Mistress to the Crown. Isolde Martyn
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filled a platter for me and passed it down. ‘Usually takes half an hour for it to pass,’ he told me as he selected some viands for himself.
‘To p-pass, your highness?’
‘The awe,’ he said dryly, licking the sauce from his fingers and then wiping them on a napkin. ‘Eat!’
I was not sure I could, but I watched in fascination as he moved the tray bearing the jug and goblets to the floor and heaved out the nearest bolster from beneath the pillows. Doubled against the wall, it made a reasonable seat and he lowered himself down. With a wifely instinct that might have passed for repentance, I poured out the wine and that pleased him. He took up his mazer and held it out. I lifted mine, and the surface of the wine quivered as my hand shook. Metal kissed metal.
I found my regular voice again, albeit humble and wary. ‘Good health, my lord.’
He took a gulp and winced. ‘Too sweet, more my brother George’s taste. What do you think, Mistress Shore?’
Me? My first thought was that he was gulling me; the second that he meant it.
‘I prefer a red, fuller-flavoured wine with beef, my lord.’
The answer satisfied him. He settled back watching me still and at last I retrieved my appetite. It was part expedience. I could hardly sit opposite him idle. Later, I would laugh to myself that King Edward had sat on the floor to dine with me like some itinerant tinker. In fact, I suppose it was in deference to my sensibility that we were not seated in comfort upon the bed and I was grateful.
On the same level, without his great height towering over me, I found him less daunting. His complexion was pale with a sprinkling of freckles and he had a Cupid’s bow mouth, narrow but full-lipped. I reckon his worst feature was his chin – too dimpled – and his neck might thicken with age – but he had intelligent eyes, hazel with flecks of green gold, which reminded me of sunlight shining through a meadow pool. Hastings’ eyes were more handsome, possessing translucence like clean-sheared crystal, yet there was a playfulness in the King’s that was very charming.
‘Is he in good health, old John, your father?’
‘Yes, I thank your highness. A touch of stiffness in the knees but otherwise quite hale.’
‘And your mother, Anne … no, Amy, yes?’
‘Anne. Very well, I thank you. Father has bought some land in Hertfordshire and is gradually letting my brothers take over the business. Robert is in Calais and Jack runs the shop.’
‘Jack? Ah, John Lambard the younger. Doing well?’
I nodded. ‘Yes, your highness.’
‘I’m not surprised. Robert Cousin, my Master of the Wardrobe, bought some Florentine sarsynett from your brother this week for seven shillings a yard.’
‘That’s ridiculously high,’ I exclaimed and then clapped my hand to my lips mortified.
The King’s face hardened. ‘Are you saying my officer was fleeced?’ A glimmer of humour that did not quite flatten the corners of his mouth replenished my courage.
‘Shorn might be a better word,’ I replied demurely, shaking some crumbs from my skirts.
My audacity amused him. ‘So what should he have paid?’
‘No more than five shillings and sixpence.’
‘Hmm.’ He swished his mouth sideways. ‘I’d better have a word with Rob.’
‘There are some really beautiful summer brocades due in any day now. I saw the samples a few months ago. The Queen has—’
He grinned. ‘Ah, gotten an order in already, has she?’ He took a gulp of wine and waved a hand while he swallowed. ‘Separate household, see. ‘Course being in business, you’d know how it all works. Can I have another of your cakes, if you please?’ I reached up for the basket and passed two across.
He demolished one and took a bite of the other. ‘So how long have you been married?’
‘Since I was twelve.’
‘Any whelps?’
‘Whelps?’
‘Children. I have five princesses, two princes and at least two bastards.’ He thought about it. ‘No, more, I daresay.’
‘I haven’t any, your grace.’
‘What, none?’ He thumbed the crumbs from his lips. ‘No … no …’ A languid flourish of fingers sufficed as though the word for stillbirth was only for a woman’s use.
‘No, your highness, I believe I was wed too soon.’
He frowned, his eyes sympathetic. ‘Happened to Lady Margaret Beaufort, the Countess of Richmond. Not even fourteen when she birthed her son, Henry Tudor. Tudor, heard of him, yes? Lives on crumbs from the Count of Brittany’s trenchers. She never had any more progeny, thank the Lord.’ He had a most heartrending smile, I discovered, and he was using it on me now. ‘Does it sadden you, Mistress Shore?’
It? Being barren?
‘Not any more, your highness. I am happy to go down on all fours and play bears with my friends’ children, but at the end of the day I am content to hand them back.’
‘All fours?’ he echoed wickedly, laughter breeding with speculation in his expression and I could see he was imagining – O Jesu!
‘I growl very fiercely,’ I said quickly, hoping that he could not see my blushes. He really was sinfully attractive.
‘Oh, do you?’
The neighbourhood bells tolled six and I was still in the lion’s den. Children would have been a useful excuse to leave.
The King of England read my mind. ‘Curfew is three hours hence.’ Wriggle out of that, his expression told me.
‘Yes, your highness, but it is later than when I met Lord Hastings before and my husband—’
‘Is of no consequence, Will tells me.’
‘I am sorry,’ I murmured, rising to my feet, and again shaking the crumbs from my skirts. ‘I have the cakes to deliver … to the poor, otherwise …’
His highness stood up as if out of courtesy but his lower lip betrayed displeasure. Then he twisted, retrieved the bolster and, holding it against his body with one arm, sensuously slid his other hand down it. ‘I thought we might …’ A jerk of his head towards the bed finished the question. At least it was a question.
I shook my head treasonously and Lord knows what else of me shook. Oh yes, my senses were stirred. Not just his handsome looks but the aura of power had me wondrously thrilled.
The bolster was flung aside with a deliberate menace. I briskly picked up my basket and hugged it to my waist. There was no way I could withstand him if he chose to stop me leaving so I stood there, my chin raised defiantly. It was his decision.
Tight, calculating tucks appeared in his cheeks. King Edward was watching me as though I was his assailant in the combat yard; all I had was basketwork. I clasped it tighter to my waist and stared up at him defiantly, my heartbeat frantic.
A woman shrieked playfully outside. The floorboards creaked lightly as she ran across them. Heavier footsteps chased her. A guffaw of laughter. A door opening. No one would care if I screamed, and what difference would it make? The hawks outside were probably royal servants on subtle sentry duty.
At a loss in this impasse, I primly pulled the napkin back over the remaining cakes like a diligent housewife, without taking my eyes from my antagonist, and suddenly, mercifully, the swords between us were lowered. The King’s cheeks grew full again, a smile grew and grew and then he laughed.
I took one step towards the door but his voice snapped out like a whip. ‘The King has not given you leave, Mistress Shore.’
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