Royal Mistress (55 page)

“Do not vorry, my friend, you vill come to our house when it is over. It is arranged with Jehan,” Sophie told her, combing through Jane’s waist-long hair. “Ankarette is vaiting for you.”

Jane was cheered by this news: she had not dared to hope that Tom might come for her. She had all but given up on help from him. “And my house on Thames Street? Is it still empty?”

Sophie nodded. “I see guards outside, but no one inside. But is nothing left, Jane. You cannot go back.”

“But I must, Sophie,” Jane insisted. “I have left some valuables hidden there.”

Sophie rolled her eyes. “
God in hemel,
Jane, but you are a trouble. You must vorry about that later. Now,
lieveling,
I go, but I vill be there tomorrow, I promise.”

All night long a light summer drizzle trickled down the city walls and dripped off roofs of the closely built dwellings into the dirt of the lanes and alleys, making even the rats think twice about raiding the rotting piles of refuse.

Jane found herself shivering, although the air was still heavy and humid in the cell. She willed herself to sleep, but none came. She listened to the snoring of her fellows, the drip, drip, drip of a leak into a bowl near her head, and the telltale scrabbling of rats’ claws looking for anything to feed on. Jane pretended she was back in her downy tester bed with fine linen bedsheets caressing her body, the smell of lavender and hyssop assailing her nostrils from deep in her pillow, and she found herself crying. How could she have come to this? she asked herself for the thousandth time since descending into this hell.

She finally fell asleep, but it was not long before the cocks set up their crowing, and a welcome ray of sunlight filtered into the long dark room, wakening her. She thanked God for the fine day, which meant that at least her shift would not cling damply to her body as she walked. Then, upon gloomy reflection, she wondered if the rain might have kept gawkers in their homes. She turned on her side and forced herself to conjure happy thoughts, imagining her reunion with Tom, although she hoped he would not be in the crowd to see her so abased.

Certes, Tom was not free, she told herself; Cicely Bonvile was very much alive and the mother of Tom’s children, and Jane would still be a mistress, still be an adultress, but how could God look unkindly on her after all the years of waiting for true love?

“Up! Up! You lazy sluggards,” one of the guards bawled, running
the keys along the bars on the door, grating on everyone’s ears. “The chaplain will be here soon for matins, and then Jane Shore will do her penance.” He leered at Jane as she held her mantle over her bodice and rose from the straw.

Within an hour, after the paltry breakfast of coarse bread and bad ale had been distributed and the bells of St. Paul’s had rung for matins, a priest arrived and yawned through his perfunctory prayers. It was a pittance he was paid to bring the word of God to these miscreants, and he gabbled the Latin words as fast as he could so he could return to his chapter house and enjoy a full meal.

Jane knew her time had almost come. Her heart began to beat faster, and she noticed her hands were shaking. The warden appeared behind the barred door and beckoned to her. For once he spoke to her in a measured tone and allowed her a few minutes to bid farewell to her fellow inmates.

“You’ll see, dearie,” Betty told her, unaccustomed tears wetting her cheeks, “ ’twill be over sooner than a boy’s prick loses its wad.”

Jane forced a smile. “I shall not forget you, Betty.” Then she turned to Master Davies, who had learned his case would be heard that week. “Nor your kindness, sir. I will pray for your return to your family.”

She was led downstairs to the little room where she was to remove her torn, faded gown and underdress and lastly her shoes. One of the guards was to escort her down to the gate of the gaol where she would be handed over to the sheriff’s men. Her clothes would await her at the cathedral, the warden told her. “God have mercy on you, Jane Shore. You have been an easy prisoner, I confess, and I pray you will mend your ways and never see the inside of this place again.”

“With all my heart I wish it, too, warden.” A twinge of remorse made her turn away, knowing she had every intention of sinning again, but then she found herself trembling as she heard the crowd’s buzz close to the walls of the goal.

“Now give me your mantle, mistress,” he demanded, holding out his hand.

The warden was only the first of hundreds lining the penitential route Jane was to walk who stared with bold admiration at the diminutive, full-breasted woman whose charms were but flimsily covered by her lawn chemise. Jane’s hair flowed in a curtain of wavy gold about her shoulders and down her back as she stepped out of the gaol and onto Bower Row. A candle almost as high as she was thrust in her hands and lit, and then she was nudged into full view of the throng. In front of her walked a priest holding a silver cross and behind her two black-hooded monks intoning prayers as they went. Men-at-arms pushed the noisy crowds back as Jane made her way along the south side of the cathedral, and the sheriff’s men went before the little procession crying out in the name of King Richard for all to come and witness the humiliation of this fallen woman.

“This is the harlot who seduced our good sovereign Edward and lay with his friend, the traitor Hastings, not a week after the king’s death,” the sheriff cried, enjoying himself. “We are commanded by the king to witness Jane Shore’s penance.”

As Jane gazed out over a sea of expectant faces, her belly contracted, and she felt the warm piss of fear run down her legs. Dear God, she could not do this, she told herself; dear St. Elizabeth, she begged her favorite saint, let her be swallowed up by one of the wide cart ruts London was famous for. But the rut she stepped her bare feet into was full of mud and horse dung, and she heard and felt the disgusting squelch as soon as she took another step, sinking up to her ankles. The monks were none too gentle as they helped her out and on her way. The heavy candle had slipped from her hands and the flame was extinguished, but the sheriff had planned for that eventuality and used his tinder box to relight it.

The first stone to cut Jane’s foot lay no more than ten yards from the prison. She winced as it cut into her instep and she cried
out in pain, but the monks pushed her along and she hobbled for a few steps. A few more yards and several bawdy slanders later, a rotten egg landed with a splat on her back, making her stumble again, and she could feel its stinking, sulphuric contents slithering down her body. Her shift was wet now, and she was shamefully aware her breasts and mound must be clearly visible through the filmy fabric.

“Nice tits, Jane!” one man shouted, jiggling his hands under his chest, and his neighbors joined in with ribald laughter.

“Aye, I’ll wager the king enjoyed those rosy apples, and the treasure between your legs,” cried another, and Jane felt the blood rising up her neck and into her cheeks, especially when she saw Thomas Howard with another noble on horseback at the edge of the crowd. He must be Richard’s spy, Jane thought sadly, although the man’s compassion showed plainly on his face. His companion’s ogling, however, did not escape her, and she lowered her eyes.

Seeing Howard, whom the king had newly created earl of Surrey, reminded her of the thirteenth of June, the day he had come to fetch Will for that fateful meeting at the Tower. She suddenly halted as she realized today, too, was the thirteenth, and feeling Will’s presence, she looked up to heaven and sent a silent plea to him for support this day. Had it been but a month since his death? It had felt like three. She jerked when a jab in her back from one of the monks urged her forward, and she painfully set one foot in front of the other again, gathering strength with thoughts of Will, a man she had loved as a friend, but who had had the fortitude to watch her be seduced by Edward yet show her how deeply and loyally a man could love.

The man whom Jane believed she loved the most was also witness to her disgrace. Tom Grey, now disguised as a seaman, his beard grown out, stood on the corner of Watling Street and willed Jane to look his way. He dared not cry out to her for fear of attracting the sheriff’s men, but when a lout standing next to him launched
a handful of mud at Jane, he could not help but wrestle the man to the ground, unwittingly drawing unwanted notice. Realizing his folly, Tom disappeared into the crowd before Jane ever knew he was there. At that point in her ordeal, she would have been cheered by his presence; nevertheless, she plodded on, convincing herself she could endure the last quarter mile.

Do not look at them, she told herself at every ribald comment and clod of filth that was slung at her. She must focus on the ground where she was treading. All her life she had skillfully avoided the dung and other animal waste that lay in wait for an unsuspecting pedestrian, but now she welcomed the warm, soft horse droppings under her lacerated feet, and sought out the glistening, steaming manure. It was kinder than the sharp, unforgiving stones.

Then a woman, her accent revealing her Flemish heritage, cried out, “Who among you is perfect? Who of you has not tried to better yourself? Who else here has been helped by Mistress Shore, who never asked anything in return? I tell you true, my family has much to thank Jane Shore for.”

Sophie! Dearest Sophie, and Jane fought to hold back her tears. She looked up and found her friend’s cherished, long face in the crowd, standing with Ankarette and Jehan, and they nodded and smiled their encouragement.

“The goodwife is right,” cried Mercer Etwelle, who had heard of the penance and told his apprentices to come, watch, and foster respect among their neighbors in the crowd. “I would not be standing here, my family prospering, if not for Mistress Shore. How quickly we forget! Have pity on her. She is still our Rose of London.”

“Our Rose of London!” a group of children took up the chant, standing near St. Paul’s gate on the northeast end of the cathedral. “She’s our Rose of London!”

At once the hostile crowd began to quieten, and by the time Jane had reached Pater Noster Row, even a few cheers were heard.
How many times had she walked these streets knowing it only took but a few minutes to reach anywhere within the city wall, and yet today she felt as though she had walked a hundred miles. Her feet were raw from the city’s rough cobblestones, many of them made from flint, and she wondered if she would be able to finish the walk without crawling on her knees. The hot wax from the taper dripped relentlessly over her hands, scalding her skin until she could feel them no more, but she set her jaw and, putting one foot in front of the other, she willed her steps toward the west door of the massive cathedral. By this time, her beauty, courage, and humility had touched many in the crowd. She had not flinched from their derision, she had lowered her eyes and blushed, and she had shed no tears of self-pity. Aye, they were proud of their fellow Londoner and showed their respect by gradually disappearing back to their homes.

As she gratefully reached the smooth steps at the great west door, Jane looked at a small group standing in the marketplace and groaned when she recognized her mother and father. Her father had aged, she noticed, but his face held the same contempt it had always shown when Jane had disappointed him. It was then Jane’s eyes showed defiance for the first time that morning. If not for his forcing her to wed William Shore, she might not have been disgracing him all these years later. She hoped he might feel guilty, but she assumed that hope was wasted. Before casting her eyes back to her feet, she was dismayed to notice her mother’s tears. She did not deserve this, Jane thought bitterly, but then she saw Amy’s hand lift in a gesture of secret sympathy, and she felt relief.

The church had emptied, and Jane, now enveloped in her mantle and unburdened of the candle, was left to face her judges, the priests. She was told to prostrate herself, and noticing the blood-soaked hem of her chemise, the bishop hurried the confession and prayer of the penitent so the woman’s feet could be tended to. He had a tender heart, not to mention a young woman of his
own who warmed his bed, and his prayer of forgiveness included one for himself.

“Go in peace, Jane Shore,” he said after giving her the blessing, “and sin no more.”

The monks helped Jane to her feet, then bowed to the bishop and returned to their monastery. She limped toward the door, and sat down heavily on a stone seat in the darkness of a little side chapel. She was afraid to exit the church; she had endured enough humiliation for one day. Besides, the gloom hid her tears and her shame.

It was there that Ankarette, carrying a pail of water and clean bandages, found her mistress a few minutes later. Jane had never touched her servant before, but when she saw the faithful woman’s round, cheerful face, she let Ankarette fold her in a comforting embrace and rock her exhausted body and bruised soul.

J
ane did not remember the first week at Sophie’s house. Whether from the deprivation and filth of the prison or from the infected sores upon her feet, a fever ravaged her that caused Sophie to send for a doctor. He bled his patient then prescribed bed rest and quiet. The Vandersand children tiptoed around the loft where the family slept and spoke softly when downstairs, earning praise from their mother and smiles of approval from the faithful Ankarette, who would not leave Jane’s side, along with Poppy, who, ecstatic to see her mistress again, lay curled on the bed at Jane’s feet.