Mistress to the Crown (32 page)

A flagon fell near the other man’s foot. ‘Fuck it!’

Moonlight through the shutters betrayed my housewife’s chatelaine lying on the oak chest. The whoreson espied my jewel coffer too and I cursed that I had already taken it from its hiding place. He bagged the gems that Ned had given me: the sapphire and pearl collar; the emerald clasp, all my ear droplets, Hastings’ golden leaf necklace and every brooch save the amethyst still pinned to my yesterday gown. But not all; I managed to
slide off the rings I was wearing and edge them beneath the coverlet.

Before the rogues left, they gagged and bound me to the bedpost.

‘There, cunny,’ the ox whispered and his fingers goosed me in farewell.

Not knowing if poor Isabel’s neck was snapped, I worked at my bonds like a starving rat but God was merciful and my servant and friend recovered her wits, albeit with a goose-size egg bump. She freed me and downstairs we discovered poor Lubbe trussed on the cellar floor with rags bound into his mouth. A swift lantern survey around the house argued naught but my jewels had been stolen. Had Fortune seized a whip to force me to my knees? Foul, foul April!

With the slow dawn came enlightenment and Isabel’s squeal of discovery from upstairs. ‘See what I’ve found, Mistress! I must have knocked it from the fellow’s hat before he hit me.’

I took the pewter badge from her. A pitcher and a magpie? The crow of Aesop’s fables?

Before I reported the robbery to the sergeants-at-arms, I sought out the old groom who had taught me to ride and asked whether he recognised the badge. He did.

‘Aye, some of her grace’s retainers still use these. God’s wounds, mistress! Do you need to sit down?’ He steadied me.

The Queen’s vengeance? I could go storming to her apartments. Is that what she wanted? There was a scaffold’s width betwixt common sense and that folly. Better to load up the cart and gee up.

I returned across the Palace yard and, avoiding the creditors, went in through the back lane. Young must have arrived to help because my cart from Aldersgate was drawn up in the yard. All my servants were gathered in the kitchen. Isabel was sobbing in
Roger Young’s arms, but they pulled apart as I stepped in. He was looking vexed.

‘Don’t tell me there’s trouble at Aldersgate, too,’ I exclaimed.

Lubbe swallowed his mouthful of food and jabbed a finger towards Young whose face had gone brick red.

‘How about we start loading up?’ I suggested, and when the others had gone about their business, I turned to Young and Isabel. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘I’ll fist the curs who did this to Belle,’ he said savagely. ‘An’ I’m glad you’re movin’ to Aldersgate, mistress. I’ll guard you both, never fear. But this business has brought things to a head.’

‘Things?’

‘I’ve asked Belle to wed me, mistress, an’ I know I should’ve asked you first but seein’ her hurt an’ all, I’ve blurted it out. An’ I’m resolved on it, mistress, truly. But she ain’t said yes yet.’

Isabel was still dabbing her eyes on her waistcloth. ‘Cos it’s yes, you dafty, so long as it pleases you, Mistress Elizabeth?’

I hugged her. ‘At least some good has come of this, Belle. Roger, I couldn’t be more pleased. I’ll ask my brother to call the banns.’

So the thieves provoked happiness as well as sorrow, and I tried not to feel bitterness against the Queen. Bitterness eats you like a maggot, beginning at your heart. That night as I knelt on my prie-dieu, I prayed for Ned’s soul and I called to Heaven for justice and, as it happened, God had a case to bring as well.

II

Despite the stink of the city, it was reassuring to step out my door into the city streets. It gave me a sense of anonymity – albeit false. Any dimwit could discover where ‘Old Ned’s Whore’ was dwelling and I am sure my neighbours gaped behind their shutters when foreigners like Caniziani and the Spanish ambassador, Sasiola, called to present their condolences.

God be my witness, I offered these gentlemen no more than meat and drink but I was glad of their company during the week of Ned’s funeral. The aliens and the unacceptable; we lepers had to close ranks. My friends were nervous. Whenever London grew uneasy, it took its temper out on the foreign traders’ houses and the city was edgy, no mistake.

Strangers were pouring in for the coronation: barons and bishops, hoping for high office; merchants with strings of pack-ponies staggering after them; country jezebels who could be taken against any wall cheaper than pudding-ale; and, of course, the human rats, those who liked slitting throats and cutting purses.

Isabel cursed at the time it took her to stumble back the short distance with her water pails. I found Cheapside impossible – cobbles clogged with dung; wheels, hooves; strangers’ boots that
stamped and stomped, missing my toes by a hair’s breath; horsemen’s spurs that almost ripped my skirts; St Anthony’s pigs squealing, let alone the touting and shouting, the spit, the curses and the piss. I found myself longing for the decorum bestowed by a king’s close presence – the clean-swept cobbles of King Street and the orderly calm of Old Palace Yard.

But there was more than a greed for profit rattling the newcomers. Every hostelry clanged with knights and men-at-arms ready to clap their hands to their sword handles. From their surcotes and badges I knew some to be Hastings’ retainers from the Midlands; others were the Queen’s men from Northamptonshire and the southern shires. I felt truly sorry for Ned’s son.

I had my own little struggles. The creditors found me again, one fellow claiming that King Edward had never paid him for my emerald clasp. Knowing Ned, that might be true, but the gem was among the stolen jewels.

‘Go to the Exchequer then for payment, sirrah,’ I told him, but he made a great to-do, yelling abuse at me until Young heard the furore and sent him on his way.

None of the petitioners I had helped came near me. People have convenient memories.

The Sunday after I had moved back, I encountered the Paddes-leys on their way from Mass and they both looked pointedly the other way, noses uptilted, as though they had found something of uncommon interest alighting on the chimneypots.

The court returned the day after St George’s Day and I dreaded a rapping on the door from Dorset’s scoundrels, but mercifully the marquis was preoccupied with survival. However, a terse letter arrived from Hastings asking me why I had quit King Street without his leave?

When a man is put out, believe me, there are no grades of offence. Did I not realise it was inconvenient (to him, of course)? I replied
that I should be pleased to call at Beaumont’s Inn when he was less occupied and so forth. The ‘so forth’ part was phrased gracefully so as not to give offence. You cannot tell a lord that he needs to think with his brains not his lower organ. Dorset, I understood from Sir Edward Brampton, had finally discovered the difference.

It was Geoffrey Sasiola who kept me informed. He spent his time about the palace like a beekeeper waiting for the hive to swarm. From him, I learned that Hastings had stout allies on the royal council – Ned’s former steward, Lord Stanley, and the Bishop of Ely. But the Queen had plenty of dogs to bark for her and Dorset was showing a lot of verbal muscle, especially as to whether the coronation should go ahead if Gloucester failed to arrive in time.

Sir Edward Brampton admitted to me he was impressed by Dorset’s politicking.

‘Bastardo! You know what ‘e said to Lord ‘astings theez morning, Elizabetta?’ Brampton mimicked the marquis, one hand on his thighbone. ‘“By Heaven, are we royal councillors or mere ciphers for my lord of Gloucester? Well, I tell you this, my lords, we are important enough to make and enforce decisions without the king’s uncle.”’

Without Gloucester? It did not bode well.

Two days after the Feast of St Mark, I wakened to the sound of marching feet and watched from my window as the long caterpillar of the Queen’s retainers passed, heading for the northern gate, proudly carrying Ned’s pennons to his son. I hoped it was Dorset going forth, but it was his younger brother, Sir Richard Grey, who rode beneath the St George’s cross. Later that morning, the criers were ringing their bells; the coronation day had been proclaimed. A week hence.

So soon? I just prayed that Hastings could keep his balance and protect me from Dorset’s lascivious fingers. High time I called at Beaumont’s Inn, and, by Jesu, I almost ran there! For just as I had been taking down my cloak from the peg, a letter arrived from Dorset summoning me to his presence that night. Oh, I would have scratched my face raw rather than play the naked games that he enjoyed.

What is wrong with the world that a woman cannot keep her independence but must be badgered? In such a mind I hastened off to Thames Street.

I had not bargained to find Beaumont’s Inn a garrison. Men-at-arms were practising single combat in the courtyard and an assemblage of knights, esquires and dogs – most of Ned’s former household – were noisily encouraging them.

‘By Heaven, sirrah, this looks more like Westminster Palace,’ I muttered to the porter, wondering if I could slink into the house unnoticed. Fine chance! I had a whole pack of gentlemen whooping after me into the hall.

‘Come to buckle on a brigandine, Mistress Shore?’ exclaimed one wit.

‘Yes, sirrah, if you have any that will fit,’ I replied.

‘I’d say we all have something that’ll fit you, sweeting,’ chortled someone.

I put on my sternest stance. ‘I came to hear about the internment of our late sovereign lord, whom God keep in his mercy,’ I exclaimed, crossing myself. Instantly, every man’s eyes snapped down in prayer. ‘Now, gentlemen,’ I said, after the moment of silent reverence. ‘Am I to understand Lord Hastings is expected presently?’

‘The old man’s at the Star Chamber,’ Ned’s youngest esquire blurted loudly.

‘No, he’s not!’

The company fell into a shamed silence as their master tersely ripped off his riding cloak and flung it into the arms of his body-servant. My informant’s skin turned the colour of dried blood. ‘My lord, I did not mean—’

Hastings strode forward with a jingle of spurs, and the throng respectfully made way. Ned’s death had hardened him. The benign lines, which had given his face nobility, had transubstantiated into an iron determination that I had never glimpsed before. His silver hair was slashed short and there was a wary narrowing about his eyes as though he expected trouble. I read a military captain’s manner in the way he halted by the loose-tongued esquire.

‘You spoke truth, lad. I am old by your standards but still a man.
Mistress Shore
?’ He held out his wrist for me to go with him. It was blatant. With his pride at stake, I could scarcely refuse, and the hall was too hushed for my peace of mind as he led me past the high table. I hoped we might linger before the hearth and make some show of normal discourse, but Hyrst was bowing us into the withdrawing chamber.

I was not pleased. This behaviour would give instant vent to scandal so I pointedly kept my cloak on and did not sit down. Hastings saw nothing untoward in that since the fire had not long been lit. He was more intent on scolding me, and as soon as the door was closed, he confronted me like an angry lover.

‘What has been going on with you? You don’t tell me you are leaving King Street. You don’t bother to visit here and explain.’

I did not like being out of favour with him. I owed him my good fortune, and if I lost his friendship, I would be facing the pointed end of Woodville malice on my own. But was he planning to flee to Calais if matters got too hot? Where would that leave me?

‘My lord, I stayed away because I don’t want to be accused of bed-hopping like a wanton flea, and I have a regard to your reputation as well as mine.’

‘But
today
you are come.’ He flung one glove down on the chair and drew off the other. ‘It wouldn’t be because Dorset has scared you?’

Blood drawn. Hastings’ informants had been efficient.

‘Yes,’ I admitted, cradling my shoulders. ‘He’s being a vindictive whoreson. He wants me “naked and begging” but I assume you know that, too, my lord.’

‘What man wouldn’t?’ he muttered with feeling, ignoring the jab at his omniscience. His blue eyes were no longer icy, but I stayed where I was making no move to kindle his impious thoughts, if such they were. He was watching my face as he flicked open the loops of his doublet, one by one. I looked away. The chamber was silent save for the hiss of sap from the fire. Then one of the logs tumbled from the irons. Its misdemeanour broke the impasse. He took up the tongs and crouched to set the log back among its burning brethren.

I let out my breath. This was a delicate game to play. I was so fond of him but the heat of carnality, the infatuation that had drawn me to Gerrard’s Hall was long past. Explaining there were reasons of state that must limit our intimacy could take some skill.

He rearranged the wood above the kindling, playing with the fire. I cannot guess what was going through his thoughts. Maybe he, too, was reconsidering.

Hastings could survive the challenges that lay ahead. Age had not rusted him. I was relieved to observe the flexibility of his back as he crouched there, the precision and determination in the union of hand and eye. I defied Fortune to name me a more powerful ally, but she could be a bitch. After all, Ned had been struck down against the odds. Yes, England needed Hastings. I needed Hastings.

‘Did … Did all go well in Windsor?’ I asked him huskily, and I walked over to stand an arm’s grasp away.

He nodded grimly, staring into the struggling flame as though he was seeing again the ropes hauled out, Ned’s sword upon the coffin below, awaiting darkness. I imagined his pain at hearing the snap of the heralds’ staves, knowing his fingers, too, must break his wand of office.

‘Nothing was finished, of course. Nothing to mark his grave.’ He gave a deep sigh and I did not know if it was the inevitability of death or bitterness against the maliciousness of life that moved him. ‘I’ll have to speak with our new king about the monument and get the workmen moving.’ He grimaced. ‘Persuading anyone to do anything is a cursed battle at the moment.’