Royal Mistress (51 page)

“What ho!” Thomas cried, stepping perilously into the horse’s path.

The man skillfully reined in his mount, recognizing the Howard livery on Jane’s escorts.

“Have a care, man! There are women and children about. What is your haste, sirrah?” Thomas shouted, sternly.

“Have you not heard, my lord?” the messenger said breathlessly, doffing his cap, his white boar badge now plain to see upon his sleeve. “The king’s lord chamberlain, William Hastings, was executed for treason not fifteen minutes ago on the lord protector’s orders. I am to take the news to Westminster.” A gasp went up from the crowd, and then rumblings of discontent. What had the popular councilor done wrong, they asked one another, anger swelling among the citizens at the suddenness of the execution and the absence of law.

Her face white with fear, Jane whirled to face Thomas. “Sir Thomas, can this be true? Will is dead, and without a trial?” Dear God, she thought, fighting desperately to control her trembling. Please God, let the man be a braggart and a liar. How can Will be dead? It must be someone else: the king’s steward perhaps, that
mealymouthed Stanley married to that bony Beaufort woman. “You knew! You came to my house and you knew!” she accused Thomas, crumpling to the ground.

Thomas leaped forward and caught her to him. “How could I tell you, Jane? It was bad enough having to arrest you. I could not find the words to tell you,” he cried. “Aye, I was aware Will would be accused, but I swear I did not know he would be . . . killed. Not today, and”—he held Jane’s reproachful gaze—“not without trial. Please believe me.” Thomas had taken his father’s word that Richard of Gloucester was an honorable man. In truth, the messenger’s news had shocked him, too. He wondered now what his father thought of this hasty execution; Thomas understood why Richard may have felt betrayed, but to execute a patriot of Hastings’s stature without trial was ignominy.

He steadied Jane’s shaking body and helped her to the entrance of the gaol, its rusted iron bars guarding the friendless gray stone edifice, green slime slipping from its crevices.

“Open in the name of his grace the duke of Gloucester, the lord protector,” Thomas called to the sentry. “I am here to deliver a prisoner, Mistress Jane Shore, freewoman of this city.”

Jane allowed herself to be helped up the steps and into the warden’s cheerless office, where the occupant listened as Thomas described her crime.

“Why, Mistress Shore,” the toothless, bald warden sneered, leering at Jane. “Never thought to see you here as an inmate. Witchery, eh? I pray you will not indulge your evil skills while you are my guest.”

Jane’s denial of Will’s death was shielding her from grief for the moment, allowing her to state her name and address and listen humbly as Thomas negotiated with the man for a bed of straw and food for the next two days. Some money changed hands, and Jane tried to protest.

“ ’Tis the least I can do for you,” Thomas told her as she promised
to pay him back. “My stepmother has a fondness for you, and she would expect me to be kind. You know Lady Margaret.”

The gaoler picked up a heavy bunch of keys, jerked his head in the direction of a door in the back of the room, and barked at Jane, “Come with me.”

Jane turned her sad, sea-green eyes to her escort and thanked him for his courtesy. “If you would speak up for me, Sir Thomas, I would be forever in your debt. You must know I am innocent.” Sweet Jesu, how fleeting are life and happiness, she said to herself. In truth, she felt she had only herself to blame, for she had chosen her path many years ago and had few regrets. Will’s cruel death must surely have been the greatest.

She was shaking as Thomas bowed over her hand, stifling a strong urge to protect this fragile creature. He could not imagine Mistress Shore surviving in the cold, dank prison after so many years of luxury. “I am heartily sorry for you, mistress, and I shall keep you in my prayers,” he murmured. “Will Hastings was a good man. Nay, he was the best of men, and my family shall grieve for him, too.”

Jane nodded her thanks, and seeing the warden’s back turned as he unlocked another door, she fumbled with the pouch at her belt, freed it, and pressed it into Thomas’s hand. “If you loved Lord Hastings, I pray you keep this safe for me. ’Tis all I have left of him.”

Thomas tucked the bag inside his tunic as the warden returned and grabbed Jane’s arm. “God bless you, Jane.” Thomas’s words were sincere. “If it helps at all, I do believe in your innocence.”

He watched her be led from the room, clutching her folded mantle to her chest, and he wondered at her courage.

I
. actual text

A
ll of London was abuzz over the shocking news of Hastings’s death and that Edward’s loyal councilors, Rotherham, Morton, and Stanley, were imprisoned in the Tower. It was then that rumors began to spread that Richard of Gloucester might have designs upon the throne. No one had seen the little king outside the Tower walls for nigh on a month, the queen was still afraid to leave sanctuary or relinquish her younger son, and it was rumored in the lanes and alleys of the city that Gloucester was removing those loyal to the old king to make way for his own circle of advisors. People did not care for change, especially after twelve peaceful years under Edward’s prosperous rule, and they grumbled.

Jane spent a sleepless night in the foul-smelling gaol, the stench from two dozen dirty inmates, soiled straw, and the jakes overpowering, in fear one of her fellow inmates would try to molest her, steal her cloak or the shoes from her feet. She was horrified when she felt a rat tug at her sleeve. She dozed off a few times and dreamed first of Tom, and then the nightmare of the boy kicking Will’s bloody head about in the street returned. She awoke weeping.

In the light of day, she looked about her and thought her fellow inmates did not seem as threatening. She rose stiffly from her straw pallet to use the jakes, turning her back on the others in embarrassment. The blaring of a trumpet diverted the prisoners’ attention, and they crowded around the window to see who was arriving at St. Paul’s. A few moments later, Jane joined them just in time to hear her own name upon the lips of the herald.

“Good citizens of London, draw near and hear this, that yesterday William, Lord Hastings was executed for treason after it was discovered he was conspiring with others, including the queen, to overthrow and kill his grace the duke of Gloucester, the lord protector, and his kinsman, Henry Stafford, duke of Buckingham, and seize his grace the king. Furthermore, ’tis well known that this same Lord Hastings led our late, lamented King Edward into debauchery and certain death, and had taken to bed the harlot Jane Shore, with whom he had lain nightly even unto the day of his death.” Jane gasped and fell back, confirming her identity to the curious inmates. “This Mistress Shore was also in secret counsel with the queen,” the herald went on, “and thus, for the comfort of their graces of Gloucester and Buckingham, and for the surety of our gracious king, she is now languishing in the Ludgate goal at the protector’s pleasure.”

Jane shrank back from her fellows, feeling dozens of pairs of eyes on her, and her shame showed rosy-red on her neck and cheeks. “ ’Tis a lie,” she averred. “I have never had counsel with the queen. Sweet Jesu, she hates me! And I swear I never did anyone harm.”

Many of the prisoners were, like Jane, of the merchant class and thus freemen of the city. Unlike the Fleet and the Clink, where the more dangerous criminals were held, their crimes were minor, and they were either awaiting a hearing or for a relative to pay their fines for debts unpaid or customers cheated. Two or more of the women were whores, and Jane hoped they would feel a kinship and stand with her. But they eyed her fine gown and mantle, creamy, pampered skin, and soft hands, all of which marked her as wealthy, and said nothing. Finally a man Jane recognized as a customer of her father’s stepped forward. “Good day, Jane,” he said not unkindly as he herded the others back.

“I know this woman, and apart from shaming her father all these years, she was never one to tell a lie. Let us not forget how she used her favors with the king to help some of us. You have all heard of the kindness of Jane Shore, have you not?”

Jane watched as one by one the men and women nodded and drifted back to conversations on their pallets or stools that relatives had brought in to them. She was now clearly the focus of their gossip, but there was nothing she could do about it. She approached her champion and after thanking him for defending her, she asked, “Master Davies, I trust your wife is better? I heard she was suffering from a palsy. I am heartily sorry for it. I remember her well as a cheerful, merry soul.”

And with her gentle concern, she won the respect of another man. Master Davies kept her company during the interminable daylight hours in the stuffy, ill-lit cell, which allowed a grateful Jane a less fitful second night.

T
hen on that balmy Sunday in June, when the city was still in turmoil and many were gathered on street corners or crowded into taverns to discuss the sudden turn of events, a carter with his load passed under the Ludgate in full view of the prison window and began to shout his news to all who would listen.

“There are soldiers and dogs scouring the marshes,” he cried, jerking his thumb back in the direction of Westminster. Expectant, people moved toward him and the man played to his audience. “The queen’s son has escaped from the abbey. Leading ’em a merry dance, he be.”

“The little boy?” a woman shouted back. “You mean the little duke? God save ’im!”

“Nay, you foolish woman!” the carter scoffed. “Not ’im! The queen’s oldest. Thomas of Dorset, ’e be!”

Jane and her fellow prisoners crowded round the window, exclaiming at the carter’s news, but her lack of inches meant she was easily pushed aside. She fell back and went to sit on her bed of straw. She put her hand to her cheek, hot to the touch now, as she thought of Tom hiding among rushes or at the bottom of a cart carrying him into the city. He must have chosen today because
the streets were full of townspeople eager to hear more news of the lord chamberlain’s death. Aye, the wharves might be deserted as all would wend their way to Paul’s Cross for any announcements. ’Twas a perfect time for Tom to sneak to the Pope’s Head and take up his lodging, she thought with relief.

Then she shook her head, trying to comprehend what had happened to her in the past forty-eight hours: she had bidden farewell to her dearest friend and lord unsuspecting it was an adieu; Will had then been put to death; she had been accused of witchcraft, arrested, and incarcerated; her belongings had been confiscated, she had learned from Ankarette on her visit the previous day; and she was once again alone. And just when her life might have been salvaged by Dorset’s escape, she was a prisoner in this hellish prison fighting off lice, bedbugs, rats, and a lecher. She realized Tom could not help her; he was a fugitive and must lie low. A feeling of utter hopelessness now washed over her.

She lay down on her stomach, hid her head in her arms, and cried. Even through all the years, first with her father and then with her husband, William, Jane had never really despaired—until now.