Authors: Mistress Angel
Lindsay Townsend
Mistress
Angel
Lindsay Townsend
Text copyright ©2013
Lindsay Townsend
All Rights Reserved
MISTRESS ANGEL
EXCERPTS
London, May 1357
Isabella was reading a scolding letter from
her mother when Sir William's man-servant John stepped into the workshop and
jerked his head to the outside, holding the door open for her.
She tucked the scrap of parchment into her
belt and hurried into the back yard, lifting her skirts clear of the cloying
mud. It was raining still, a light spring drizzle that had lasted for days and
stirred up the usual offal and dung stink of London. She wrinkled her nose and
covered her mouth with her hand.
“Hurry!” John urged. “The master does not
like to be kept waiting.”
Isabella picked her way round a deep cart
track and made for the stand of cherry and apple trees against the back
boundary wall of her husband's family house. The tall, portly figure waiting
beneath these trees was unmistakable, as was his goldsmith's livery, worn by
most guild members only on festivals and holy days but as a regular costume by
him. She bowed her head.
Sir William waved his servant away. “You
are too brown,” he grumbled as Isabella approached. “Are you a washer-wench, to
be so brown? That will not do.”
Naturally I am tanned, through outdoor work
. She had been instructed by her husband's
family to weed the garden plot and gather greens daily, all work beneath her,
but Isabella knew better than to protest. “My son?” she asked quickly.
Sir William dismissed her anxious question
with a sharp shake of his head. “Later,” he snapped. “When you prove your worth
to us.”
Isabella fixed her eyes on the golden tips
of Sir William's gilt-edged shoes and strove to appear calm. She had been
hearing variations of this and other complaints for years, and they held no
sting for her. The absence of her son was altogether different.
When may I
see my child? It has been months since Richard took him from me and his family
still keep us apart. Had I the means I would go to law, for in this household
no one listens to me. How does my son fare? Does Matthew think of me?
She
longed to ask all of these things.
“How long have you been with us, Isabella?”
“For six years, since I wed your nephew.”
She had been married to Richard at twelve,
made pregnant two years later and widowed three years after that, following a
long and bitter apprenticeship of wedlock
. I have been a widow for six
months and I do not miss a moment of my marriage.
She sensed Sir William staring at her,
stroking first his squirrel-fur cloak, then his neatly-trimmed beard. She
resisted the impulse to shudder.
“You are much improved in looks of late,”
he remarked.
Yes, not being beaten nightly by a drunken
brute improves a woman's appearance.
Isabella raised her head. “May I see Matthew?”
Sir William frowned at the second mention
of her son. “Did I not say later? Have you a better gown?”
Accustomed to his abrupt manner, Isabella said
nothing. Sir William need only check the household accounts to realize she had
three dresses. One was her bridal gown, a tiny, wrinkled dress, worn with such
hopes when she
was still only a child. She could scarcely bear to look
at it now.
“We must have you robed in brighter colors,”
Sir William continued. “And you must stay indoors. Wash your face in whatever
women use to whiten skin. You must shine like a jewel.”
When she was first married, Isabella had
been full of questions, until Richard's ready fists had silenced her. She
nodded to show she understood and waited to be told more.
Perhaps I am to be
married again
, she thought, and hoped this time the man would be kind.
Please
let him bring my son Matthew back from wherever he is living and safe into our
home. If my new husband does that, I will love him forever.
Sir William picked a spray of cherry
blossom and held it alongside her face. “Yes, you shall do very well,” he
rumbled. “Your dowry is gone, you failed in your marriage task, you have no
great skills, but we can put that beauty of yours to work.”
Abruptly, he seized the front of her bodice
and yanked on the loose cloth, half-exposing her breasts. Isabella covered
herself with an arm but did not resist or utter a sound. If feigning acquiescence
brought her news of her son she would be as still and silent as a grave.
“Good, good.” Sir William strolled around
her, pinching her flanks, muttering, “She needs a touch more flesh here, but
her breasts are still ripe, for all her nursing of that pup.”
Surely he would tell me if Matthew is dead
? She had not set eyes on her son for seven
months, since Richard had spitefully sent him off to another household,
somewhere in Kent
. My husband did that just before he was killed, murdered
in a blood-feud not of my making but for which I am still blamed. When will it
end?
“You will oblige me,” Sir William went on,
and he took her roughly by her shoulder and half-turned her, back to the house.
“There, look at your son now. Not one word.”
Isabella blinked the drizzle from her eyes
and stared at the small, thin figure standing with his back to her in the open
doorway to the workshop.
It was Matthew, clothed in the belted blue cloak
and cap she had made for him last winter, his fair, curling hair a little
longer and more sun-bleached than when she had last seen him. He was growing
and carried himself very straight, she thought proudly. She took a step
forward, closer to him.
He was no more than a baby when Richard ripped him
from me. Now he is a little boy of four years old, just four.
“No nearer,” warned Sir William. “That is
enough.”
He gestured to someone at the house and the
door closed, cutting Isabella off from that too-brief glimpse. Heart-scalded,
she swung round. “Please, let me speak to Matthew,” she begged.
Let me hold
him, embrace him, smell him, hug him.
Relief that he was alive washed
through her, making her weak when she had to be strong.
“To business,” Sir William remarked dryly,
watching her fumbling with her gown strings, his eyes bright, with the pitiless
interest of a bird. “You have seen the boy, now heed my terms.”
Isabella chewed on the inside of her cheek
to stop a rising cry, glad that the rain hid her tears. She nodded in silence,
bracing herself.
Even now, Matthew must not know I am here.
Surely if he did he would come to me? And will I see him again? How long will
he stay?
Sir William smiled. “You will do much, make
great efforts to see your son again?” He did not wait for an answer. “This
family needs to make good alliances, and you are available. Stephen Fletcher I
thought. He is
armourer
to Duke Henry himself, and widowed.”
His smile widened and his hard dark eyes
sparkled with open malice. “I understand he is like you, the offspring of a
commoner. Some would call him a blacksmith. You should do well with him.”
Isabella felt her face flush with anger. “And
how, pray, will I meet him?”
“Use what wit you have, girl, and find out!”
He pinched her cheek, hard, and moved away, tossing her final orders as he
strolled off. “I shall expect strong progress in your suit, Isabella. Win him
within the month, become his mistress, extract rich gifts and favors from him,
or you shall not see your son again. I will adopt Matthew as my own.”
He went inside, out of the rain, and
slammed the door in her face.
****
Isabella ran after him, but Matthew was
already gone. Her heart aching inside her chest and desperate to escape the
ready complaints of her mother-in-law, she claimed that Sir William asked her
to collect a parcel of herbs from the apothecary's. Outside again in the rain,
she stumbled by way of the back lanes to the house and shop of her friend,
Amice the Spicer.
Amice took one look at her and drew Isabella
behind the curtain at the back of her shop, where she had a bed she slept in
when guarding a fresh batch of cinnamon from burglars.
“Get under the covers and warm up,” she
said, in her brisk, managing way. “As you see, the shop is quiet now, so we can
talk. Have you received another letter from that prating mother of yours,
blaming you for a feud not of your making? I presume your own flesh-and-blood
have not welcomed you back?”
“No, they have not.” Isabella shook as she
stumbled into the bed
. I do not think they will ever do so
. Like Amice
she knew that, according to custom, she might have returned to her own family,
now that Richard was dead. Her parents however had cast her off. Her mother
still wrote letters, but only to instruct her and to complain.
To my parents
I am one of the Martintons now.
It was a terrifying thought, one she dared
not dwell on.
“Is your mother-in-law expecting you to
spin gold from straw or some other foolishness?”
Amice’s ironic question returned her to the
present.
A present even harder than my past.
“I saw Matthew,” Isabella burst
out through chattering lips. “They would not let me speak to him. He did not
even know I was behind him.”
“Ah, that old cruelty.”
The sympathy in Amice’s warm voice brought
Isabella to tears. She shuddered violently as her friend swept the warm, coarse
blankets up to her ears.
“Rest first, then tell me everything.”
Amice bustled out into the shop again, closed the shutters and returned to
light a brazier. “What did you say to get out of that wretched den?”
“That my uncle needs herbs.”
“I have those. I shall give you a bundle
when you leave.”
Isabella closed her eyes for a moment,
willing herself not to cry. Away from her reluctant family-by-wedlock and the thunderstorm
tension of the household, she felt her constant headache begin to clear. It was
marvelous, too, to be safe at Amice's, snug and warm in a low-gabled shop
perfumed with spices. She sighed, sitting up with a pillow behind her head as
her friend brought her a cup of warmed wine. “Thank you.”
“None needed.” Amice batted aside her
gratitude. “We both know what you did for me. It is my pleasure to help you in
return, in any way I can.”
Isabella knew she meant it. They shared the
cup between them, Amice telling of a Flemish merchant in the shop that morning,
seeking pepper and saffron. Her black, strong-featured, full-lipped face was
animated as she mimicked the accent of the Fleming, kicking her long legs
against the wall as she reached the climax of her tale.
“Paid me a good fistful of gold and
unclipped coins for a few threads of saffron and one of my kisses. The man
seemed to think I was an Ethiope out of Egypt and said my mouth was a lucky
charm. I kissed him once, on the cheek, and did not tell him I come from the
back end of Cheapside.”
She chortled, finished the wine and put her
dark, handsome head to one side. “You smell calm again,” she announced. Amice
was a believer in the scent of things. “Will you have more wine? I have
peppermint to disguise your breath from your mother-in-law.”
Isabella smiled and shook her head.
Reaching inside her gown, beneath the drawstrings Sir William had so roughly
parted, she found the three gold rings strung on a cord and handed the rings
and ribbon to Amice.
“Sell or pawn?” Amice asked.
“Sell,” Isabella said firmly. These rings
were the last of her dowry, hidden away by her and forgotten by Sir William,
Richard's mother and her parents. “I need a good price.”
Swiftly she explained why. “I have only
weeks to secure this Stephen Fletcher, and through him my son,” she concluded.
“A harsh undertaking,” Alice remarked. “They
are unkind people, your husband’s kin.”
Isabella could not disagree but, thinking
of the seemingly impossible task, she began to feel a coil of hope. “The
goldsmiths' guild is planning a great spectacle when Prince Edward brings the
French king back with him to London. I need to bribe my way into it.”
“A good place to see and be seen, for sure.
And Sir William swore you would have new gowns for this?” Amice held a ring set
with a huge square sapphire close to the twisting flames of the brazier and
gave a small grunt of satisfaction. “This is fine.”
“Sir William promises many things, but I
find they do not happen.”
Amice's keen eyes glittered. “Then you are
blamed.”
Isabella shrugged. “I cannot afford to wait
to see if he grants me fresh gowns. I have my son to consider.”
Matthew! How
I wish I could have talked to you today, held you, kept you by me.
“I will go today, before curfew.” Amice
rattled the rings in her palm. “Is any of this work Richard's? Let me avoid
questions, if I can.”
“Have no fear on that score. I have and
hold nothing of his.”
Which is why his kindred keep Matthew, as the only
hold they have over me.
She flinched as Amice brushed her wrist. “I
will bring the money tomorrow,” her friend said.