Royal Mistress (17 page)

She groaned. What was she to do? She longed to leave dreary, impotent William and discover what it was like to be cherished and desired. She looked down at the necklace and lightly rubbed the lustrous surface of the pearl with her fingertip. She did not dare put it on lest its temptation decide for her. But the thought shamed her; it was shameful to be bought thus, and how dare the king think she could be!

She held the necklace against her throat and imagined facing Edward, alone somewhere in the labyrinth of the king’s apartments,
his enormous figure making her feel like a small child. Would wearing the necklace signify her consent, or would it merely signify flattery and gratitude for such a gift? If she wore it and then refused him, would she have to return it? Would he snatch it from her throat? She held the jewel to her skin, the cold gold causing her to gasp. She imagined his fingers caressing her neck, and she grew afraid of her own thoughts.

“Mistress, you are needed downstairs.” Her servant’s voice broke her reverie, and she hurriedly hid the necklace.

“Thank you, Ankarette. You may enter and ready me for the shop,” she called, going to the large wardrobe and selecting a simple but elegant sage green gown. She was grateful for the interruption, she had to admit, and hoped the morning routine would divert her mind.

B
ut later at the shop, where she would preside whenever William was out and now found herself reorganizing a shelf full of delicate gauzes, she was unable to occupy her mind with anything but the king’s summons.

Was she so certain the king expected her to come to him on the morrow? And if he did, would the encounter be a one-time event? What if she refused? Could she send the necklace back with a polite note? What happened when one said no to a king? Could that be construed as treason? She had no idea, but she shivered, imagining how she and William might be punished. Dear God, she panicked as a bolt of silk slipped from her grasp, could he throw her in prison? Surely not, she told herself, picking up the blue cloth and examining it for dust, but she sensed that refusing the king was a good deal more serious than refusing Will Hastings.

Will’s kindly face came to mind, his hand lifted in salute as it was on that day in Greenwich Park. He, too, had desired her, she knew, and she had deftly discouraged him. There had been no recriminations, and she had not heard from him anew. True, he was
in Calais, but had he been intent upon catching his sea nymph, as he had called her, surely he would have written or tried again. She pondered the contrast between these two powerful men, both attempting to reel her in like some elusive grayling: Hastings’s bait had been a subtle and respectful invitation to her and her husband to ride into the country with him; the king’s was a costly bauble and a cryptic note delivered to her in secret. Despite his reputation with ladies, to Jane there was something in Will Hastings’s aspect that was trustworthy. And his unswerving loyalty to Edward was renowned throughout the realm.

It occurred to Jane that had the lord chamberlain been in London, she might have consulted him. He would have advised her, she knew it in her heart, and the idea of sharing an intimacy with Hastings intrigued her: she had never befriended a man before. For good St. Cuthbert’s sake, she reprimanded herself, why was she thinking about Hastings? Holy Mother of God, but her mind was running like a brook in springtime, her silent babbling never-ending.

“Good day to you, Mistress Shore.” The man’s voice so close by made Jane jump. “I beg your pardon, mistress, I did not mean to alarm you. Your journeyman told me where to find you.”

In the gloom at the back of the shop, she made out the White Boar badge on his tunic and knew him for Richard of Gloucester’s man. “Sir? How can I help you?”

“My lord duke asked me to give this to Master Shore or to you,” he said without expression, bowing slightly and holding out a letter. “He said you might be expecting it.”

Jane thanked him, unsure if she should give him a groat for his pains but decided against it. The man had a haughty air and might be offended. It appeared he did not expect a response to the letter as he turned on his heel and exited into Coleman Street. She smiled. It seemed Richard of Gloucester liked to surround himself with men as solemn as himself.

Master Shore, we greet you well. As I promised when last we met, I would like to purchase three ells of the gold-and-green damask in question and whatever trim Mistress Shore deems appropriate for my consort, her grace the duchess, who has a delicate complexion and brown eyes. I pray you, forward the invoice along with the cloth to my town house, Crosby Place in Bishopsgate, and my treasurer will see you are properly recompensed.

R. Gloucester

The order distracted her from her dilemma, and she whiled away another hour holding up lace, fur, and embroidery trims against the satin cloth before making the perfect choice.

B
ack in her chamber, she paced about the room. By all that is holy, she was not thinking clearly today. She knew after all the to-ing and fro-ing she had done earlier that her decision could only be made by stripping her soul bare. She must burrow down to the most important question and answer it, if she were to sleep soundly that night. Ah, but did she dare voice that question?

Jane took a deep breath and forced herself to probe the secret part of her heart, that part where morals and conscience dwelled and where she feared to linger. Was she indeed an immoral woman . . . a trollop? There, she had said it. In truth, it was not easy to define what she thought she was, and she balked at thinking herself wanton. And yet . . .

“Admit it, Jane,” she said aloud. “You desire to know love with a man yet fear being dubbed a common wagtail.” Aye, that was the nub of it. “ ’Tis the devil’s work. He is tempting me, I am certain of it,” she said, and she crossed herself. She wondered what her family might say. She smiled to herself as she imagined Bella’s shocked face. Or, might she be envious?

Jane was indeed facing a moral test, with or without God’s
probable ire. However, at that moment, she would not worry about her soul, for she was certain merely wanting to bed a man other than her husband was a grave sin, and she was guilty of that every time she imagined herself in Tom Grey’s arms.

However, she reasoned, did she not love Tom with all her heart? Surely that made her desire for him better than mere lust. Besides, at the time she would have offered herself to Tom she had been free. If the king wanted her, and she said yes, it would be adultery for both of them. She slapped the post on her tester bed, sending a shower of dust from the canopy above onto the coverlet. Was she willing to sin with Tom but not with the king? Sweet Mary, Mother of God, these were heady thoughts for the young woman, who had never before been permitted to make such a life-altering decision in her twenty-three years.

And then she came to a dazzling solution thanks to a sliver of London gossip she had remembered. If she disappointed the king, he would surely reject her. He could not punish her for being inexperienced, for not knowing how to please, could he? But, and so it was said, when the king was bored with a mistress, did he not pass her on to Will Hastings or, more importantly, to his stepson, Tom Grey? She hugged herself. Aye, she would agree to give herself to Edward on the morrow, but she would lie there like a dead fish, and he would be frustrated, impatient, and throw her aside as usual. “And, as Lord Hastings is in Calais,” she crowed to the woven woman holding a rose in the tapestry opposite the bed, “the marquess of Dorset, my Tom, will be the lucky man.”

Much cheered by her plan, she called out to Ankarette to ready her for bed, and slipping the necklace under her pillow, she began to pull off her stockings and roll them into a ball.

It had taken her the best part of twelve hours of her allotted twenty-four to decide what to do. She had another twelve ahead of her to while away in worrying.

I
t peeved Jane that Edward had been so sure of himself that he had sent a litter with one of his squires of the body at the appointed hour. But as it was raining—again—she was glad not to have to ruin the hem of her carefully chosen gown in the soggy debris that littered Coleman Street that morning. Damn, she thought, she had meant to send for the gong farmer to clear out the latrine. The rats had sorted through much of the kitchen leavings in the alley, and she saw one scuttle away as she bade farewell to the apprentice Wat, giving him charge of the shop in her absence.

“I shall not be long,” she told him as he stood forlornly watching her in the doorway.

“What shall I tell Master Shore when he returns?” He was half in love with his master’s wife, and so Jane took advantage of his weakness to embroil the poor man in a ruse.

“That I was called to my father’s house. No need to tell him about the litter and the escort, in truth.” Seeing his confusion, she took pity on him and pressed his hand. “Besides, he will not be back until after I return, so do your work and stop worrying.”

“As you say, mistress,” he assented, looking in wonder at her hand on his. Then he turned and disappeared through the kitchen to the shop. Relieved, Jane was about to shut the sturdy oak door, when she heard Sophie’s voice calling from across the street.

“God’s teeth!” Jane swore under her breath, wishing to avoid her friend at this moment. John Norrys, one of Edward’s squires and her escort, was becoming impatient, and Jane decided to shut the front door and stand in the rain to shorten the conversation with Sophie.

“Jane,
lieveling,
” Sophie greeted her, worry creasing her wet forehead as she eyed with suspicion the vehicle and its badgeless yet imperious escort. “Vhere do you go today? Are you not to manage the shop in Villiam’s absence?”

Jane could not meet her friend’s honest eyes. “ ’Tis my father’s
business I am on, Sophie,” she lied, hating herself. “Forgive me, but I cannot stay.”

She moved toward the litter, but Sophie put out her hand to stay her and inadvertently moved Jane’s heavy cloak to one side, revealing a far more elegant gown than would be necessary to visit the Mercery. “You do not tell me the truth,” Sophie lamented. “Is it Master Grey?” she asked in a hoarse whisper. “Ah, Jane, I beg of you, do not go.”

“Nay, certes it is not,” Jane retorted with a falsely high titter. Extending her hand to the escort, she stepped into the litter. “I regret I cannot stay longer, Sophie.”

As the squire mounted his horse, Sophie peered into the opening of the vehicle. “Jane Shore, you vill please tell me vhere you are going.”

Jane took a deep breath and demurred. “You will not approve, dearest Sophie, but I will satisfy your curiosity as long as you do not preach morality to me. I have been summoned by the king.”

Sophie gasped, stepped back, and crossed herself as the litter carriers moved off toward Lothbury Street.
“In Godsnaam,”
she said to herself. “She has gone mad.”

Jane leaned back against the cushions, careful not to shift her weight too abruptly and upset the balance of the unstable vehicle. Sophie’s visit had unsettled Jane. Would her friend believe it was her duty to tell William? She shook off the fear, knowing that Sophie would never betray her, as she would never betray Sophie. Ah, but Sophie would never do anything to warrant betrayal, Jane admitted; she was too good. She put her friend from her thoughts, glad of the litter’s seclusion from prying eyes that might recognize her in the Chepe. Edward must be well practiced in the art of clandestine dealings, she told herself, commending his planning.