Mistress to the Crown (20 page)

Playing at cards, I lost a month’s income to the Medici banker, Gerard de Caniziani, then I won it back at backgammon from Hastings’ friend, goldsmith Hugh Bryce. Ned’s Genoese acquaintances taught me the
saltarello
and the Burgundian ambassador tutored me in some wicked Flemish oaths.

Yes, I was like a child in a flower garden, tasting, touching, thrilling, but beneath my splendid robe of cheerfulness, I wore a hairshirt of anxiety because I was still bound to Shore and the Queen wanted me gone.

‘So, is there a traitor among my servants?’ I murmured, brushing the February snow from my hands as I joined Hastings in a sheltered triangle of sunlight. He was watching Ned and the royal children finishing a snowman in the palace yard. ‘How did the investigation go?’

It was a week since I had set my suspicions before him. I was certain that someone in my household had tried to pick the lock to my private papers.

‘You were right to come to me, Elizabeth,’ he replied and I could tell he wasn’t gulling, even though I knew it was his policy to keep me wary of the Woodvilles and reliant on his friendship.

‘Oh damnation!’ I growled. ‘Please, don’t say it is Lubbe.’ Lubbe, my gap-toothed, jester of a servant.

‘No, not the carousing Lubbe.’

I frowned, bracing myself further for the ugliness of Hastings’ disclosure. Although the princesses’ shrieks were shaking the air, I glanced about to make sure none of the King’s gentlemen were close enough to hear. ‘Who, then? Which viper in the bosom are we talking about?’

‘Alas, Elizabeth, vipers come in all shapes and sizes especially in the vicinity of bosoms like yours.’ His sideways glance was appreciative rather than predatory since a thick, fur-lined cloak muffled me to the chin. Then he glanced up at the feeble sun to mark its angle. ‘I’ll have to whistle the King in soon.’

‘For pity’s sake.’ I shifted from one foot to the other. It would have been impolitic to set hands on so great a man as Hastings, but he could see I was tempted to shake him.

‘It’s your maidservant. She’s the one in the Woodvilles’ embrace.’

I gazed at him, utterly winded. My body-servant? Oh, surely not Cristina. I had come as close to trusting Cristina as I had my former maid, Isabel. This was like losing a good friend. Why, yesterday when she was braiding my hair, I had almost remarked that the Queen … Oh, Christ!

‘Stings, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes.’ How much of my private life had been betrayed? ‘I feel … violated. You
are
sure, my lord? She’s … she’s been with me since I moved here. She seemed so trustworthy. Oh, a murrain on it!’ I kicked at my petticotes. ‘I wish it weren’t true. And the inconvenience, too. Finding good servants is like hunting for unicorns.’

He buried his gloved hands beneath his armpits, watching Ned blasphemously shape the snowman’s headwear into a mitre. ‘My dear, we all do it. I’ve a “friend” among her grace’s ladies. And one of Dorset’s favourite drinking cronies is in my pocket – I purchased the fellow’s debts.’ His smile turned weary. ‘Do you want to hear more?’

‘You find the chink in the armour and hold the dagger against it?’ My voice was bitter. I wondered what hold he had over the Queen’s lady-in-waiting. ‘Does Lubbe report to you as well?’

‘Lubbe?’

‘Well, it was your steward Hyrst who found him for me.’

His laughter made a plume of vapour. ‘Got you scratching, have I? Next instant, you’ll be accusing me of bedbugs.’ He held up a hand in oath and said softly, ‘No, Elizabeth, I wouldn’t dare.’ And then as if he suspected I had discerned some pain or self-derision within his teasing, he swiftly bent, scooped up a handful of snow and firmed it between his palms. ‘Do I have your promise that you’ll dismiss the girl?’

I sighed. ‘Yes, of course, but in all fairness to her, I’d like to know your evidence. No, don’t protest. I have to give her some reason when I dismiss her.’

‘No, you don’t.’ He aimed it at the King. ‘She’s a two-faced vixen.’ Ned ignored the snowy hint. The children were pelting the snow archbishop. ‘You’re glaring at me like an offended Mother Superior, Elizabeth. Cristina wasn’t your novice.’

Chastened, I rearranged my expression. ‘Better?’

He sniffed. ‘Not much.’ Beneath his fur hat, his eyes were narrowed on his royal bird like a cunning falconer.

The hour bell sounded and he nodded across to the cluster of idling nursemaids to advance upon the children. A lot of screaming and chasing ensued. Satisfied, Hastings turned to answer my question at last.

‘Your girl meets with one of her grace’s laundry women at the water conduit each morning. They linger as if in gossip, she makes her report and then the other woman carries the snippets to a higher servant in the Queen’s household.’

‘Ha, where next?’ I asked, hiding my hurt. ‘One of her grace’s embroidery women? It must be a very garbled account by the time it reaches the royal ear.’

‘Ah, interesting that you should mention that.’

‘You jest,’ I giggled in admiration. ‘You pay an embroiderer?’

He waggled his hand. ‘I pay for “embroidery”. Except my “embroiderer” has been unpicked, so to speak.’ He signalled for
the King’s esquires to present the royal hat and cloak. Ned obliged with a sideways scowl at us.

My mind was still fathoming the sense of Hastings’ words. ‘So, are you saying nothing that reached the Queen about me was of any use, my lord?’ He nodded wickedly and I laughed, bursting to hug him in relief.

‘Now promise me you’ll get rid of the girl straight away. I’ll get Hyrst to find you another.’

‘That would be excellent. Oh, if only my former maid might come to me, but Shore hasn’t left for Ant—
Ned
!’ The snowball intended for Hastings thwacked into my cheek.

‘Your pardon, Jane,’ yelled Ned and hurled another.

‘Time!’ Ignoring the icy cannonballs, Hastings jabbed a finger towards the bell tower as he strode towards his master. ‘You promised my Lord of Canterbury eleven o’ the clock.’

‘A pox on him!’ Ned grinned at me, pulled a pretend visor down and in place of a cheerful father instantly stood the frowning sovereign lord of England. ‘You, Will, are worse than some pesty wet nurse. I’ll expect you later, Jane.’ I blew him a kiss and he stomped off across the yard with his attendants falling in behind him.

Hastings slapped his hands together. ‘Get you gone, Elizabeth. Warm yourself up with a cup of mulled wine before you administer the
coup de grâce
to the two-faced Cristina.’

I curtsied. ‘As always, I’m very grateful to you for your care of me.’

Although he should have left, he took me by the elbows and raised me to my feet.

‘Even if you feel like shooting the messenger? I know when you are hurting – you use humour as a buckler.’

‘That’s because I’m not very good with a bow, my lord.’

‘But you are always honest with me.’ His smile seemed to pain
him. ‘A golden honesty! Oh my dear, it sits in your aumery along with your silver platters.’

‘And you are Ned’s truest friend,’ I said fondly, wondering what splinter was needling him.

‘How kind of you to think so,’ he replied, squinting at two red kites circling above the palace roof. ‘Survival means we use whatever weapons we can.’ And with that cryptic farewell, he marched towards the snowman and punched its head clean off.

Next day, Ned received a letter containing his Holiness the Pope’s official response to my petition. My heart was brimful with foreboding when I was summoned to the royal inner sanctum.

‘Here.’ My lover handed me the parchment with a foxy sort of smile. I took it to the windowseat and sat down to peruse it.

‘I can only understand the gist,’ I muttered, frustrated that I had never mastered Latin. ‘And all the names at the end here, why, I’ve never heard of them.’

‘Not your concern, love,’ Ned said, playfully tugging my veil as he stood behind me. ‘That’s just an addendum for me. This is the important bit.’ He leaned over my shoulder and ran his finger along a sentence in the heart of the missive. ‘Basically, old Sixtus has given the thumbs up for a tribunal of English bishops to hear your case and the good news is he’ll abide by their decision. The names below are the men he wants elevated in return. Progress, eh?’ He plucked the document from my fingers and passed it to his secretary. ‘Copy the list for my lord of Canterbury, and let’s hope he doesn’t quibble. Now, my Jane, we need three wise monkeys.’

Doubt kicked like a babe within me. ‘Three! Alas, I cannot think of one who would give the likes of me my freedom.’

Ned squeezed my shoulder. ‘Cheer up. It is not that hard. For a start, Tom Myllington, Bishop of Hereford, is one of the regular
tribunal. Have you met him? Abbot of Westminster when I was stuck in Burgundy. Looked after Elizabeth and the children like a father.’

I twisted round to face Ned. ‘But if he is fond of the Queen, won’t he—’

My lover’s quicksilver mind had already moved on. ‘It’s the other two we have to be sure of.’ He turned to his other secretary. ‘Fetch me the list of bishops we were looking at this morning.’

I was not optimistic. For a start, bishops were male, celibate (well, some of them) and they all supported the sanctity of marriage. I was female, an adulteress and I was trying to do the impossible.

I waited with a sinking heart as Ned took the paper and sprawled down in his great chair. He punctuated his reading with mutters: ‘Not him’, ‘Lunatic’, ‘Hmm’, ‘Crooked as his plaguey crozier’, ‘Maybe’, ‘Ahh, here we go.’ He flicked the paper. ‘The Bishop of Ross, John Woodman. Just the fellow, he’s in London at the moment and he’s sat on the bench many a time. And for
numero tertius
, William Westecarre, the Bishop of Sidon!’ He expected applause and a fanfare.

‘Isn’t that in the Holy Land?’ I queried unhappily. ‘Tyre and Sidon?’

‘Hell, no, my darling, Sidon
in Ireland
! All sheep and tussocks. Vacant for years because the godless whoresons thereabouts were too pissed to pray, and King Henry hardly got off his backside about it. Westcarre’s long in the tooth and can’t run up the stairs any more but he’ll do. If Canterbury and Sixtus want to bellyache, they can do it later. There you are, my love, good as done.’

Three obedient bishops. Whenever this king needed a miracle, he ensured one happened, but I had a cumbersome conscience.

‘I am not happy about this.’

He put his arms about my waist and tugged me against him. ‘My lovely, honest darling, what alternative is there? It’s not as if
you can plead that you were related to Shore and didn’t know it, or that your marriage was never consummated.’

I splayed my hands against his chest. ‘Yes, that’s so, but as I said before, I had rather my plea was judged on its truth.’

He put a finger beneath my chin and kissed me on the lips. ‘Jane, love, it will be. What I am trying to avoid here is some pernickety triumvirate who will waste months tying their hose in knots over whether they are creating a mischievous precedent. Believe me, this is the only way for you to have justice.’

I was fast learning that Ned was a master of rationalisation. I appreciated his logic but it still sounded underhanded.

He shook me gently. ‘Is your cause just?’

‘Yes,’ I asserted, ‘but—’

‘No more buts. Trust me.’

I talked it over later with Hastings and he said the same.

‘Besides, Elizabeth,’ he added, ‘the world will believe only what it wants to be believe. Even if the judgment were to be given in your favour by Our Lord God himself, the gossips will still maintain the King has made sure of the outcome.’

And so the judges were appointed and the hearing began at the Court of Arches within the Church of St Mary-le-Bow, and London buzzed like an upturned hive with the scandal. A woman divorcing her husband! Everyone had an opinion. For my part, I was glad that all the proper procedures were observed. Neither Shore nor I were actually questioned before the court, but we did have to provide depositions under oath to our proctors, and these were written down and submitted to the bishops.

However, I was horrified when the bench required me to be examined by two midwives to ascertain that I was capable of
penetration – I could hardly call the King and Lord Chamberlain to testify. The women were respectful, but it was an ignominious process.

Shore faced a similar Calvary. Although the cherrylips sent to our shop had made her deposition, the judges wished to be certain that that Shore had not regained his ability. It was arranged for three comely bawds to spend an hour fondling him, baring themselves and observing whether there was any stiffening of his member. Apparently there was not, and I heaved a very loud sigh of relief to hear those tidings.

I was as nervous as a maiden on her wedding night when I was finally summoned in on the day of reckoning – St George’s Eve. A foul day it was, too, April behaving like a cow refusing to leave the byre for a spring meadow, and the wind buffeting me as I tried to keep my veil down.

Nor was it pleasant to stand with Shore before the court. He had brought his guild friends with him, men who had tried to seduce me into betraying him, and they sat at the back of the church, indignant and loud in their prejudice.

My servants were waiting outside the church, but I had no one with me inside the court save Master Catesby and my proctor. Mama had changed her mind at the last instant and Father insisted Jack needed him at a meeting at Mercers’ Hall.

Process, pleading and proof. All in Latin. Our proctors spoke in turn, their scarlet robes the only warmth in the church. The depositions were tabled and familiar to the judges so there was no need for them to be read out. Each of the women who had borne witness against Shore (and very pretty they all were, too) made their oaths, whispering the Latin, phrase by phrase.
Jurabitis, et quilibit vestrum jurabit, quod tempore …
and kissing the holy book. Then it was the turn of the warden of the Mercers’ Guild and our parish priest who had testified that Shore was a god-fearing and honest merchant.

The judges conferred and we were called to stand before them. The Bishop of Ross spoke first. I understood the gist of it. This was not the first divorce case in the kingdom on the plea of a husband’s impotence, he said, and he described a similar case in York (when he was Abbot of Jedburgh), where the husband, a man in his forties, had failed to prove his fornicatory powers.