Royal Mistress (3 page)

Jane raised her voice and pulled her hand away. “A short mantle for the summer, you say, sir? Let me show you the lightest of wools we have.”

“Good day to you, sir.” John Lambert’s voice behind him made Tom swing round to face the unsuspecting father of the alluring target of his visit. “Is my daughter serving your needs? She knows as much about our wares as any of my apprentices—if not me.”

Tom saw John appraise his customer’s apparel and knew by the genuine smile that the mercer had discerned from the fashionable gown that Tom was a man of means. Mercer Lambert was deferent with members of the gentry, Tom was relieved to note; the man had not guessed the real purpose of his visit.

“You are kind, Master Lambert—if I have the pleasure of speaking to the owner of all this,” he gushed, and he airily waved his hand to encompass the shop, “but I had only just stated my business. I did not know this young lady was your daughter. Mistress Lambert, your servant,” he said, nodding to her. “I would be happy to see the worsted you recommend.”

“Then I shall leave you to Jane,” John said, bowing and rubbing his hands, which always made Jane cringe. When her father anticipated a worthwhile sale, the gesture never failed to annoy her. She hurried past Tom toward the shelf of wools. “And thank you for choosing my humble shop, Master . . .” John raised a questioning eyebrow, expecting the man to give him a name, but Tom merely nodded in acknowledgment and quickly followed Jane.

“Thank you for not saying your name, Master Grey,” she said as they fingered three different bolts of blue cloth. “I was seen in
your company the other day, and ’twas reported to my father, you see. He was not kind.” And she lowered her eyes to the cloth, her hand going protectively to her ill-used cheek. “What do you want of me, sir?”

“I know not why, Jane, but I cannot get you out of my head. If you tell me where you live, I can send a message there to arrange another meeting.”

“In truth it cannot be here or Father will suspect,” Jane replied, titillated by the notion of a secret tryst. “Our house is the largest on the east side of Hosier Lane before Watling Street, anyone can tell you which. Mayhap somewhere quiet, like”—she thought quickly back to other times when she had allowed an ardent young man to kiss her and rumple her bodice, and made up her mind—“like the churchyard behind St. Paul’s.” It was quiet, and the buttresses created shadowy shelters for young lovers. “Send me a message with but the day and time and I shall be there.”

She took a deep breath to calm herself; she could not believe she was arranging a rendezvous with this stranger and under her father’s rather long nose. But it seemed that God had answered her nightly prayer for the love of a handsome young man and had sent Tom to her. Perhaps now she might know the delights of the romantic love depicted in the old poems. Secrecy was of the essence, she knew; she would worry about the more mundane aspects of courtship, like obtaining her father’s permission, once she and Tom had expressed their love for each other.

She felt more alive than she had in several months, and as she counted out three ells of the midnight blue wool for him upon a tacit agreement that he must buy something, her palms were sweating and her mouth felt dry.

Tom grinned, delighted he had secured an assignation so easily. He took the measured cloth and walked boldly up to John, who was now seated on a high stool, working on his accounts. “How much do I owe you for three ells of this worsted, Master Lambert?”
he asked pleasantly, undoing the pouch at his belt and jingling the coins. “And how much for your daughter?” was on the tip of his tongue to add, but he buried the mischievous urge.

N
ot a week later, the cloak on his spare six-foot frame running with rain, William Shore, a mercer from Coleman Street, stood on the same spot as Tom Grey had and heard the creaking of the wooden sign above him in the gale. He noted the fine carving on the door to Mercer Lambert’s shop before pushing it open and stepping into a far more lavish establishment than his own. Hanging his dripping cloak on a peg near the door, he smirked as he estimated the wealth of his fellow mercer spread before him in the colors of an exotic eastern bazaar he had heard about on his travels to Burgundy. If Lambert’s daughter might inherit even a fourth of this, he thought, she would be worth taking under my roof. Then the familiar knot in his belly interfered with his mercenary thoughts; he had carefully avoided the unpleasant duty of husband for all of his eight and thirty years. However, when John had approached him about the possibility of marriage with his eldest daughter—together with a handsome dowry and the promise of inheritance—the temptation to add to his already burgeoning business was too great, and so he ignored his gut. As well, John Lambert had impressive credentials: he had once been elected as a city alderman, been appointed sheriff, and had once served as master of the mercers’ guild.

And so, here William was to inspect the goods—all of them—and make a decision. He saw John examining a bill of lading and walked over to him.

Jane had been helping an elderly matron and her reticent son choose a damask for the son’s presentation at court when she heard the door open and saw the middle-aged, lanky man enter the shop. His face would not set any maid’s heart aflutter, Jane thought, although he was pleasant-enough looking. She watched
as he went to speak to her father, his long hair limping damply to his shoulders from under his close-fitting cap, and she recognized the same mercer’s murrey livery that her father wore. She only half listened to her customer’s efforts to decide which patterned satin to choose and instead eyed the two men, who kept looking her way while in earnest conversation.

“I think the brown, do you not, Mistress Lambert?” the woman asked, and Jane quickly refocused her attention on the sale. The son was gazing at Jane with admiration, and she gave him a quick smile. It never hurts a sale to flirt a little, she told herself, enjoying the male attention as she always did.

“Aye, my lady, I believe the blue would inadvisedly draw all eyes to your son, and I hear the king does not like competition,” Jane said. As his mother turned to hold the fabric up to the light, Jane added with a wink, “Your good looks should garner you enough favor with the ladies, in truth.” The young man beamed at the compliment. “Now I shall have Matthew measure you, sir, and I thank you for your patronage.” She waved at the apprentice, watching at a discreet distance, who hurried to take charge.

“Come here, daughter,” John Lambert called to her when he saw Jane was free. “I wish to present you to a fellow guild member, Master William Shore.”

Jane had to look up a long way to her father’s friend. At a little under five feet, she was used to craning her neck to talk to men, but it seemed to Jane that Master Shore was uncommonly tall. He stared down at the comely young woman and was disconcerted by her unabashedly curious gaze. Had William been at all interested in women, he might have noticed the almond shape of those green-gray eyes, or the way her generous mouth appeared ready to laugh and how her nose came to an upswept end, making her look younger than her twenty-two years. Instead he cringed at her forthrightness as immodest and regarded her beauty as Satan’s bait. But as a businessman in search of an advantageous marital
match, he inclined his head graciously and gave a suitably agreeable response.

Jane, unaware of the man’s disapproval—or indeed intent—began cheerfully enough: “Master Shore, I give you God’s greeting. Is your business with me or with my father?” Noting the man’s unusual disinterest in her looks, she became more businesslike. “I doubt not that I can help you find something, if that is what you have in mind, but you may have to wait if my present customer has a question of me.”

“Certes, Master Shore’s business is with
me,
Jane,” John snapped. “Do not be impertinent.”

“But, Father . . .” Jane said, indignant; after all, he had summoned her. But seeing both men’s disapproval clearly written on their faces, she held her tongue. God’s truth, now what had she said to anger her father?

“I wanted Master Shore to know you better, ’tis all,” John Lambert answered, not troubling to give her an explanation. He peered up at William, hoping Jane had not already disheartened the sober suitor.

Had she known William before? she wondered. But as she was certain she had not, she was puzzled. Gripping her hands together, she inclined her head in William’s direction. “Forgive me, sir, if my forwardness offended,” she apologized, giving him a reluctant curtsey, “ ’twas not my intent.”

“You may leave us and attend to Lady Margaret,” John said, pleased with his daughter’s deference. “Come, Shore, we can talk privately in my office.”

Jane had noted her father seemed a little more unctuous with the guest mercer than he was wont to be with those he considered inferior, arousing her natural inquisitiveness. Did her father owe the man money? She could not think so, for hadn’t John lent the king a large sum recently for Edward’s great venture to fight the French? Was William perhaps part of a council that was able to
reinstate her father as alderman? But nay, that unpleasant incident had been more than ten years ago, and John’s legendary temper would not be put to the test again by the city fathers. So, who was this man to her father? She did not have time to contemplate further as at that moment the candle boy slipped a note into her hand and then sidled back to his perch. Jane looked at the small wad of wet paper and then at the boy and raised an eyebrow, but the boy turned up his hands and said, “A man give it to me when I went to take a piss outside.” He chose not to show the shiny farthing the man had given him in exchange for being a messenger, but he could feel it tucked into his grubby, damp shirt.

Friday at nones
was all that was written in the bold hand, but Jane felt her stomach turn over and gooseflesh prickle her arms. She gave the boy a quick smile, stuffed the note down her bodice, and went back to see how her customers were doing with Matthew.

When William Shore left the shop half an hour later, he was surprised—and gratified—to receive a nod and a smile from the young woman who might one day be his wife.

“Y
ou will obey me in this, Jane,” her father said at supper that night and was relieved that Jane appeared acquiescent for once. “Master Shore has excellent prospects, and you will treat him with respect when he calls courting. You will not toss this one aside, do you hear?” Jane toyed with her fingers in her lap as she remembered how she had managed to rid herself of two other unappealing suitors, once by feigning madness, she recalled, suppressing a smile. “Your mother and I believe it is the only chance you will have to wed, and we need to be thinking about Isabel.” He gave his younger daughter a kindly smile.

But Jane’s silence caused Amy to reach over and shake her daughter’s arm. The half-eaten serving of fish pie lay on Jane’s trencher, and she appeared intent on shredding a hunk of bread crumb by crumb.

“You must thank your father, Jane,” Amy said, not unkindly. “What? Would you rather remain here as a spinster for the rest of your life?” Jane did look up then, and her mother was horrified to see two large tears spill down her cheeks and onto her spotless linen napkin. “Tears!” Amy exclaimed in surprise as John downed his wine, angrily pushed his chair back from the table, and strode from the room. “I thought you would be pleased. I know how long you have wanted to escape from here,” Amy confided.

Jane stared in awe at her mother and wiped her tears. “You do?” she said. “But, Mother, am I not to have any say-so in this decision?” She blew her nose and asked Bella to leave, which the girl did with sulky reluctance. Then Amy pulled her stool around to Jane’s and poured them both another cup of wine.

“Your father is not an ogre, Jane, although I know you imagine him one. He does care about you, although ’tis true he favors Bella. I have tried to compensate, but you do not make it easy. My dear, you remind me very much of myself when I was young. Aye”—she nodded when Jane’s eyes questioned—“I was as rebellious as you, but I settled into marriage because it was expected and because I wanted my own household and children. We have been blessed with six . . . seven if you count poor little Meg, may she rest in peace . . . and I am proud of you all. Your father wants you settled, and I want you happy. Perhaps William Shore can provide both. Now promise me you will give the man a fair chance.”