Mistress to the Crown (27 page)

Ned could be lazy as an old dog, but when he was stirred up, he could strike fast. He returned to Westminster in full Plantagenet rage, summoned the Lord Mayor, sheriffs and aldermen, and in the common hearing accused his brother of usurping royal authority, breaking the laws of England and threatening its judges.

I know his mother tried once more to mend the quarrel but George was unrepentant. In June he was taken to the Tower together with some of his advisers including Stillington, the Bishop of Bath and Wells, a former Chancellor of England.

The day following their incarceration, I received a letter from Bishop Goldwell informing me that last night Dr John Stacey had died in the Tower. His will named Goldwell his executor and all his goods and debts were left to his widow, Marion.

Ned had ordered his death.

I don’t know how long I sat alone with the bishop’s letter on my lap. For I was remembering how old King Henry had fortuitously ‘died’ in the Tower on the night of Ned’s triumphant return to London after his victory over Lancaster.

I still loved Ned. You dance while the music plays, don’t you? But in truth the shadow of the Tower cast a darkness over the entire kingdom.

George spent the remainder of the year in the Tower and then in the following January of 1478, when an icing of snow glistened on the pinnacles and turrets, the great lords rode into Westminster to witness the marriage of Ned’s five-year-old son, Dickon, to the little Mowbray heiress in St Stephen’s Chapel. A few days later they assembled in the chill of Westminster Hall to try George for high treason and Ned was the chief accuser.

For almost three weeks, the matter endured. I remember the New Palace Yard was perilous with black ice the day that Buckingham, steward of the jury, announced the sentence of death. I saw George brought out of the hall, his hands bound in front of him and his back rigid and proud. As if to rile him further, it was Rivers who was given charge of his escort back to the Tower.

During the next two weeks, while the unsigned warrant lay waiting on the royal council board, messengers carried arguments up and down the spine of England. From Middleham, Richard of Gloucester’s home in Yorkshire, to Westminster Palace, from Baynard’s Castle to Middleham, and Middleham to Westminster.

And from Westminster, a terse growl from the King was carried north once more. Gloucester and the Countess of York were desperate to save George’s life.

‘I do not know why he bothers,’ Ned snarled as Hastings set the latest letter from Gloucester before him in his private chamber. ‘They are closer in age,’ I suggested, but the King was not listening.

‘By Jesu, the pair of ’em came to blows in this very room over Richard marrying the other Neville girl. Remember that, Will?’ Hastings nodded and Ned continued for my benefit. ‘Tried to force her to take holy orders because he was damned if he’d share one inch of Warwick’s lands with Richard. You call that brotherly love, Jane?’ He strode angrily to the fireplace and hurled the letter unread into the fire. ‘And now my stubborn old mother has whistled me to Baynard’s yet again. I’m the King of England, damn ’em! I’ve had enough.’

He obeyed his mother’s summons, but her latest pleas for George’s life fell like autumn leaves upon unfeeling flagstone and he returned to Westminster, stern and pale.

‘Rather than keep your brother forever in the Tower, Ned, couldn’t you compel him to become a Cistercian monk?’ I suggested daringly that evening, as I rubbed a soothing, rosemary unguent across his brow. ‘Hide him deep in some abbey on the Yorkshire moors. Surely your brother Richard would help you?’

From beside the fire where he was playing chess with Lord Howard, Hastings sent me a warning glance, which I ignored. Ned was not the only one who had endured a conversation with her grace of York.

‘I’ll bury him right enow.’ Ned’s jaw was clenched. ‘He wants a crown, Jane. Well, he shall have a heavenly one. Do you hear me all of you?’ he snarled, raising his voice. ‘
I will have no more traitors in this kingdom!
’

Two days after, on nineteenth of February, it was announced that George had died. A private execution. ‘Drowned in a butt of malmsey’, the Londoners jested. He was twenty-nine years old. His coffin was taken to Tewkesbury Abbey for burial. I believe there were few mourners. No one in his family spoke about it and a pall of silence fell on the rest of us, but the tidings sent ripples of shock throughout Christendom.

For a man to execute his own brother! Many Englishmen said the Queen’s family was responsible. Perhaps they were. Lord Rivers took himself off on a pilgrimage to Compostela out of gossip’s slingshot so perhaps it was he who carried out Ned’s orders. I am sure some people blamed me.

I do know this: the ghosts who haunt the battlefields of Barnet and Tewkesbury – those hundreds of fathers and sons – they’d be still alive if it had not been for George’s bitter envy. God forgive him and may his restless spirit find peace at last.

After George was coffined and trundled off to Tewkesbury, I found myself in a fierce quarrel with Ned.

The Queen wanted Mary, the young heiress of Lord Hungerford, as bride for one of her kinsmen, but Hastings determined to snare her lands for his son and heir. Without squaring matters first with Ned, he secretly sent for papal permission and had the children exchange betrothal vows.

‘Why should Hastings not have an heiress for his son, Ned?’ I asked sweetly as we walked in the garden at Westminster.

‘You should keep your cursed nose out of this, Jane,’ Ned growled, pulling his arm out of mine and kicking at the crinkled leaves. ‘I’ve just had the Queen ranting at me and I feel like entering a poxy monastery. Anyway, I thought you did not believe in childhood marriages.’ He smacked his skull. ‘Ah, thick of me
to forget, if it’s Will Hastings, it’s a different story. Just because he fished you out of your dull little pond, you don’t owe him anything.’

‘But you do,’ I countered. ‘With your grace’s leave,’ I curtsied and received a glare, ‘I shall be pleased to receive your grace’s company – when your royal temper has cooled.’

Yes, I was pushing my boat out into dangerous water again but I hazarded that Ned would come about. What I did not expect was a summons from Elizabeth Woodville.

I was escorted to her audience chamber where she was seated on her chair of estate beneath a scarlet canopy. She was flaunting her wealth. The cap below her stiff butterfly veil winked with precious stones. Pearls, each the size of a wren’s egg, hung from the intricate golden collar about her throat. The latter showed her age. I had not really seen her close to since the death of her babe, George of Windsor. Her jowls were beginning to sag, her breasts had lost their fullness and from my position on the tiles, I could see her ankles were puffy.

Elizabeth liked to keep people on their knees when giving audience. Especially me. Her ladies were tittering already. They must have heard I was out of favour with Ned and vulnerable. However, it wasn’t going to be a public lashing of words; Elizabeth gestured her attendants to withdraw to the back of the chamber and beckoned me to shuffle up the steps.

‘Why have you interfered, Mistress Shore?’ I presumed she meant in speaking up for Lord Hastings.

I stared up candidly into those hard, aquamarine eyes. ‘I interfere in a lot of matters, gracious madame, but only where I find injustice or venality. I am sure your grace will agree that the King’s justice should prevail at all times.’

‘Ding-a-poxy-ding!’ Her toe kicked my knee. ‘Do your servants shine your halo every morning or does it have a perpetual lacquer?’

I persisted. ‘If your highness would enlighten me, please?’

‘You persuaded his grace the King to release Stillington from the Tower.’

Stillington? Surely she meant Dr Stacey and then I recalled recently receiving a letter from the imprisoned Bishop of Bath and Wells! Robert Stillington, that was his name. He had once been Chancellor of England but during the troubles with George, Ned had had him arrested. He had not been brought to trial on any charges.

‘No, madame, I did not persuade the King to order his release,’ I replied, showing polite surprise rather than remorse. ‘The bishop wrote to me a few weeks ago enclosing a letter for the King’s grace. I merely passed it on. I pass on many letters.’

‘Mistress Shore.’ Her impatience was scarcely reined in. ‘You have displeased me greatly. You meddle in matters in which you have utter, utter ignorance. I have been very tolerant of his grace’s affection for you, but in abetting Stillington, you have rendered yourself open to charges of high treason and, believe me, I shall not hesitate to have you dealt with, unless—’

‘Madame, I’ve no—’

She slapped my face. ‘Do-not-interrupt-me!’

The whispering at the back ceased. I sensed the gleeful voyeurs holding their breath.

Elizabeth’s power over Ned was greater than mine, but a pox on that! Sincerity could be my buckler.

‘Madame,’ I protested, ‘I do not comprehend what I have done to offend you.’

My bewilderment was honest and fortunately she believed me.

She leaned forward. ‘Stillington is a poisonous mischief-maker.
He has spread foul lies about the King’s birthright, and I have no doubt that he and George were behind the accusations of witchcraft brought against my mother a few years ago.’

My cheek was stinging and I could see her hand was still itching. I’m told that when you are in single combat, you watch your enemy’s eyes so I did not abase my gaze but I managed an apology.

‘I only passed the bishop’s letter on, my lady. I did not read it or presume to speak on the man’s behalf. I supposed him to be old and infirm so it seemed an act of mercy.’

She recoiled. ‘Be damned to your acts of mercy, woman! Play angel to your little petitioners if it makes you feel holy but do-not-interfere-in-matters-of-state! I want your oath on this, Mistress Shore, or, as God’s my witness, I’ll bring you down!’

I left her presence, stunned and puzzled. A few days later Ned told me that ancient Stillington had been placed in the custody of the Bishop of Worcester, one of the Queen’s affinity. He refused to tell me more but, by Heaven, if I had known then how much mischief that cursed old man would cause a few years later, I would have torn his letter in pieces and begged Ned to keep him in the Tower until he rotted.

I was not out of favour for long, but 1479 was a year when the pestilence took many lives including three of London’s lord mayors. Seeing so many coffins carted through the streets frightened us all and there were few feasts and gatherings, but the following year, Ned’s youngest sister, my lady Margaret, Dowager Duchess of Burgundy, arrived at Gravesend and came up the Thames by barge in much splendour. Even Richard of Gloucester broke off his campaign in Scotland to come down and see her for she was greatly beloved.

‘Meg’ was in England to gain Ned’s help against King Louis. When she left London, she seemed happy with the agreements they had reached. Ned and the Queen rode with her to spend a few days on Rivers’ manor at Ightham in Kent before farewelling her at Dover.

I was waiting desperately for Ned’s return.

‘There’s something I have to tell you, my most gracious lord,’ I exclaimed jubilantly. ‘At last, I’m carrying a babe!’

You might have thought I had been invited into the Kingdom of Heaven by the Lord Christ himself, I was so ecstatic. It must have been when Ned snatched a wicked few moments with me that afternoon behind the large oak tree near Waltham Abbey. Strange that swift daylight intercourse might seed a baby when nights of languorous lovemaking in bygone years had proved fallow.

As soon as I began to feel the subtle changes in my body, I bade Ned be gentler in his thrusting.

‘Pah, you have more love for this unknown brat than you do for me,’ he grumbled.

‘But, Ned, you know how much I’ve longed for a child and since this babe is half yours, you do not need to ram it in the head as if you are loading a cannon.’

I suppose he had sired many children, ten lawful – and goodness knows how many packsaddle babes – so one more meant little to him. Nevertheless, his ambivalence was hurtful and when my babe was five months grown within me, I decided to take no risks lest our coupling harm its anchorage. In May, when the court left for Windsor, I pleaded I was poorly and stayed back at Westminster.

A few weeks later I miscarried. A boy child. Losing the babe threatened my sanity. I was babbling that God was punishing me for my sins. Isabel sent for Mama and they persuaded me to go to Hinxworth, where the peace of the summer meadows might be balm to my troubled soul. And so I hid myself away to grieve.

Ned commanded me to Westminster in leaf fall. I made my preparations with apprehension, but the moment I passed through Bishopsgate, I rejoiced at the cluttered shop counters and the apprentices tugging at my stirrups. Hope rode pillion behind me; maybe I might bear another child before too long.

‘Well, look who is back!’ Dorset exclaimed as I quietly entered the inner sanctum beyond the Painted Chamber. He detached himself from his Uncle Edward’s company and sauntered across to put his arm about my waist. ‘You shouldn’t have stayed away so long, my mistress,’ he whispered. ‘I fear me others have stolen your place. Isn’t it time you and I kissed and made up?’

‘Jane!’ Ned came striding across and kissed me on the lips. ‘Welcome back, my sweet.’ He bade me stay for supper with him, but there was no lovemaking the instant we were alone together.

‘Look at you,’ he said fondly. ‘Still my loyal, lovely Jane.’ Then I was enfolded in his arms, my head snug against his breast. His breath was warm upon my hair. ‘I am so sorry you lost our child, my darling. God willing we can make another.’

I doubted that. I rarely shared his bed. With me, he preferred to play cards, discuss the price of lambskins or his shipping ventures. Like Hastings, I was still one of the intimates who shared his supper parties, but I heard now that other –
younger
– women fed his lust. Women of doubtful provenance whom Dorset brought in for him. Flowers, picked young and wild, that only lasted a day.