Royal Mistress (42 page)

By now Jane was agog to hear more. “Treason, Will? Is not treason only against the Crown?”

“You have the measure of it, well done,” Will agreed. “Richard of Gloucester, assuming he was already protector despite lack of official sanction by the council, acted as though he
represented
the Crown. I am doubtful the council will agree; they think he acted too boldly and certainly prematurely, as they had not yet bestowed the title on him. But in fairness to Richard, he was also dismayed by the army that Rivers had traveled with, and suspecting his own life might have been in danger, he felt justified in arresting Rivers and later Grey, although”—and Will frowned, scratching his head again—“why Richard needed to arrest Sir Thomas Vaughan as well is a mystery. No doubt he had his reasons.”

“The old man who is chamberlain to the Prince of Wales . . . I mean the young king?” Jane asked, shocked.

Will nodded. “Doubtless, he, Grey, and Rivers are now languishing in a cell up north as far from the other members of the Woodville faction as possible. In the end, the protector sent the rest of the army back to their homes, confiscating their arms, and now has the young king safely with him.”

Jane thought of handsome Anthony Woodville, Lord Rivers, shackled and thrown in a cell at a gloomy castle in the desolation she imagined the north to be, and shivered. “Poor Rivers, he must have been surprised,” she remarked. “Is that why the queen sought sanctuary, to avoid a similar arrest? Do they suspect her of treason, too?”

“I doubt Richard would have a case against her, but Elizabeth was taking no chances, especially while she has her youngest son, the heir to the throne, in her charge.”

Jane thought for a second as she pinched a flea off her dog’s fluffy coat and crushed it between her thumb and finger. How ironic that both Edward’s women were, in their own way, forced to seek sanctuary after his death: Elizabeth with God; Jane perhaps with Will.

“Aye, certes, young Dickon of York is the heir now,” she replied. “I keep forgetting.”

“Dorset is with her, the lily-livered weakling. He is past thirty and still hides behind his mother’s skirts. Still, happily, he cannot do much from Westminster Abbey,” Will said, ignorant that Jane was resisting a retort in her favorite’s defense.

“And Gloucester? He is on his way here from Northampton with the king?”

“They arrive tomorrow. I am to meet the cavalcade in Hornsey Meadow and escort the king into the city with Gloucester and Buckingham. London must see that it is Gloucester and not the queen who will govern the young king. ’Twas Edward’s dying wish.”

“Then I should not delay you, my lord,” Jane said, rising. “You must have a deal to do to prepare for the king’s entry.”

Will got to his feet and stayed her with his hand. “Sweetheart, have you thought more on my proposition? I lie awake at night wondering whether we shall ever be together.”

For the first time, Jane saw in his anxious face the youth that might have been Hastings thirty years before, and her heart softened.

“Aye, Will,” she said, shyly putting out her hand and touching his well-lined face. “I shall be honored to be your mistress, if that is what you wish.”

His mouth was upon hers before she could take another breath. His kiss was hard and urgent and so unlike Edward’s seductive probing kisses it almost frightened her. She was afraid he might take her there and then, and she was not ready. With the confidence of one who had loved and been loved by a king, she gently but firmly pushed him away.

“All in good time, my impatient lord,” she teased, trying to gloss over her guilt at her own lack of ardor. “Never let it be said that Jane Shore kept the lord chamberlain from his duty to the king.” She went to hold open the door. “I shall be waiting when you have need of me, but now is not the time.”

She had never seen Will Hastings look sheepish before, and again her heart warmed to him.

He kissed her more gently as he took his leave. She stood watching from the window and smiled as she observed the jauntiness in his stride. She wondered how different life with Will would be. Aye, he was a rich and powerful noble with great influence with the council, but he did not have power enough to say if a man lived or died as Edward had, and she was glad of it.

For the first time since Edward’s death, her spirits rose. Her future, as far as she could see it, was once again secured. She turned back to survey her pleasant sanctuary—hers for the time being—and thanked God for Will Hastings.

T
he royal procession roused Londoners from their gloom, and they were lined from Aldersgate Street outside the city gate all the way to the Bishop of London’s magnificent palace at the northwest corner of St. Paul’s. Those who arrived early had clambered up the steps to the top of the city wall and were hanging precariously over the rampart. No one wanted to miss the sight of the new king arriving in his capital city, for Londoners did not know him yet, the succession having happened much sooner than anyone could have predicted.

As soon as the sun rose on the fourth day of May, Richard of Gloucester swung himself up into his saddle with an ease of one who was rarely off a horse, traveling endlessly as he had from castle to castle, keeping the north safe for his brother. He looked around him as a thin mist rose from Hornsey Meadow and was instantly transported back to a morning twelve years earlier when
he had commanded the vanguard in his first battle at Barnet not ten miles from this spot. He remembered the sour taste of fear in his mouth and the looseness of his bowels as he had led his troops forward up a marshy slope in a dense fog that blotted out all but the man next to him. He had held the line, and eventually his brother Edward had vanquished his one-time mentor, but by then enemy, the earl of Warwick. People then called him Kingmaker, Edward and Richard’s powerful Neville cousin, who perished on that misty day in April. It seemed so long ago now, Richard mused, watching his good-looking young nephew being helped into his saddle by a squire. The Barnet memory of his magnificent brother wielding his triumphant sword, his blood-spattered banner raised in victory, caused Richard’s ever-present grief to mount. By Christ and his saints, how nearly the boy resembled his father—except for his build. Edward had been a strapping youth, taller than all his contemporaries, but Ned was delicate, like his mother. The thought of Elizabeth brought him back to reality, and any sadness vanished.

“Are you ready to greet your subjects, sire?” Richard said, looking at the solemn boy-king. “I have heard all of London has turned out to welcome you. Come, let us not disappoint them.”

Young Ned gave his uncle a courteous nod, but Richard saw suspicion in his face and something like fear, and he looked away. It had not been the most jovial of reunions, he admitted, Ned having hidden behind Richard Grey when Richard and Buckingham had arrived in Stony Stratford. “Where’s my uncle Rivers?” the boy had demanded. “ ’Tis he who is supposed to take me to London, not you.”

Richard had dismounted and immediately knelt before the king, swearing an oath of fealty to him, and only then had Ned left his hiding place and accepted his uncle’s gesture with practiced, graceful thanks. After Richard explained why they would now be traveling together to London without Lord Rivers, the boy seemed to have settled into a resigned acceptance of the new arrangement,
although he had cried when his devoted chamberlain had been arrested and taken away. “Your royal father, my brother, left me as protector, Edward,” Richard had told him kindly. “You would not want to defy his command, would you?” Then he had winked. “I promise I shall not be a wicked uncle,” he said, and Ned had laughed and seemed more at ease with him.

Richard now looked beyond the young king to Cousin Henry of Buckingham, who rode on Ned’s other side. A robust, florid man about the same age as Richard, Harry had given Richard his allegiance without hesitation, and Richard was grateful for Harry’s royal shoulder.

The king in blue velvet and the two royal dukes, appropriately clothed in black, were preceded by trumpeters and heralds, and soon the crowds began to thicken on either side of the Great North Road to London. Behind them, riding in tandem with Richard’s friend Lord Lovell, Will Hastings stared at Richard’s back and wondered how the Lord of the North would handle the government of the realm.

Hastings had always liked Richard of Gloucester, although now he was not sure what the qualities were that he had admired in the young, devoted duke who had remained steadfastly loyal to Edward. Aye, perhaps that was it, Will decided; Richard’s loyalty matched his own. They certainly did not have much in common apart from that, Will mused, although both had misgivings about the Woodville ambitions. Richard had greeted Will warmly the night before, and Will was confident he would retain his influence at the council table under Richard’s protectorate. He wondered if young Ned knew that, had his mother and kin had their way, the boy would have been riding today to his coronation, but the events at Stony Stratford had halted that precipitous ceremony. Surely Elizabeth could have guessed the council would not have sanctioned such a swift coronation. Aye, she was better off in sanctuary, he decided after hearing that the queen was ensconced
at the abbey. He was pleased with his part in helping to thwart Elizabeth’s plans, whatever they had been, and tried to convince himself that all was well.

Atop the swaying horse, Will soon began to daydream about being with Jane. He would have to buy her another house, he concluded, certain Gloucester would evict her from Thames Street.

Soon all private musings dissolved in the cacophony of voices raised in shouts of “God save the king!” “Long live King Edward!” “God bless the duke of Gloucester!” Will and Richard gave themselves up to basking in the Londoners’ rapturous acclaim. The mayor and aldermen, arrayed all in scarlet, were the first to greet the cavalcade and make a formal welcome, followed by five hundred chosen citizens clothed in purple. The young king was bursting with pride, his handsome face pink with excitement. He waved and thanked the dignitaries as they sank to their knees and declared their allegiance.

Standing dozens deep with Ankarette on the steps of St. Paul’s, Jane’s first sight of the procession was of wagons full of arms and harness that Richard had confiscated from Earl Rivers as if to prove to the Londoners that the earl’s motives had been self-serving. As soon as they heard the herald decry this news, the crowd booed their derision of the ousted Rivers but were cheering again soon enough at the arrival of the new king at the palace gate.

Caught up in the excitement, Jane chanted “Long live the king” along with her fellow citizens. The boy looked so much like Edward that she felt her heart miss a beat. She waved at Will, who did not see her tiny figure jammed in the melee, and she stood on tiptoe to watch the horsemen disappear through the gate and into the palace courtyard. It was then she felt someone’s hand take hers and a man lean in too close.

“Do not turn round, Jane. Meet me at dusk where we had our first tryst; I must talk to you.”

Before she could whisper his name, Tom Grey had disappeared.

A
s Jane sought the familiar seat behind the towering cathedral, her cloak wrapped tightly around her, she hoped Tom would not be late; she did not want to risk being out after curfew. All the way from Thames Street she had been at war with herself. He had come for her, she was sure, even leaving sanctuary and risking arrest, and thus her heart rejoiced. Yet he had waited a month without a word, which had hurt her pride. She determined not to be so easily seduced now.

She was rounding the back of the church when a hand reached out and grasped her. She would have screamed if she had not recognized the figure of her dreams. “I did not hope you would really come,” Tom said into her sweet-smelling hair. “Why did we waste nine years, sweetheart?”

Jane felt the blood rise, and every inch of her warmed to his touch, but she was no longer the young Jane Lambert with nothing on her mind but love. She pulled away however reluctantly, saying: “Why did you wait so long, my lord? The king has been dead for a month.”