Royal Mistress

by Anne Easter Smith

  “Can this be true, Ned?” Richard broke the silence. He had come to dislike George more and more, but he had not wished such an ignominious death upon his brother.

  Elizabeth was nervously picking at the fur on the long tippet of her sleeve, and Richard looked suspiciously at her. “You knew, did you not, Elizabeth?”

  The queen turned away, unable to look at him. “Edward had been jesting,” she mewled. “He was drunk, and he was joking. Someone must have heard him say that George deserved to be drowned in his own wine.” She rose and then knelt beside Edward, taking his hand. “You did not mean it, did you? Did you? Oh, Ned, what will you tell your mother?”

  Suddenly, the king lifted his head and gave a great cry. “God have mercy! I have killed my brother and, by this heinous act, I have condemned both of us to the torments of hell.”

  Richard went white, and Will Hastings fell on his knees in front of his king and wept with him.

  When Duchess Cecily heard the news at Baynard’s the next day, she sat rigid on the carved high-back chair that had been her husband’s favorite. The silence in the solar was broken only by the skittering of sleet on the windowpanes. Her ladies, shocked by the tale, watched her anxiously, but this proud and stoic woman had weathered many a tragedy in her sixty-three years, and she sensed her son’s hideous death would not be the last.

  “Sir Henry,” she commanded her seneschal with her usual control, “make ready for our return to Berkhamsted. I am no longer needed at this court. And ladies”—she rose and led the way—“we must pray for the duke of Clarence’s soul.” She did not add, “and my other son, Edward’s,” although she was thinking it was he who was in need of salvation and not George, for since the time of Cain and Abel, fratricide was surely one of the most grievous of all mortal sins.

  As Cecily fell on her knees in Baynard’s tiny chapel, she looked up at the likeness of her special protector, the Holy Mother Mary, and exclaimed: “May God have mercy on my son, because I shall not.”

  PART THREE

  1482–1483

  What steps of strife belong to high estate?

  The climbing up is doubtful to endure,

  The seat itself doth purchase privy hate,

  And honours fame is fickle and unsure.

  Thomas Churchyard, “Shore’s Wife,” 1562

  TEN

  WESTMINSTER AND LONDON, WINTER 1482–1483

  Edward’s subjects would call it his golden age; Edward was forty, and England was prospering. For the first time in a century, a monarch had no debts and money to spare. Yet, in the autumn of ’82, Edward’s foreign policy floundered, due in part to the unexpected demise of the young duchess of Burgundy in a riding accident. Hated by her Flemish subjects, Mary’s husband, Archduke Maximilian of Austria, was unable to muster enough support from the burghers to stop France encroaching on Burgundian territory. He appealed to his brother-in-law in England for troops, but Edward, expending his forces in defending the north against a Scottish invasion, was unable to help. Who could blame the young archduke from negotiating a peace with Burgundy’s longtime enemy, Louis of France?

  At home, Edward had other worries, not the least of which was the escalating feud between his faithful chamberlain, Will Hastings, and the queen’s family, notably her brother, Anthony Rivers, and her son, Thomas of Dorset. Over the summer months of that year, Rivers and Hastings exchanged slanders that resulted in a hanging of one of Hastings’s men in Calais, who confessed he had been put up to spreading a rumor that Lord Rivers was plotting to sell Calais to the French.

  “He named you, Will,” Edward snapped, when the two men were left alone after a council meeting. “John Edwards accused you in front of me and Parliament. He said you threatened him with the rack if he did not do your bidding.” Breathing hard, he sank back in his chair, as if the angry words had winded him.

  “He lied!” Will cried, although he could see Edward did not believe him. He went on the defensive. “Rivers started the slanders last summer, saying I was plotting to sell Calais. Of all the despicable, implausible lies to lay at my door! But I would not put that past a Woodville.”

  “Have a care, Will,” Edward warned softly. “That is my wife’s family you are accusing. Do not provoke me into choosing.”

  Will felt a cold chill grip his heart. He had never before doubted Edward’s good opinion and favor. By Christ, Will thought, Ned was so much under Elizabeth’s yoke, he was now siding with that popinjay Rivers. He did not think Edward cared much for his handsome brother-in-law, but when it came to a choice between family and friend . . .

  “My queen is justifiably offended, my lord,” Edward was saying. “Can it be that you are still jealous of Rivers after all these years? Why, I renewed your captaincy of Calais only recently, and now you are willing to risk your position with this constant feuding?”

  Will hung his head. It was true, he did resent the brilliant courtier, Rivers, who had been given the supremely flattering position of governor of the Prince of Wales. Not that Will would have wanted to be nursemaid to a boy of twelve at Ludlow in the wilds of Shropshire, but it was a high honor indeed to be responsible for the heir to the throne. He did not dare mention, however, that he hated Thomas of Dorset even more than he hated Rivers, especially as the young puppy had managed to insinuate himself into Jane’s favor.

  “I fear you must have that man’s death on your conscience for the rest of your life, Will.” Edward sighed heavily, as he did every time he thought of his dead brother. “Just as I have Clarence’s.”

  And King Henry’s and a thousand others, Will almost said, but restrained himself.

  Lost in their own thoughts, the two men sat, staring absently at the exquisite murals on the walls of the Painted Chamber. Edward wished he had not brought up George’s name; it only conjured dark thoughts of how his own life had been changed by the event. How even further into dissipation he had sunk, and without his mother to guide him—aye, even she had forsaken him—he felt his salvation was a lost cause. Elizabeth’s interest in him had waned, and she spent most of her time at Greenwich or at her town house of Ormond’s Inn. The warrior Edward wanted to regain the amazing exhilaration of those first few years of his reign, but the overweight Edward did not have the energy for action.

  He forced his mind back to the problem at hand. It annoyed him that his trusted chamberlain would embroil himself in this feud with Rivers; Calais was too important to toy with. It was the gateway for English trade with Europe. Edward could not afford to lose Calais; the English would never forgive him, and these years of peace and prosperity would have been achieved for naught.

  “Now, Lord Hastings, what of Maximilian and Louis? Should we invade France again?” Edward steepled his fingers together and looked over them at Will. “We should not jeopardize the two marriage contracts we have pending for Ned and my little Anne with Burgundy and Brittany, not to mention that young Elizabeth is promised to the dauphin. I have my mind and heart set on these alliances. And I foresee a problem with our pension if Maximilian of Burgundy and Francis of Brittany come to an agreement with France.”

  Will was relieved. Edward had moved on from accusations and was seeking his counsel again.

  “I fear for the future of Burgundy if we do nothing to support her,” Will replied. “And you will disappoint your sister. Her diplomatic mission two years ago was a success, and we would not want to let her down. Does she, too, beg for your help on behalf of Maximilian?”

  Edward nodded. “You cannot keep Margaret quiet for long, Will, surely you know that. However, I cannot see how we can send them troops when I have none to send. Richard will not be back from Scotland in time. I am counting on you, Will, to delay Maximilian, or it could mean the end of our pension.”

  Hastings nodded. “I will return to Calais and see if I can deter him from plunging into any kind of treaty with France, but remember, if it happens, I did warn you.” He snorted. “I would not trust Louis as far as I can see his warty bulbous nose!”


  They both laughed, and Will’s laughter was the louder for his being relieved. Edward seemed mollified for the moment and diverted by more serious diplomatic problems. How fragile, he thought, were the ties that bound kings and councilors.

  “My lord Hastings,” Jane cried, going to him with her arms outstretched. Will felt warmed by her welcome. He took her hands and kissed both tenderly, smiling down at her happy face. “It has been an age since I have seen you. Where have you been?”

  “Spending too much time on a bouncing caravel being buffeted by unkind waves,” Will told her, holding his stomach and pretending to heave. “I should like to take you to see Calais. You would enjoy it. ’Tis a pleasant town with a lively market. But enough of my life, what is new in yours, Jane?”

  Jane dimpled and pointed out a large arras hanging on the wall over a long oak table. “The king spoils me, does he not? Speaking of the sea, it tells another part of the Galatea story.” She then fetched a book wrapped in dark blue velvet and gave it to Will. “This comes from Master Caxton’s printing shop at Westminster. Is it not beautiful? And see, ’tis another version of the same story translated from Ovid. I was overcome when I received it.” She stroked the soft cover. “It would seem his grace sees himself as Acis and me as Galatea.” She pointed to the tapestry. “Here ‘Acis’ is giving me quantities of delectable dishes. I confess it helps me sharpen my appetite, as I often eat alone.”

  “Are you unhappy, my dear?” Will asked, leafing through the exquisite book. He could not imagine how Jane whiled away her days, wondering when she would be called to the king’s chambers or if he would come to hers. She, of course, ran her little household, her books kept her company, and her little lap loom kept her fingers busy, but he wondered why women were not bored most of the time. Granted, Jane was often seen at banquets and on feast days at court, where she could be heard in badinage with Edward’s jester Jehan LeSage. Indeed, many of her quips were quoted and laughed over again later by courtiers. Aye, Jane was no longer a newcomer. She had soared in everyone’s estimation as her positive influence on the king’s humor became evident. Not everyone, Will corrected himself: the queen and her adherents were the exceptions. Jane’s generosity to those who had asked her to petition the king on their behalf was now legendary at court. She had earned the respect even of those who considered themselves far above her. She came to court frequently, and Edward sometimes danced with her, but only after the queen had retired. Elizabeth remained intolerant of the woman her husband now described as his merriest and favorite mistress.

  Aye, Will thought now, she looked content, blooming even, and he again admired her for her refreshing optimism and her quick wit. He settled himself in a chair by the fire, noticing she had had boughs of evergreens and holly brought into the house for yuletide. Both their scent and Jane’s were intoxicating to him.

  “The king tells me you have become quite adept at petitioning him on behalf of the citizenry. ’Tis easy to understand how the king cannot refuse you, Jane. You know I find you irresistible, too.” His tone was playful, and he winked at her, but every word was true, and he wished she could see how much he loved her. If she were mine, he thought, she would never eat alone. But he was a man in his early fifties now, and he had given up believing he would ever live out this fantasy with Jane. He would continue to keep her safe for his sovereign and be contented with that.

  Jane laughed. “Are you flirting with me, my lord? While I find it flattering, you must know I have my hands tied.” She clapped her hand over her mouth, but above it, her eyes sparkled mischievously. “Oh dear, I have given away one of Edward’s secrets,” she said, and they both enjoyed the joke.

  “Is there aught that you want?” Will was at once serious. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Be my friend, Will Hastings. Even later when I am cast aside.” Jane’s expression registered concern. “The king is not as hale as he used to be. ’Tis the tertian fever he contracted in France, he says. He comes to me for respite from his worries and his wife, but”—she searched for the right, tactful words—“he is not so . . . so lusty as he was.” In truth, Edward had not been intimate with her for close to six months, claiming he no longer had the appetite, although he continually assured her of his devotion. Jane feared he had tired of her after seven years—the longest he had kept a mistress—and dreaded hearing he had taken up with someone new. She had done her best to arouse him, but he often fell asleep during their intimacy.

  Will frowned. Edward ill? Aye, maybe he was, Will suddenly thought, remembering the king’s lassitude at their last meeting. The Edward of old would have shouted at him, stamped about, and thrown things; last week he had remained seated, just raising his voice more in exasperation than ire. He had seemed too tired to contemplate disloyalty from me, too.

  Will gave Jane a reassuring smile. “I shall always be here for you, never fear. You may count on me. But I would not worry, for Edward is as strong as a horse.”

  They looked at each other with mutual understanding, and for a few moments only the crackle, sizzle, and spitting of the logs in the hearth broke the silence. Both were thinking the unthinkable: what if something happened to Edward? For, in different ways, both were dependent upon him.

  Tom Grey was annoyed to see Hastings exit the house on Thames Street later that day. He had determined when he awoke that morning to attempt another meeting with the elusive Mistress Shore. It had been eight years since he had kissed Jane in the garden of St. Paul’s, but she had remained an unconquered daydream of his ever since, if for no other reason than that she had wounded his pride.

  Over the years, Tom had seen Jane at court and watched her blossom into a self-assured woman, no longer ashamed of her status. He had even danced with her, despite the subsequent grilling from his wife, when she deigned to come to court. Marchioness Cicely was pregnant again, and as she hated Tom near her during those months, he had spent more time at court. Since Jane had entered Edward’s life, the king had curtailed his philandering, and thus Tom could not even count on benefiting from his stepfather’s leavings. As for his wenching forays into the city with Will, those, too, had ceased as the two men’s dislike for each other had grown.

  Tom had been present at an intimate supper with Edward and Elizabeth the night before and had witnessed a quarrel that involved “the stunted Shore whore,” as Tom’s mother was fond of calling her. Edward had been in his cups as usual and had lazily ignored the insult, and Tom, sensing that perhaps Edward was tired of his concubine, thought he saw an opportunity.

  And now he had come to act upon it. He adjusted his hat, a sapphire glinting in its velvety folds, and knocked on Jane’s door.

  Jane did not greet Tom with outstretched arms; she did not even know why she had allowed him to cross the threshold. What possible excuse for his presence could she give Edward, if the king chose to appear unexpectedly? To maintain decorum and avoid a confrontation with the king or any other callers, Jane had told Ankarette to remain in the room with her, and the servant busied herself pouring ale for the new guest and stoking the fire. As Ankarette had been hired after Jane’s dismissal of Tom, she was unaware of his significance but immediately noticed her mistress’s unease. A handsome, noble young man, Ankarette had thought as she ushered Tom into the solar, and clearly a better match for her mistress than the portly old baron who had just left, or even the aging king.

  “Mistress Shore, God’s good greeting,” Tom said, standing casually several feet away and fingering the jeweled collar draped around his broad shoulders. He was impressed by the luxury of his surroundings and recognized just how highly the king regarded his mistress. “I was on an errand at the wardrobe and thought I would pay my respects. I trust I do not intrude?”

  He looked at Ankarette, hoping the busy woman would leave them, but Jane dropped him a curtsey and did not invite him to sit.

  “My lord marquess, did you have some news for me?” Jane hoped her voice did not betray her weak knees.
She longed to sink into her cushioned chair, but she dared not. “Your children, they are well? I hear from your father-in-law that they are bonny.” She knew she must keep the conversation light or she would have to ask him to leave. She motioned to Ankarette to give Tom a cup of ale. “I pray you take some refreshment before you return to . . . the palace is it?”

  “I am at Ormond’s Inn with my mother. ’Tis but a stone’s throw from here.” Tom studied the elegant Venetian glass hanap in his hand and smiled. “You have come a long way from Hosier Lane, Jane. I like to think I played some part in your success.”

  Ankarette’s ears pricked up. How did he know where her mistress was from? And he had called her by her Christian name. It was deliciously mysterious, and she longed to hear more.

  “It seems to me you abandoned me to my fate all those years ago, my lord. And so, aye, I have enjoyed a richer life since then, but I believe it is I alone who deserves the credit for my success. I think the king, your stepfather, would agree.”

  “Why so unkind, Jane?” Tom put his drink on the mantel and moved closer. “Can we not be friends again?”

  Jane stepped back from him, but her heel caught in her hem and she would have fallen had Tom not caught her to him. She felt his arms about her, his breath on her cheek, and she wilted. “Kiss me, Tom,” she whispered, “and then go, I beg of you.”

  Ankarette, now thoroughly confused, hesitated for a moment more then slipped from the room.

  It was the most lavish of all yuletides, and even Edward remarked upon the extravagance.

  Elizabeth scoffed at him when he came to find her in her bedchamber on the morning after the Feast of the Circumcision. “You have only yourself to blame, my lord,” she told him from the warmth of her downy bed, a coverlet of squirrel fur cozily tucked around her. Lady Bourchier, her sister and lady-in-waiting, curtseyed to Edward and withdrew. “Other than to justify your own squandering of English taxes, to what do I owe this rare visit?”