Mistress to the Crown. Isolde Martyn
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let us just get matters straight.’
I swallowed, glanced at the door, and then back at him, put down my basket and gave a shallow curtsy.
‘Thank you,’ he said sarcastically. The large gems on his pale hands flashed in the candlelight as he made a steeple of his fingers. ‘Now let me understand this aright. You will lie with Will but not with me?’ Even though I am your king, younger and better looking, the lift of eyebrows seemed to be saying.
I nodded, more apprehensive than ever. Apparently the bell had sounded for the second bout.
He swayed forward slightly but I did not dare recoil. I was not going to let him close me in with the bed at my back.
‘You do confound me, Mistress Shore,’ he murmured. ‘I understood that your liaison with my chamberlain is for the purpose of … education?’
These two men had discussed me? Curse it! As what? A silly hen ripe for plucking?
‘Th–that is t-true, your highness. I wanted to find out …’ I bit my lip, horrified at what he must believe about me. ‘It is most … most generous of you to offer to … to further the tuition but thank you, no.’
I curtsied, trying to hide my hurt. It was as if God had tipped burning oil upon my soul. Hastings had betrayed me. I was nothing but a jest.
‘Kings rarely make offers except to other royalty,’ he replied with hauteur. He strode from me and turned, his voice growing dryer with each syllable: ‘Kings tend to make commands.’
How should I escape him? Sweet Mother of God! I could hardly argue that I was virtuous.
‘It shames me that Lord Hastings told you of my circumstances, your highness.’
‘But you have signed an indenture with him and must keep loyal. Poor Mistress Shore, alas, how terrifying the consequences if you disobey. No doubt Hastings will slap my face with his glove on his return and slit my throat in fury. You’ll probably be hanged in one of your pretty garters.’
It was belittling.
‘I thank your grace most honestly for supper.’ I curtsied deeply.
He inclined his head haughtily. ‘Go, then.’
‘Please,’ I said to the King of England, and proffered my basket. ‘Would you like to take these back to the palace for your children?’
‘Where have you been?’ growled Shore, as I came in through the yard door.
‘Taking cakes to the poor.’ To a man poor in humility! God have mercy! What a fool I’d proved. I must be the laughing stock of Westminster.
‘Without a basket?’
‘Oh bother, I left the cursed thing behind.’ Was my face scarlet?
‘Tell me where you left it and ah’ll send one of the boys.’ By his tone, he was determined to make a liar of me.
‘Lordy, I cannot remember.’ I turned away, tucking my waistcloth into my belt.
‘Like that, is it? ’
I closed my eyes, knowing the lid was off the seething pot. Was truth the best way, slid in cleanly like a dagger rather than administered in a slow poison? But it was he who astonished me. I knew all week that he had something on his mind and here at last came confession.
‘There’s summat ah have to tell you, wife. There was this cherrylips came into the shop last week when ah was serving on my own. Tricked out in finery she was like a real lady. She swished abaht in her furs and trinkets, and when she’d made her choice, she offered to pay for t’cloth by spreadin’ her legs. Ah said, yes, but she’d better be quick. Anyroad, ah locked the door and led her to t’stairs so as no one could see us from the street. She bared her breasts and eased her skirts slowly above her thigh. Had me in a raight sweat …’
Please Heaven, it never rose, I prayed, imagining my argument for a divorce evaporating with Shore’s resurrection. ‘Did you …’
‘No, No, damn it, ah could not manage it, even with her! Christ!’ He smote so hard upon the board that the inkpot jumped and then he grabbed the alejack and hurled it furiously at the wall. I stared open mouthed at the liquid, pale as urine, trickling down the whitewash.
He was breathing hard, staring at me like a cornered beast. I feared he might strike me. His mouth arced into an ugly loop of pain and tight slits of skin swallowed his eyes. ‘O Jesu, Jesu, Jesu!’ He sank to his knees, cradling his ribs and began an anguished keening.
I flung myself on my knees and drew him to me. ‘There, there!’ I soothed, stifling his howls against my bosom. I rocked him until the shudders ceased.
‘Ah’m so sorry, Elizabeth,’ he sobbed. ‘All these years. Ah’m so sorry.’ He tried to pull away but I held him fast.
‘There is more to a man than his prick, William Shore. The whole world knows that. You should not judge yourself so cruelly.’
‘But ah’m no true man. I am cursed by God.’
‘Then we both are, William.’
Still reeling from Hastings’ betrayal, I needed a few moments to grasp the implications of Shore’s confession. He was no longer blaming me for not giving him a child. I was unsaddled at last. No more guilt to carry like a weary packhorse.
‘There is something I should tell you,’ I said, holding by his sleeves so he could not pull away. ‘I went with another man.’ His reaction was a fierce start to free himself but I held on. ‘So, you see, you must forgive me also. Two weeks ago for the first time. Just once. I wanted to know what it was like.’
‘An’ what was it like?’
‘It was satisfactory. There was no commitment.’
‘Yer tuphead,’ he snarled. ‘Dinna you make sure he was … clean?’
My heart lurched. Whore’s pox as well as a broken heart? By Heaven, I hoped not.
‘Can you forgive me, William?’
His face was as chill as a Derby winter. ‘Does it matter if ah can’t?’
VII
‘You ignored my messengers.’ Hastings came striding up into my solar. It was the first time he had visited upstairs. He sounded peevish, great lord peevish. Not a surprise; I had ignored three notes and two nosegays. Shore followed him in, mumbling about broadcloth.
‘Broadcloth, be damned!’ The Lord Chamberlain neatly slammed the door in my husband’s face. Then he opened it again. ‘Oh, Hell take it! Forgive the discourtesy, Shore. I thank you for your offer of assistance but pray don’t let me detain you. My steward will deal with the order.’ He waited until my stunned husband was downstairs before he dropped the latch. ‘Well?’
‘My lord.’ I rose from my curtsy, smoothed my skirts and looked up at him with my best businesslike face. ‘There was intervention.’
The frost melted slightly. He folded his arms and his elegant black sleeves flashed their amber taffeta linings.
‘Him?’ A condescending jerk of head towards the door
‘No, my lord, your friend, the one who charged in on us.’
‘That friend! I see. My abrupt departure annoyed you!’ He tossed his hat onto the small table and surprisingly donned the manner of sackcloth and ashes. ‘Well, I cannot blame you and I do apologise, but the Breton diplomats were anxious to sign the treaty and get back to Duke Francis.’
‘Your pardon, I did not understand that at the time.’ I poured him out some wine in a forgiving fashion.
He grinned sheepishly at me across the rim of our best goblet. ‘Just as well “my friend” interrupted, my luscious