When Will had made his farewells, he had kissed Jane’s hand as he always did, but that night Jane noticed melancholy in the look he gave her as Edward put his arm about her waist and wished his friend a good night. Did Hastings disapprove, or, worse, did he still desire her? Jane wondered now. He had been so solicitous when she had first moved into her new house, and hardly a day had gone by that she had not received a visit or a token nosegay from him. She knew she would not be as confident about her first public appearance had it not been for his fatherly advice and courtly expertise. She hoped she was not causing the kind man pain.
The barge was passing the hospital of St. John, built out of the ruins of the Savoy Palace, which had been burned in the peasants’ revolt in the previous century. Who would have believed a mercer’s daughter was cushioned in the royal barge; she hardly believed it herself. She wished her sister might see her now, but thinking of Bella spoiled her mood. She did not want to be reminded of the uncomfortable visit she had recently made to Hosier Lane, when her mother and sister had sat stiffly side by side expecting a lambasting on John’s return for entertaining Jane. In that ten-minute meeting, she found out her father had forbidden them to visit her on Thames Street, and her heart had hardened anew against him. She pushed the scene from her mind and concentrated on the oarsmen’s blades and the evening ahead.
Soon she would be at Westminster wharf and have to make her entrance. She shivered—from excitement or fear, she could not tell—and she hoped her gown would please the king. It was of the palest of pale blue silk, cut with a square neck and high waistline. It fell in shimmering folds to the floor. She had purposely instructed the tailor to keep the bodice modest; she had no wish to flaunt her assets to the court. Covering the bare skin above the dark-blue lace trim of the bodice was Edward’s gold and pearl collar. She was certain all would be aware of who she was by now and knew every eye would be critically evaluating the king’s new mistress. Let them at least see that a mercer’s daughter possessed good taste.
John Norrys took her hand to help her from the boat and tucked it under his arm for the short walk to the wharfside entry into the royal lodgings. “May I say that your beauty will eclipse all others tonight, Mistress Shore?” he told her as they mounted the spiral stairs.
“You may, sir, although I fear you flatter me,” Jane replied, relieved. “I must confess my knees are a little unsteady, and knowing you are here to bear me up is comforting. ’Tis as well I am so small for if I faint away, I will not be much of a burden to carry off.”
Norrys laughed. “You do not appear to be the sort of female that swoons, mistress.”
“Just you wait, Master Norrys,” Jane rejoined. “I may surprise you.”
She was thankful Edward was waiting in the private antechamber where the stairs led, and she warmed to his welcoming smile. “Dear God, Mistress Shore, but you are ravishing,” he told her, taking her hand to his lips as she rose from her curtsey.
“Not now, your grace,” Jane told him, all too conscious of the entourage watching. She was delighted to see Will, who came forward and kissed her hand, his smile showing approval of her modesty. If Will Hastings was pleased, then she had chosen her wardrobe well, she thought happily. “Lord Hastings,” she greeted him with another deep reverence.
Edward introduced her to one of his gentlemen of the chamber, Thomas Howard, Jack Howard’s son, whose greeting was courteous, and then to the steward of the household, Lord Thomas Stanley, whose curt bow and pursed lips were anything but friendly. His tall, angular wife merely inclined her head, her unblinking eyes traveling up from Jane’s pointed crackows to her deep blue velvet hennin with such speed, Jane wondered how Margaret Beaufort could have formed any impression of her, let alone the disdain that curled the woman’s lip. Jane decided to tread warily around the Stanleys.
They were joined by Howard’s wife, Elizabeth, and his stepmother, a plump little woman not much bigger than Jane, to whom Jane immediately warmed. “Lady Margaret is missing her husband, are you not, my lady?” Edward said, raising her from her reverence. “Jack Howard is one of the most trusted of my councilors, Mistress Shore. Unfortunately, he is deputizing for Lord Hastings in Calais, but you will meet him soon. Lady Margaret and Lady Elizabeth will be your companions today, and they will see that you come to no harm.” He winked at Margaret, which caused her to wag a motherly finger at him. At once Jane felt comfortable; she had come to understand how Edward put everyone at their ease, noble or commoner.
“Come, now, ladies and gentlemen, let us not keep our guest of honor waiting any longer. Will, escort Mistress Shore to her place. Come, Lady Margaret, will you serve as my consort for our entrance?”
“Make way for the king!” called the usher, and at once the hall was hushed and the assembled group parted to allow the king to pass. He graciously accepted the bows made to him right and left and paused to have a word with this one and that until he reached his throne. His purple-gowned majesty, arresting stature, and charismatic presence filled the room as if someone had suddenly opened the roof and let in the sunlight. Despite their richly made garments and many jewels, the Breton delegation was cast into the shade.
Will gripped Jane’s arm reassuringly, and they stepped out a few paces behind Lord and Lady Stanley and the younger Howards. Discreetly, Will led Jane up two steps to an alcove farther down the hall, furnished with three velvet-covered chairs, and begged her to take the center seat. “The Howard women will flank you, my dear Jane, and all will know you have their blessing,” he reassured her. “Tonight you must watch and learn, and it may be that Edward will not speak to you, but all will know why you are here.” He saw her flinch and patted her hand. “You need to hear the truth from me. I shall not dissemble; they will need to become used to you.”
Momentarily forgetting her escort’s conflicted feelings, Jane clung tightly to Will’s hand as she took her seat. “Sweet Jesu, but I am terrified,” she confessed as she faltered in her step. “Say I at least do not look like a harlot, my lord.”
Will bowed gravely and took her hand to his lips. “Far from it, Mistress Shore, you outshine every lady here. You might be a duchess,” he soothed, and added with a wink, “Good luck, my dear.”
As Hastings made his way back to Edward’s side, he overheard someone say to his neighbor, “So, she is the well-kept secret. I cannot say I blame the king.” Hastings gave the man a look that would have withered a summer rose, but he marked the moment to share with Jane later.
The musicians in a facing alcove began to play softly on lutes and recorders, and Jane’s spirits lifted. No one had laughed at her, no one had pointed at her, in fact most were ignoring her, and she felt brave enough to tweak the tight sleeves over her wrists, adjust her velvet bonnet, its veil floating in a cloud of white gauze down her back, and eagerly observe the proceedings.
It was then she had the odd sensation that someone was watching her, and she turned away from the scene by the throne, where Edward was clapping the ambassador on the shoulder and laughing, and she looked right into Tom Grey’s eyes.
Jane could not say if her pounding heart sent the blood rushing to or from her face, but she was aware that every nerve in her body was alive to the sight of this man who had broken yet stolen her heart. Why had she not anticipated Tom’s presence this day? He attended the king, so certes he was bound to be present. She gripped her fingers together and looked away. She had rehearsed what she might say to him when next they met, but now that he was coming toward her, the phrases fled her mind.
“My lord marquess, God give you a good evening,” a voice at her elbow said. Jane was unaware that in those fleeting seconds Lady Howard had joined her in the alcove, and she was startled by Margaret’s greeting. “Have you made the acquaintance of my new friend, Mistress Shore? Thomas Grey, marquess of Dorset.” Margaret Howard made the introduction smoothly.
Jane was astonished by the generous word friend but so grateful, she could have kissed the plump matron. Before she l
owered her eyes, she tried to send Tom a message to deny knowing her.
Tom bowed over Lady Howard’s hand, murmuring, “Lady Margaret.” Then he raised his eyes to Jane. “Mistress Shore and I have been acquainted for some time, have we not, mistress?”
Jane could not say if he deliberately chose to ignore her sign or truly wanted to be friendly. But if he were baiting her, she would not bite. She inclined her head, as Will had taught her a seated lady should, and furrowed her brow. “Perhaps you could remind me of the occasion, my lord. It must have been either at my father’s mercery in the Chepe or when I was presented at court as a freewoman of the city earlier in the year, for I am not used to mingling with nobility and thus would have remembered meeting a marquess. But, if I am wrong, I am glad to make your acquaintance again, and this time I shall be certain to remember you.” Her demure pretense infuriated Tom.
“As you wish, mistress,” was his terse response. He bowed to Margaret, turned abruptly and walked toward the knot of courtiers around the king, leaving Jane chastising herself for her wayward tongue. She had not really wanted to send him away; she only wanted him to respect the delicacy of her position. She was not to know that delicacy was not in the young marquess’s unimaginative repertoire.
“Oh, nicely done, Mistress Shore,” Margaret Howard congratulated her young charge. “I cannot remember when I have seen vainglorious Tom Grey’s flirting so nimbly deflected.”
“Was he flirting with me, my lady?” Jane thought it wise to play the innocent. “I was merely answering his question.” Looking over at Tom, she saw to her dismay that he was carrying a lovely young woman’s hand to his lips, who simpered as he lingered over it.
“You remind me of a friend of mine.” Margaret smiled. “A young woman of spirit who won the heart of the king’s brother, Richard of Gloucester.” Then she was serious. “A word of warning, my dear. Stay away from Dorset. He is none too bright and is his mother’s darling, an unattractive combination in a man.”
But Jane was too miserable to mark her words. Tom Grey’s arrival had ruined her much-anticipated debut at court.
SEVEN
LONDON AND FOTHERINGHAY, SUMMER 1476
“The court has taken to Jane well, I believe. What do you think, Will?” Edward asked his friend two weeks later. “With Elizabeth still at Greenwich, it has been an ideal time to bring Jane out into the open.” He grinned, coyly. “I do believe I am in love with her. Imagine, at my age!”
Hastings’s hand faltered as he poured his king a cup of wine and placed it on the table next to the remains of a pheasant on a silver plate. They had dined in private in Edward’s solar, and now Jane was waiting in Edward’s bedchamber a wall thickness away. Ankarette had brushed her mistress’s hair and sprinkled her silk chemise with rosewater and was hovering nervously in a corner, listening for the king’s approach.
“Age has naught to do with love, your grace,” Will answered, with grim confidence. “Let me in my ancient wisdom assure you of that.”
Edward twirled the stem of his cup, watching the tawny contents climb the silver sides and slither back down. “Ah! Aye, my friend, I remember that delightful Mistress Rowena—I cannot recall her family name—from Leicester. I feared for your life then, for you were so smitten, it began to irk your Katherine. And, believe me, Will, you never want to irk a Neville female. My mother is proof of that.” He laughed. “So, I am not in my dotage? It is possible to fall in love with another despite being devoted to Bess?”
Will nodded and allowed Edward to believe Rowena was his example. The vision of Jane lying naked in Edward’s bed next door tormented him. “You can fall in love many times, Ned, but ’tis only when that love is returned that it is worth cherishing.”
Edward looked at him quizzically, but as Hastings was now yawning, gathering his mantle and tugging on his boots, he decided his friend’s remark did not require further discussion.
“When will you tell your wife about Jane?” Hastings suddenly asked, straightening up and confronting Edward. “Surely you will not take Mistress Shore with you to Fotheringhay for the reinterment? I would not be your councilor if I did not caution you. Duchess Cecily for one would not countenance the presence of a mistress at the solemn ceremonies for your father and brother. You must leave her behind, Ned.”
Edward pouted. “I suppose you are right, Will. With the outbreak of the pox in the city, I had thought I would leave early and have time with Jane before everyone descends on Fotheringhay. But I will not be a disrespectful son. Nor will I risk offending God at this most sacred time. I have planned for this honorable reburial of my father and Edmund for a year now, and I would not want it said Edward Plantagenet dishonored their memory.”
Fotheringhay, set in the marshlands of Northamptonshire, had been the York family seat since Edward’s great-grandfather, Edmund of Langley, was granted the castle in the last century. It had been sixteen years since Richard of York and his son Edmund had been killed at the battle of Wakefield during the war between York and Lancaster, their heads set upon Micklegate in York. They had then been given a perfunctory burial, and, although long overdue, it was time for Edward to bring them home to rest in the family crypt at Fotheringhay church, whose extensive renovations had prevented an appropriate ceremony until now.
“You could always take Jane with you to Windsor following the ceremonies. I can arrange for some special entertainment—a joust? Players? Dancing? Cheer up, Ned, it will only be for a few weeks.” The king was usually easy to distract from the boring business of kingship, but familial duty had deeper meaning for Edward, who refused to be roused this time.
Blinded by his own ambitions and comfortable in his position as chief councilor, Hastings was unable to grasp that while for years Edward had excelled on the field of battle and in the fighting for his crown, once peace came, the business of governing and improving trade was not enough to satisfy the restless young man’s thirst for adventure. And, loyal to a fault, Hastings had been all too happy to turn his sovereign to the more pleasurable side of life to alleviate Edward’s boredom. With so many experiences shared and with no one threatening Edward’s throne since he had been reinstated seven years earlier, neither man was able to see how far they had descended into self-serving dissipation. Together, they felt invincible. In truth, Edward and his chamberlain-confidant Hastings had brought England into a more prosperous time. However, prosperity had left Edward with little to challenge him and had done nothing positive for his reputation. Thus, with Hastings by his side, he had drifted into a life of gluttony and lechery. The only subjects who were pleased with him at this stage of his reign were the merchants and their guilds, for Edward’s negotiations abroad meant trade was booming with England’s allies in Europe.
Will downed the rest of his wine, believing the audience was at an end, when Edward abruptly changed the subject.
“Sweet Jesu, my brothers weary me. I do not look forward to explaining to George why I named Richard chief mourner in the cortège on its journey from Pontefract,” Edward said.
Will wondered if he should return to his seat, but it seemed Edward was unaware of his friend’s efforts to depart. Edward picked at the carcass on the table, brooding over the conflict he had with George of Clarence.
“That brother of mine is like a canker festering in me,” Edward groused. “George has betrayed me and failed our family so many times, and yet with a smile and a honeyed word, he can charm the very devil from his hell-hole—including me, it would seem.”
Will chuckled and sat down. “I see we are not finished with George yet, Ned. Go on.”
Edward snorted. “Meg asked me to be kind to him. Said it was not his fault and that the man had been spoiled for his charms as a boy, and as a man he floundered, not knowing his place as a second son. She thought he was too easily flattered and thus had believed that Warwick could make him king, and she told me I should be charitable because he was weak. Pah! By God, Edmund never behaved like that when he was the second s
on. He was the dutiful brother to me, and”—he paused, gazing unseeing into the fire—“Christ, how I loved him.”
Will made a sympathetic sound, but not liking Edward’s maudlin mood, he grasped the king’s slumped shoulder and said: “Do not spoil your night with Jane, Ned. You can deal with George on the morrow.”
Edward patted his friend’s hand and rose a little unsteadily. “Aye, Will, you are right. Thank God for a friend like you. Another cup of wine and I would have dredged up all my resentments and slipped into a fit of ire or worse, of melancholy. Poor Jane would have had a hard time arousing me in a humor like that.” He slapped Hastings on the back and pushed him toward the door. “Good night, good Will. Until tomorrow. No matter how I love your company, you are now no match for what awaits me in my bed.”
Will bowed and descended the staircase from the royal lodgings, his steps as heavy as his heart.
“Come with me as far as Berkhampsted, Jane,” Edward coaxed. “My mother will have already left for Fotheringhay and we can enjoy the luxury of her apartments and walk and hunt in the park. Then I must go to the reburial.”
Jane’s fingers played with the thatch of fine hair on Edward’s chest as he lay on his back, hands cupped behind his head, his long body in repose after a vigorous hour of lovemaking. She was turned on her side, her head nestled under his arm, breathing in the unmistakable scent of their pleasure. She still could not quite believe she was lying with the king of England and that he was asking her to ride with him to his mother’s home. And she could not believe that she had no one to answer to for her reply but herself. Although, she smiled as she was reminded, one did not truly have freedom of choice when the king commanded.
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