Mistress to the Crown. Isolde Martyn
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with a wink.
‘Mas’er Ashby be ‘ere shortly, Mistress.’
‘Then go and buy yourselves some ale,’ I said sweetly finding them each a coin. I did not want any eavesdroppers. They seemed surprised at my largesse – or perhaps the paucity of it – but they politely accepted.
The small oil lamp hanging above the bed was lit and a potkin of sweet violets neighboured a bowl of blushing apples on the small table beside the bed.
I hung up my cloak and veil behind the door, set my basket down upon the bed and then I leaned against the bedpost to let my heartbeat settle.
A rustle disturbed me. Turning, I saw the hem of the recess curtain billow subtly. I smiled. Ah, so his servants had dissembled; my lover was already here.
Mischievously I tiptoed across to make a gleeful pounce, but it was the breeze from the window light that teased the curtain. The alcove was pristine. Fresh napkins were folded on the wooden rail above the washstand. I lifted the jug beside the ewer and took a deep breath. Today the water was perfumed with sandalwood; last time it had been rosemary. But I could still smell rosemary; yes, a ribboned spray of silvery spikes and tiny mauve flowers lay upon the cloth that disguised the stool of ease.
Lord Hastings’ blue robe was hanging on a wall hook with a bronze hued wrap beneath it. I dreamily lifted a silken fold of the blue to my cheek, trying not to think about how many other women had worn the bronze. No worse than a communion cup at Easter, I consoled my conscience, but I would not put it on.
He was late. The bell struck the quarter before swift, heavy footsteps stopped outside. The latch rose. But it was not Hastings. It was the stranger who had disturbed us last time. He was wearing the same black hat tugged forward over his face and I remembered the broadness of him.
I glared at him with dislike, sure now that he was not a courtier. The corner of his earth brown cloak was thrust up over the opposite shoulder like a night thief’s, but the huge gloves and creaking leather doublet trumpeted soldier – soldier with a message from Hastings that would render this evening’s subterfuge a waste of time.
No, I was wrong. He was removing his gloves with the air of a man who was staying. If only I had not sent Hastings’ servants away!
‘Mistress Shore, I believe.’ He touched his hat brim with a slight bow.
I did not curtsy. I was so angry, so hurt. This was betrayal.
‘Ah you must not blame Will,’ he said cheerfully, unwinding his cloak. ‘We hauled him down into the Tower dungeons, thrust him upon the Duke of Exeter’s daughter and turned the screws.’
I had not one iota what he was talking about. ‘Pray do not make yourself at home,’ I said, with contempt underscoring every syllable.
‘It could be a threesome if you insist.’
I must have looked shocked, for he quickly added, ‘Except Will doesn’t know I am here. Listen, I do apologise for tricking you but he’s up at Ashby-de-la-Zouch and I thought you might lack for decent company.’
‘Please leave, sirrah.’
‘Oh,’ he lamented, cocking his head like a crestfallen rooster. ‘I beg you give me a fighting chance.’
I remembered my father’s lectures. ‘Three things,’ I growled, restraining the urge to stick my fists on my hips. ‘Firstly, I am not a harlot; secondly, if I have any arrangement with Lord Hastings, it is none of your business; and thirdly, I am leaving. Now remove yourself from between me and the door or I shall kick you so hard in the ballocks you will have difficulty walking, let alone procreating with your wife or anyone else.’
‘What!’ He was laughing but in ridicule. ‘Firstly,’ he spluttered, ‘whether you are no harlot does not matter; secondly, I do not think you are giving us a fair chance to be acquainted; and thirdly, although you may be tall for a woman, I am six foot-three inches tall and long in the arm, so I think your chance of getting anywhere near my ballocks – with your clothes on, that is – will be highly unlikely.’
A scratch at the door. He opened it and the two retainers carried in trays, set them upon the bed, bowed and departed. I cursed inwardly. Why had I not noticed earlier that neither of the fellows had worn Hastings’ livery?
‘Hungry?’ My unwelcome host uncovered the platter, crossed himself with his right hand and a mutter of grace, then spiked a twirl of beef and held it out to me.
‘I hope you choke,’ I said coldly.
‘No!’ He ate the meat himself, followed it with a sliver of fruit, and then drew a fastidious finger across his lips. ‘No, you can’t wish that. It’s against the law.’
‘Not in my book, it’s not.’ This was ridiculous. I grabbed my basket and swept to the door. ‘Good day to you, sir.’ I inclined my head with a dignity he did not deserve.
‘In my book, it’s treason, Mistress Shore.’ His voice had changed.
The threat in it brought me up short. My hand froze upon my cloak. I had no idea who this man was. If he was the same rank as Hastings, then he had the power to destroy my reputation. Malice is a cruel enemy. I had no intention of staying, but if he was going to set a torch to my honour, maybe I still had a chance to staunch the flame.
I turned. ‘I beg your pardon then, sir, but the jest is on Lord Hastings not me.’
‘Please do not go, Mistress Shore.’ His voice had grown kind again. ‘I realise we have not been introduced and you are at a disadvantage.’ He swept off his hat. The lion mane of bushy, brown hair tiptoeing on those broad, high shoulders seemed coarse and exuberant compared to Hastings’ sleek fairness. His face surprised me: not the fist-in-your-teeth features that usually went with a large body and stubborn nature but fine hazel eyes, a noble nose and delicate mouth. Now I could see him better, he reminded me of someone. He bowed, not deeply, more a teasing concession, a curl of shoulder, his head remaining superior. ‘My name is Edward, I am the King of England.’
‘Oh yes, and I am the Holy Roman Em—’ The words jammed in my throat. Without his hat … O Blessed Christ defend me!
I had only ever seen King Edward from a distance in recent years – a playing card, cloth-of-gold figure watching the tournaments at Smithfield or else just a gloved hand, resting on velvet, half-hidden by purple curtains aboard the royal barge. But I knew the triumphant bow of this man’s lips, the victor of Mortimer’s Cross and bloody Towton, the nemesis of Warwick, Queen Margaret and King Henry; the upthrust fist that betokened the victorious conqueror.
Trembling, I sank in the lowest curtsy I had ever made, wishing the rushes and floor might swallow me out of sight. As if in punishment, I was left to wobble there in misery. Then he relented. A strong hand grasped my arm and helped me to my feet.
‘Now we have that out the way …’ He kept hold of me like a diligent groom until I was steady, before he stepped back.
I could not answer the look of inquiry. It would need a hue and cry to find my voice.
‘It will come back,’ he assured me affably. ‘Always does.’ Then, as if giving me time to regain my wits, he prowled across to inspect my basket and, like a curious child, flicked up its cover. ‘Mm-mmm, oatcakes! May I?’
I nodded, still in shock.
‘Ah, I’ve not had one of these for years,’ he exclaimed joyously, healthy white teeth taking a bite. ‘Hmm-mm, just the right hint of cinnamon. Good, very good.’ And then he astonished me even more. ‘Lambard’s girl, aren’t you?’ he said, savouring another mouthful and observing me with the curiosity of a lion that could crush a mouse with a swipe of his paw. ‘Stout heart and generous, your sire. Loaned my father money when he was at low ebb. Helped me out as well back in ‘61, convinced the city to let me in so I could be proclaimed king. Not forgotten, I assure you.’ Then his friendly tone weathervaned to a cool north again. ‘Now are you recovered enough to have some supper? Some poor