pen. All gone. Only then did she notice the yellowed piece of parchment, torn from his prayer book no doubt, that had fallen to the floor. She snatched it up and took it to the light.

  Dearest Jane, forgive me. My mother wills that I join her brother, the bishop of Salisbury. There is much at stake and I believe you will be glad to know it is all in an effort to restore Ned to the throne. We will be together again when the goal is reached. Your company has been sweet and I will always think on you kindly.

  Go with God,

  Tom

  Jane could hardly read the postscript for her angry tears.

  Destroy this when you have read it. T

  She flung herself down on the bed, the earthy smell of straw mingling with the unmistakable scent of their lovemaking, and beat the scratchy mattress with her fists.

  “Damn you, Tom! I hate you!” she cried. He could have waited to explain in person, waited to say farewell. “What a coward!” Then the awful gnawing feeling in her belly returned in full force when she realized she was alone once more. “Sweet Mother of God, what shall I do now?”

  She lay facedown on the coarse sheet for several minutes, her mind a morass of thoughts. Had she not expected him to leave, if she had been honest with herself? She was not such a fool as to think their time together would last forever. Was he not always at his mother’s beck and call? She grimaced. Not to mention his wife’s, she thought ruefully. Aye, foolish Jane, she had no hold on the marquess of Dorset, son of the former queen, husband to the richest woman in England. What had she expected? She knew he was not hers to keep, and she should have listened to Sophie. He had used her, she admitted angrily, despising herself for her romantic weakness. How blinded by love she had been once again. “Nay,” she said to herself, “be honest, Jane. ’Twas lust, not love, that bound you.” He was not a good man. She saw that now, and she had known better men. Much better, as she thought of good-natured, honest Edward and loyal Will.

  As she calmed herself with her reasonings, she gained strength. “You will get over him,” she said sternly, “eventually.”

  Despite her anger and disillusionment, she was comforted in the knowledge she was not destitute. Did she now not have a small fortune in nobles and jewelry that would buy her a room at a respectable inn until she could find work? She had not lost her skills as a silkwoman. Aye, she reassured herself, the money would help, and she had friends in the merchant community. She sat up, tucked her disheveled hair under her hood, and reached under her side of the straw bed for her insurance—her precious box of coins and gems.

  “Sweet Jesu, no!” she screamed. It was gone.

  She leaped up and began frantically to pull apart the straw. “God damn you to hell, Tom Grey!” she raged in a panic. He had taken everything. He had not been satisfied to take her body and her love, he had taken everything she owned as well. She picked up the stool and flung it at the wall; the pies, meats, and custard followed soon after. She overturned the table, and then slammed and reslammed the door, enjoying the satisfying bangs that reverberated in the empty warehouse. “Take that, and that, and that,” she cried with every slam.

  She had never felt so betrayed in her whole life—not even by her father or by William Shore, and she wished Tom Grey were there so she could kick him where a man hurts most. But her hurt went deeper; the man she risked everything for had not given a thought to her safety or her survival. He had left her destitute, and she would be reduced to beggary.

  What was she to do now?

  “But, my lord bishop, my claim to the throne is almost as good as Richard’s,” Buckingham reminded John Morton, bishop of Ely, as they talked in the tower chamber of Brecon Castle, where the bishop was still a prisoner. Below them, the end-of-summer shallow River Usk babbled its way past the plum-colored walls of the motte and bailey castle that had been built by the Normans three centuries earlier to keep out the hostile Welsh. In a few months, the water would become a torrent and an added barrier protecting the lords of Brecon.

  Morton steepled his pudgy fingers, the ruby of his episcopal ring catching the light, and watched the more volatile Harry pace around the room. His instructions from Margaret Beaufort had been clear: persuade the angry duke of Buckingham to turn against the king and join her, the queen, and Morton himself in a rebellion to remove Richard from the throne and place Henry Tudor there, with Edward the Fourth’s eldest daughter, Bess, as his queen. To that end, Morton had worked tirelessly to convince Buckingham that his way lay with the plotters, now that he and Richard were seemingly at odds.

  He recalled clearly the state of high dudgeon in which the belligerent young duke had arrived at Brecon that day more than a month ago. Why Harry had wanted to come directly to him in his quarters, the b
ishop had not known then. Whatever had happened at Gloucester, Morton deduced it must have been a serious breach of loyalty for Richard to have turned his only royal cousin and councilor away so abruptly. That first meeting had been the first of many where Morton had little by little poisoned his prey against his king, and finally, today, he had wheedled the truth about the meeting in Gloucester from him.

  “If it had not been you, it would have been someone else looking for the king’s favor,” Morton said, dismissing the crime. “The boys were of no account anymore.” He then proceeded to reel in the dejected duke with as much nonchalance as a fisherman baiting his hook. “Besides, everyone knows Richard wanted the crown. Who will believe it was not he who ordered their deaths? We can even start the rumors,” he said, trying to keep the glee from his voice. “Think no more of it, my dear Buckingham. If the disappearance becomes public, it will give our cause even more weight. Trust me, your tale is safe with me. Now are you with us or not?”

  Buckingham eyed the persuasive prelate with a pout and grudging respect.

  “You told me bluntly that I should fight for my claim when I first came from Gloucester,” Buckingham whined. “Tudor has but a hairsbreadth of a claim to the throne. He is of Beaufort bastard descent, and my line is unsullied. Do not forget the special edict of the fourth Henry when he legitimized his half-siblings at the turn of the century: no one of the Beaufort line may inherit the throne.”

  “Aye, my lord, but do not forget right by conquest. Also, the Beaufort barring can easily be reversed and then Henry Tudor has a better claim than you. I do not believe the people will support you, even though, my lord duke,” Morton purred, flicking a speck of lint from his black robe, “you are a most capable man, and we could not consider this plan without your support. Think, your grace, if you succeed in putting Henry upon the throne—just as you did the usurper Richard, they will begin to call you Kingmaker.” He knew he had chosen his words well when he saw the look of self-importance on his victim’s face. How transparent the duke was! Today, he was getting somewhere with his persuasive powers, he decided, enjoying himself, and he had the duke’s confession with which to force the issue, if needed. “For her part, the countess of Richmond, Lady Stanley, has all the connections to assemble a Lancastrian force, which I do not believe you can do. Am I right?”

  Morton smiled benignly at Harry, who acquiesced with a reluctant nod. “And then there is the proposed joining of Lancaster and York by the marriage of Tudor and young Elizabeth of York. The people will welcome the end of this civil strife that has eaten at the kingdom for so long. Unfortunately, your grace, you are already married.” He watched the curly-haired Buckingham digest all this, his already meager respect for the fickle duke slipping by the second. “Can you now not see that Tudor is our only chance for success? Especially now that you have taken care of the possibility of an anti-Richard faction using young Ned to lead a rebellion.”

  Buckingham did indeed see. And so, with more flattery and promise of power in the new regime, Harry of Buckingham agreed to turn his coat and rebel against his cousin, conveniently forgetting that, in four short months, that same cousin had showered him with great rewards and the promise of power for his loyalty.

  Richard needed some air.

  He nodded to Francis Lovell, and the two friends ran up the stone spiral to the ramparts high above Sheriff Hutton’s inner bailey. He had to escape the smoky hall and constant chatter so he could think. The familiar Yorkshire east wind off the Northern Sea carried a nip of autumn in it, making the men turn to have it at their backs as they stood on the southern side of the castle and looked out over the forest of Galtres and to the towers of York’s minster in the far distance.

  “What news, Richard?” Francis came straight to the point, knowing the taciturn king detested idle banter. The messenger had arrived not an hour before, his high leather boots caked in mud, and his face ruddy from his long ride, and Francis sensed the news was not good. “You looked as though you had seen a ghost back there.”

  Richard stopped and leaned against the battlements. “I was not expecting it so soon, Francis. Jack Howard writes there is rebellion afoot, and that I should return to London at once.”

  “Rebellion? By whom?” Francis demanded.

  “Does it matter?” the king answered sadly. “Jack says there is talk of it in the southern counties. ’Twas our good fortune he was on his own progress to his new estates in Surrey and Sussex, where he was informed. He will no doubt deal with it should it erupt, but it seems ’tis more widespread.”

  Francis tried to sound unconcerned. “You have not been away long enough to warrant complaints. ’Tis those southerners, Richard; you have never trusted them.”

  Richard turned away toward the hills. “I wish it were as easy as that, Francis,” he said somberly. “There is more to this unrest than you know.” He stopped short then. Howard had intimated that people were asking about the boys in the Tower; there was a rumor afoot they had been done away with. It was a terrible secret he had kept for a few weeks now—to Richard it seemed an eternity, but he must shoulder the responsibility. He did not want to unload it onto others. Only Anne knew why Buckingham was no longer in favor, and apparently no one else questioned the duke’s extended absence. Here in the north, Richard felt cushioned from the heinous events, but when he got to London, he would have to face them, he knew. At least the boys’ guards only knew that Lord Buckingham had whisked the boys away, presumably to a safer place. He had paid them well to deny they had seen or heard anything. Foolish, headstrong Harry! It was now up to Richard to think of a plausible reason for their disappearance, and to deal with their mother’s questions.

  Returning his focus to the present, Richard sensed Francis was waiting for an explanation, but how much should he say to the man he trusted most in the world, if he trusted anyone. If the truth be told, there were only two people he knew were unconditionally loyal to him: the two women he had loved, which was odd, he had once surmised, as most men distrusted women’s tongues far more than men’s. After Harry’s confession at Gloucester, Richard had experienced such terrible nightmares Anne could not help but gentle the truth from him. She had been kind but frightened, and he wished now he had not told her. He was afraid she was not strong enough to share such a burden, but tomorrow she would return to her preferred life at Middleham with their beloved son, and perhaps she would benefit from the change of air.

  The other woman he longed to tell was Kate. He had been reminded of her a few days ago when he had knighted their son, John, on the day of little Ned’s investiture. What a fine boy, he thought fondly, and Kate should be proud.

  While Francis waited, he watched the bustling below him of the many carpenters, bowyers, potters, blacksmiths, laundresses, and soldiers that kept a castle running smoothly. He was used to Richard’s brooding. He preferred this way of dealing with crises rather than his friend’s occasional rash actions, like the Hastings beheading. But he could usually depend on the rational Richard, and he would follow him down whatever path his king might lead him. His friend’s remark had left Francis wondering, but he knew better than to probe. Richard would tell him in his own good time—or not. And so he waited.

  In a very few minutes, his patience was rewarded, for Richard turned to him and slapped him on the back, his chin determined and his voice strong. “Come, let us join the ladies and have ourselves a fine farewell feast, giving them no cause for concern. But on the morrow, we shall cheerfully wave Anne and Ned good-bye, and as soon as they are out of sight, we shall make haste for London.”

  Whatever “more” there was to this uprising, Richard had decided to keep to himself, Francis thought, leading the way back down the winding stairs. He had no misgivings about putting down any rebellion; his king was the finest soldier in the kingdom.

  The spires of Lincoln Cathedral’s three magnificent towers had dominated the horizon for the past twenty miles as Richard and his retinue approached the city on Ermine Street fro
m the north.

  The weak October sun was setting when, weary of his saddle, Richard dismounted at the wide steps up to the west front door of the cathedral and was greeted by a prelate in the service of its absent bishop and Richard’s new chancellor, John Russell. Richard strode down the flagged floor of the nave to the choir, followed by his personal household, and the priest led them in a prayer of Thanksgiving for the king’s safe entry into the city that had once been England’s third largest during the previous century’s prosperous wool trade.

  It was getting dark when on the short walk under the Exchequer Gate across Bailgate to the castle, Richard and his entourage heard galloping hooves on the cobblestones. A sergeant-at-arms lit a flambeau and held it high as the approaching horseman slowed up the steep hill and came into the light.

  Immediately recognizing the Howard white lion and azure crescent on the messenger’s livery, Richard ordered that the man be brought into his presence without delay and hurried through the castle gate and into the great hall. Lord Stanley, Francis Lovell, and several esquires of the body followed him into the smaller audience chamber, where a welcome fire was taking the chill off the room.

  The duke of Norfolk’s man was soon kneeling at his king’s feet, carefully articulating the exact words Jack Howard had made him learn by heart.

  “Your servant, his grace of Norfolk greets you well, my lord king. He bids me tell you that Kent has risen and is intent on taking London in your absence. The more troubling news is that these rebels of Kent are claiming they are led by none other than his grace, the duke of Buckingham.”

  The man got no further, for a roar of disbelief had erupted from those in the room and Richard himself was on his feet.

  “Harry?” Richard repeated hoarsely, the blood draining from his face. “Harry leads the rebels?” He turned his back on the audience, who was loudly discussing the shocking news, and he stared at the crackling logs in the hearth. “Dear Mother of God, what have I done?”