Royal Mistress

by Anne Easter Smith

  “Are you referring to me, Bessie?” Edward’s voice startled her, and her eyes flew open. She smiled at him with genuine warmth as she always did when she saw him, his lovable grin chasing his faults from her mind. What was it about him that kept her loving him? She did not know. He was exasperating, he flaunted his mistresses, drank too much, certainly ate too much, and if anyone had bothered to ask her, she was ashamed that he came home from France without firing an arrow. But he had bought her a diamond as big as a robin’s egg with some of the pension, which she had snatched from him without a second thought, so she had kept her mouth shut and locked the jewel away to wear after she was churched.

  Elizabeth reached out her arms, and after drawing the bed curtains, Edward climbed awkwardly onto the bed, his bulk causing it to groan.

  “Nay, I was thinking about the Anjou woman,” she lied easily, “and how glad I shall be when she has gone back to France. It cannot be too soon, for black melancholy follows her wherever she goes.”

  The French consort of dead King Henry had been a fishbone in the Yorkist family’s gullet for the entire bloody civil war. Thankfully, King Louis had released the ransom money for Queen Margaret, who had been living as a virtual prisoner in Yorkist England since 1471.

  Edward harrumphed. “Put all thought of her from your pretty head, my love. You have just given birth and must not allow such dark thoughts to trouble you now. Queen Margaret will be gone after yuletide, I promise. Louis has paid, and the She-wolf can go home.” Edward stroked his wife’s silky, silver hair, which had always been so pale he could not tell if some of the strands were now white. “Have you thought more on a name for our newborn?”

  “Aye, if it pleases you, my lord, I thought we might honor your oldest sister and name this child Anne. I know you have had a soft spot for Nan, and I should probably show my gratitude for her brokering the marriage between Tom and her own daughter, God rest the girl’s sweet young soul. As you know, Nan and I have been carrying at the same time,” Elizabeth continued, “and I have heard she is not well. Perhaps news of my easy birth and that we have chosen to name the babe after her might lift her spirits. What say you?”

  Edward grinned. “ ’Tis not like you to be so diplomatic, Bessie.” He feigned a wince of pain as his wife thumped his leg. “Anne is also the name of my grandmother—the one whose Mortimer name led me to wear this crown. I like it, and I believe it will delight my sister, too. I have no doubt the news of Exeter’s drowning on the voyage home from France will cheer her greatly. Good riddance! Another scourge gone from my life along with the She-wolf of Anjou.”

  “Was it truly an accident, Ned?” Elizabeth asked softly. The violent duke of Exeter, who had been Nan’s first husband and a fanatic Lancastrian with a possible claim to the throne, had reluctantly come into the Yorkist king’s circle after being Edward’s enemy all through the civil war and had been among the lords on the French campaign. “It is not like you to be so closemouthed.”

  “ ’Tis time I left you to sleep, my dear.” Edward evaded her question and her repartee as he heaved himself off the bed. It was between him and God whether the dangerous Exeter’s unexpected demise had been an accident or not. So vile a husband had he been to Nan that Edward had agreed to his sister’s divorce, and she had since married her lover. “Forget about Exeter. With him and Margaret out of the way, I will be able to reign in peace without looking over my shoulder. Our line will be secure.”

  He kissed her hand and turned to talk to Katherine Hastings, who was hovering nearby. “See that she is not disturbed again tonight, my lady. The queen needs her rest.”

  Behind him, Elizabeth’s mouth curved into a half smile, thinking of Exeter’s convenient exit. Well done, Ned, she crowed. Her husband had not lost his ability to manipulate events to his advantage.

  Jane knocked on the door at the back of St. Mary-le-Bow church where the dean of the Court of Arches presided. This was the third time she had come to see him and beg to summon William to be questioned about his impotence. She bade Ankarette wait outside and walked into the untidy office of the ecclesiastical judge who could transform her life, if he would but listen to her. Her parish priest had faithfully set her upon the lawful path to annulment, and the dean was supposed to be her savior. The unkempt old man heard her name spoken in his ear by his clerk and he groaned. “Not the mercer’s wife again!”

  Jane had purposely dressed to show off her charms, although she was careful not to give the impression of wantonness; she had decided the more attractive she looked the more credible her plea might be. She had read for herself the words in the theologian Thomas of Chobham’s manual that were still in use regarding impotence and annulment:

  There must be a physical examination of the man’s genitals by wise matrons. Then after food and drink, the man and wife are to be placed together in one bed and wise women are to be placed around the bed for many nights. If the man’s member is always found useless, the couple are well able to be separated.

  It had struck Jane that from what she had heard about men’s members, there might be many lustier lovers who would be useless in such a situation, but in William’s case it would make no difference.

  Jane knelt for the cleric’s blessing and then stood straight as the man slumped back into his chair, his fingers blackened from ink, and his spectacles perched on the end of his bulbous nose; judging by its color, Jane could well imagine that the dean enjoyed his wine.

  “Right worshipful Dean Reynking,” she addressed him in the expected way, “I beg of you to summon my husband in this matter of our marriage. It has been more than six months ere we were wed, which is the lawful time for a man and wife to have lived together before the court will hear a petition for annulment, and this is my third appeal. He has failed in his duty to me and thus I am deprived of my right of motherhood.”

  “I am aware of your case, Mistress Shore,” Reynking snapped, “and I am reviewing it. You cannot hurry the law.”

  “Then the law is unfair, your worship. It must be that the law is male; I cannot think that it would make a man wait as long as I have for justice.” Damnation, she thought, watching the dean’s face turn purple, why had she been so bold?

  “How dare you question church law, mistress,” he spluttered angrily. “It would seem to me that your clattering tongue is what makes your husband limp. Perhaps you deserve a spell on the cucking stool.” And he began to write something on the vellum in front of him.

  Not knowing if he was making a note about her or whether he had moved on to the next case, Jane made her exit before he could blink and wonder where she had gone.

  Ah, Jane, she told herself, hurrying to St. Sithe’s Lane and the sanctuary of Sophie’s practical presence, when will you learn prudence and keep your thoughts to yourself. She had no doubt that Dean Reynking would relegate her case to the bottom of his pile after today, and she cursed her folly all along Watling Street.

  Will Hastings chose a rare warm day in November to send a messenger to Coleman Street requesting the pleasure of Mistress Shore’s company for a day of hawking. Jane listened to William read the formal invitation with a mixture of eagerness and trepidation. Naturally, William was included in the outing, but there was nothing he liked less than traipsing around in nature waiting for a rabbit to be impaled on a bird of prey’s claws. He could see no point in the pastime, and besides, his bony arse did not fare well on the hard saddle of a trotting horse. With business to attend to today, he was offended the baron had given no advance notice, but he looked down at Jane in cold calculation. “I will allow you to go. Perhaps he will buy more from us, wife, if you are pleasant with him.”

  Pleasant with him? Jane was incredulous. How stupid was William, or did he truly want his wife to succumb to the renowned seducer of Westminster? One side of her wanted her husband to protect her reputation, but the other more dangerous side hoped he would not come today. The dutiful wife found herself saying, “I think you should accompany me, William, ’twould do
you good to have some fresh air. The rain of late has kept us all too much inside.” But the imp in her did not remind him that he might accomplish more business with Hastings if she went alone. She waited as he contemplated her words, longing for permission yet afraid for her virtue if she gained it.

  William crumpled the parchment and threw it in the fireplace. “I have too much to do, my dear. You will take Ankarette with you, and I am confident Lord Hastings will have a party of ladies and gentlemen with him, so you will be one of many. He will take good care of you. Go, wife. I know how you love to ride.”

  The decision taken out of her hands. Jane was ecstatic, but she controlled the urge to exult. “I confess, William, that I am delighted to hunt again, and I thank you for allowing me the chance.” And before he could change his mind, she ran to her chamber to change her clothes.

  She was escorted to Thames Street on her jennet, while Ankarette was mounted pillion behind one of Will’s young squires. The lord chamberlain himself greeted her in the courtyard of his impressive brick town house and took her up the steps to an antechamber, where others, dressed in hunting garb, enjoyed a glass of ale. Only a week ago, she had been shown the merchant’s back entrance into this inn, and now she was invited in the front door. She held herself with dignity and wished she were six inches taller as Will introduced her to the two other ladies present. As she bobbed a curtsey to the gentlewomen, she was aware of every male eye upon her, which heightened her confidence.

  “Mistress Shore is a freewoman of the city, Dame Stathum,” Will announced to the wife of one of his retainers who gave Jane a haughty stare, while the other woman could barely suppress a titter. “Her husband, a mercer, was unable to accompany her on such short notice, but Mistress Shore kindly helped in the choosing of cloth for my dear wife recently, and this is her reward. It seems Mistress Shore has a liking for the hunt, and thus I invited her to join us.”

  Jane knew instantly that the two women understood exactly why Will Hastings had included her in the party, and she hoped her face did not reveal the flush of humiliation she felt as Will tried to justify her presence. It was her first experience with shame, and she suddenly wanted to bolt from the room back to Coleman Street and the safety of her merchant-class life. She did not belong here.

  “Did I hear you say the wife of Mercer Shore, Will?” The agreeable, familiar voice broke into the introductions, relieving Will greatly. He, too, was regretting his impulsiveness in including Jane in such a hunting party. They should have gone alone, he thought too late, and spared Jane any embarrassment, but he had clearly misjudged the situation in his eagerness to win her.

  “My lord of Gloucester, you have the acquaintance of this lady? She will be glad to have someone pleasant to converse with, I have no doubt.” He ignored the two women, who were now discredited by Richard of Gloucester’s acceptance of Jane. Sensing they had offended their host, they shuffled their feet and backed away as Hastings asked: “May I leave her in your capable hands while I see if the falconers are ready with our birds, Lord Richard?”

  “Willingly, my lord,” the king’s youngest brother replied. “Mistress Shore and I met in the Chepe while she and her husband were returning from”—he thought for a second—“why, ’twas from here, I believe. Did you know they were set upon by thieves, and a purse of gold was taken?”

  Will looked genuinely concerned as he listened to Richard’s accounting of the robbery. “How unfortunate, mistress. I should recompense your husband somehow. I trust you were not hurt?”

  Richard spoke up, amused. “I think not. She proved the cleverest of us all and, after warning Rob Percy and me of the impending attack, hid herself in a doorway. It happened so quickly and was an unlucky affair. But ’tis all too common these days.”

  “Indeed it is,” Will agreed. “My lord, excuse me,” he said, and he took his leave.

  Jane swept Richard a low reverence and murmured her thanks.

  “Thanks for what, mistress?”

  “For rescuing me,” Jane replied, giving him her most enigmatic smile. “Twice.”

  “I think not, mistress. I have the impression you are not someone ever in need of rescuing.”

  “If I may be so bold, I would disagree, my lord duke,” she told him, her eyes merry. “I would venture that most females are in need of rescuing in one fashion or another.”

  To her chagrin, Richard did not appear amused. Mother of God, but he is a serious man, Jane thought. She wondered what his wife was like and could not help but think life with Richard of Gloucester might be a solemn business indeed.

  Hearing the hunting horn signify an imminent departure, Richard chose not to comment further but offered her his arm to escort her to her mount. A most forward lady, he mused, and at once the face of his first love, Kate, and her teasing amber eyes were conjured guiltily to his mind. He felt an unexpected stab to his heart. Aye, his former mistress was also strong-willed, but how he had loved her! He had given her up upon marriage to Anne Neville, but he still had news of his two children by her from Jack, Lord Howard, whose wife had taken Kate under her wing. He had not regretted letting Kate go as, like his father, he was a man to whom duty and loyalty meant everything in life, but he still had guilty pangs each time he remembered their heartbreaking last night together. Sweet Jesu, he had thought Kate would lose her mind. But she was of common stock and unfit for a prince, he had known all along; as a royal duke he must secure his line and his line’s future. Unlike Edward, he thought, as he expertly threw his leg across his horse’s back and settled into the saddle. Ned had squandered an important alliance with a foreign power by marrying an English nobody—and in secret, no less. Both younger York brothers had chosen better, Richard thought grimly: he and George had married the Neville sisters, Isobel and Anne—joint heiresses of Warwick vast wealth and power.

  Then there was Ned’s whoring. Who knew how many bastards his brother had left up and down the realm? Edward’s penchant for pretty women knew no bounds, and Richard disdained the way he took and discarded paramours. Richard had grown to accept his sister-in-law, the queen, and wondered how she endured Ned’s infidelities. He was certain Edward would never have behaved thus had their father, the duke of York, survived Wakefield and become king.

  Richard observed his host, Hastings, with concern as the party trotted through the gate and out into Thames Street, their horses jostling for space on the bustling street. Here was Ned’s cohort and fellow philanderer, who appeared to encourage his sovereign to live life to an excess bordering on dissipation. True, Richard could not question the man’s loyalty to the king any more than Richard’s own, but it disgusted Richard that Edward would often hand down his discarded concubines to Will. Even more despicable was Edward’s willingness to relinquish some poor young woman to that profligate Dorset. And Tom Grey was Ned’s own stepson. Aye, Ned’s behavior was degrading, and it astonished him that their formidable mother, Cecily, had not left her seclusion at Berkhamsted or summoned him there to upbraid her eldest son. Perhaps she did not know, Richard mused, but then dismissed the thought with a laugh. Nothing escaped Cecily’s notice, he well knew.

  As the horses clattered over London Bridge, its shops and houses teetering precariously three stories above the bridge on either side and people standing aside to let the royal party pass, Richard prayed his infant son, another Edward, might not inherit any of his namesake uncle’s weaknesses. He smiled to himself as he cast his thoughts northward to Middleham and the serene Yorkshire dales where his dear wife and son were impatiently waiting for him. How he longed to leave the city and return home.

  Once through the city and over London Bridge, the ride to Greenwich took more than an hour, and Jane exulted in the fresh scents that allowed her to forget the foul city odors of London and its growing southern borough of Southwark. She hung back from the other ladies and fell into conversation with Nicholas Knyveton, Will Hastings’s burly squire, who had been instructed to see she was not neglected.

  “I
have never seen the palace,” Jane told him, craning her neck as they crested the hill above the red-roofed building, its graceful facade untrammeled by heavy fortifications unlike the Tower. “Such a beautiful setting on the riverbank. I can understand why ’tis the queen’s favorite.”

  “Aye, and when Duke Humphrey built it more than a half century ago, he named it Bella Court, but it has grown since then,” Knyveton replied. He was warming to the spirited young woman after having his pride hurt that his master had relegated him to damsel duty, as he called it. Jane had talked to him of poetry, a passion of the squire’s, and he was amused by her reenactments of some of Geoffrey Chaucer’s choice characters. Her gift for mimicry was impressive, he told her, and she had laughed and then imitated Hastings’s Northampton burr so perfectly, he had slapped his thigh in mirth and frightened his horse.

  When the hunting party had reached the ivy-covered watch tower atop the hill, the riders dismounted to stretch their legs and take advantage of the privy that Duke Humphrey had built for the guards stationed there day and night. The ladies were given the option of using the covered cesspit first, but Jane demurred, preferring to wander a little farther away and make use of a bush. She did not often avail herself of the public privies in the city, hating the ignominious hanging of her backside over the communal plank and doing her best to avoid soiling her skirts. Squatting behind a tree or bush seemed more civilized, she thought.

  She could hear the men laughing and talking as the two packhorses were unloaded to provide the party with a canopy, cushions, and refreshments, while the falconers and grooms set up perches for the birds and allowed the horses to graze the lush grass.