“Perhaps not at present, mistress,” the man said. “But Thomas of Dorset is a foul traitor, and it is known this woman has lain in adultery with him while he plotted his treason, and thus she must come with us.”
Sophie watched sadly as the two men bound Jane’s hands. “May I ask how you knew vhere she vas?”
The other soldier grinned and jerked his head in Ankarette’s direction. “This clatterer was prating about her bargaining skills in the market. We had been on the lookout for Mistress Shore and ’twas simple to follow this marvelous clack-dish home.”
This set Ankarette to weeping, and she begged Jane to forgive her. “I have betrayed my beloved mistress,” she wailed to Sophie as Jane was marched from the house between her escorts. “What will become of her? Oh, I am a wicked woman.”
Sophie ran after the little group with Jane’s warm cloak. “Where do you take her, sergeant?” she pleaded, giving him the garment. “She is like a sister to me.”
The man saw no harm in telling the woman. The arrest had gone smoothly, and he would soon be off duty and enjoying a flagon of ale with his friends. “For what ’tis worth to you, goodwife, she is going to Ludgate gaol.”
Jane stumbled and almost fell but for the strong hands that held her. “Please, God, no!” she begged, tears stinging her eyes. She did not think she could suffer through even one night in that infernal cell again. She turned to look at Sophie, who had faltered when she heard the news, her brown eyes filled with compassion.
“Pray for me, Sophie,” Jane called desperately over her shoulder, although she was quite convinced that by this time God must have finally abandoned her.
Another of King Richard’s prisoners was also feeling bereft of God’s favor as he sat in his cell, his borrowed clothes in tatters and his body emitting an odor even the rats shunned. Harry of Buckingham was awaiting trial, and although he was miserable, he was convinced he could worm his way out of an execution. If only he could see Richard, talk to him, he thought.
He may not have enjoyed the irony that he had to face the acting constable of England, Sir Ralph Assheton, whom Richard had recently appointed to replace Buckingham, now deemed an outlaw. Harry was led in front of the commission, his head and his feet bare, and made to sit on a stool in the high-beamed town hall. After the charges were read, Harry began to unravel. He went down on his knees and confessed that he had been hoodwinked by the bishop of Ely into rebelling and revealed all he knew of the plot. In a desperate plea to save his life, he cried: “Gentlemen, I beg of you, let me see my cousin, the king. I will explain all to him. Surely I have the right to an audience?”
“The king has no wish to see you, my lord Buckingham. You have proved to be his grace’s most monstrous enemy, and he is done with you,” Assheton replied, lowering his brow and pointing his finger at Harry. “You will die a traitor upon the morrow. Now take him away,” he commanded the guards, scorning the royal duke’s tears.
Back in his cell, Harry demanded vellum and pen and scratched out a personal plea to Richard, reminding him of their friendship, of his support to put Richard upon the throne, and of the royal blood they shared. His words were heartfelt, flowery, and smudged with tears. He could not believe Richard would deny his cousin a final interview.
Whether or not Richard saw his one-time comrade’s desperate missive, Buckingham never knew. As the bells in the tallest spire in England tolled over the marketplace, Henry Stafford, duke of Buckingham, rebel and traitor, was led to the makeshift scaffold, made to lay his head upon the block, and just as Will Hastings had done not six months before, he cried out to God to have mercy on his soul.
In his temporary lodgings at a house in the cathedral close, Richard sat staring at the blotched parchment his cousin had sent and listened as the bells sounded their death knell. “Christ’s blood, Harry,” he said bitterly. “I could have forgiven you your rebelling,” although he abhorred the man’s double disloyalty, first to him and then to the rebels by confessing all so readily to avert blame, “but I can never forgive you the foul murder of my nephews.”
Crumpling the letter into a ball, he threw it into the fire as though consigning his cousin’s soul equally to the flames of hell.
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EIGHTEEN
LONDON, NOVEMBER 1483
“Back again so soon, Mistress Shore?” the warden of Ludgate goaded his proud prisoner. “Did not learn the first time, eh? You must be getting good at this harlotry lark.” He reached forward to squeeze her breast. “Might be I take a turn with you, Mistress Bawd.”
Jane eyed the grimy sausage fingers pawing her and stepped back. Had her hands not been tied, she would have slapped him. “May I assume you cannot get a woman any other way?” she provoked him.
In an instant, the fondling fingers turned into a fist that slammed into her face, making Jane cry out in painful outrage. She fell to her knees, tasting blood and reeling from the injury. “That’ll learn you,” the gaoler rasped. He nodded to the guard. “Take her upstairs. This time she’ll have to take her lumps. There is no fancy lord to buy her a bed now. Come down in the world a trifle has our king’s whore.”
And so Jane was half carried to the gates of the familiar cell, its foul stink taking her back to those dire days of June. The guard shoved a cup at her that would serve for both food and drink, and pushed her rudely inside, flinging her mantle on top of her.
A pair of gentle hands helped her to her feet, and a young woman of no more than sixteen gingerly touched the welt on Jane’s cheek. “Bastard,” she hissed. “The warden did that, did he not?”
Jane winced and nodded. “I suppose I deserved it. I insulted his manhood,” she murmured, and she tried to smile at the memory, but it hurt so much, she gave a little gasp of pain. She allowed her new friend to lead her to a fresh pile of straw that she was willing to share with Jane.
“I am Anne, and I am in here until I can pay my fine.” She grinned. “I cheated my neighbor out of a chicken, and she went straight to the sheriff. When my father’s anger simmers down, he’ll pay to get me out.”
Jane was a little surprised at the girl’s nonchalance; stealing used to be a hangable offense, she had once heard her father say, but that was a long time ago, and society was supposedly far more civilized now. “I am Jane Shore, and it seems I am here for hiding a fugitive.” She refused to brand herself a whore or harlot. She felt her face and winced. “I suppose I shall have a black eye.”
Judging from the cut of her kirtle and the fine lawn of her smock, Jane presumed the young woman came from the merchant class. Jane settled back on the straw and looked about her. This time, the inmates’ genders were roughly half and half, which reassured Jane. When nighttime came, and in mid-November it came early, she curled up next to Anne, and they shared Jane’s warm cloak as well as the moth-eaten blanket the prison provided.
As in her first night there in June, Jane found sleep difficult. But once the curfew had sounded and the thrum of the city subsided, she used the subsequent silent hours to assess her situation. She was puzzled. She had been accused by the sergeant-at-arms of hiding Tom, but the warden had been told to admit her for harlotry. Thinking clearly now, despite her throbbing cheek and nose, she deduced with sudden horror that had she been charged with hiding a traitor, she would be lying in a dungeon far less comfortable than this minimally guarded prison and could expect a traitor’s death. As a commoner and a woman, she would be burned at the stake. She shuddered as she remembered witnessing the execution of a traitor in the Smithfield Marketplace when she was a child of ten. She was ashamed now that her most vivid memory of the occasion was of a gift of ribbons her father had uncharacteristically purchased for her from a peddler. That had been one of the few good days with John Lambert; she had been the only one of the children who had agreed to accompany their father to the event, and he had been pleased with her.
She wondered how her mother could have sanctioned the outing for such a young girl, but perhaps Jane had already proven such a handful that her parents thought a taste of what could become of unruly adults might make an indelible impression. She knew she would never subject a child of hers to such a hideous scene.
Aye, but she did not have a child, did she? Jane allowed her mind to wander to thoughts of her lusty liaisons with Edward and Will when she had trusted her sponge and vinegar prevention. But, without the benefit of precautions, she and Tom had made love more in their three-week tryst than she had in all her time with Will, and yet she had remained barren. It was puzzling, and it again made her feel sad and a failure as a woman somehow. She thought of Sophie and Jehan and their brood, and she smiled. Such good friends; she did not deserve them. How glad she was she had helped them when she could. It made her feel less guilty for accepting their hospitality of late.
Before she could go back to St. Sithe’s Lane, she must be prepared for what might befall her here. If one of the men who had seen her with Tom bore witness against her, then what punishment could she expect? The same as before? Please, dear Mother of Jesus, not that penance again, she begged, reliving the agonizing walk. And as her mind flew back to that horrifying hour of humility, some words began to form that finally expressed her shame. ’Twas a pity there was no one to appreciate them.
“I had good cause this wretched man to blame,” she began, although in her heart she did not really blame Will for her penance,
“Before the world I suffered open shame,
Where people were as thick as is the sand,
A penance took with taper in my hand.
Each eye did stare and look me in the face,
As I passed by the rumors on me ran,
But patience then had lent me such a grace,
My quiet looks were praised of every man.”
Her eyes filled with tears as she thought lovingly of the support of her fellow Londoners. They had stood with her that day, seeing a woman who had simply offended an overly pious king but who was no guiltier of a sinful life than they were.
Would they support her again? With a sinking feeling, she somehow doubted it.
“So you, too, think they are . . . gone?” Elizabeth dared to ask, subjecting herself to the physician’s expert fleeming.
She had come down with a cold the previous week, and then chills and the fever had followed. Doctor Argentine had been sent for, and he was concerned when he observed the queen dowager’s pallor.
The little doctor, who had served in the former Prince of Wales’s household until recently, looked dwarfed by his heavily padded jacket with its generous fox-fur trim. His close-fitting cap covered everything but his swarthy face with its beady black eyes and small button nose, reminding Elizabeth of a hedgehog. He shuffled around his patient’s bed, noticing the stark difference between the paltry abbey furnishings after the magnificence of Westminster or Windsor.
“I prevailed upon Sir Robert Brackenbury to allow me to see for myself that your sons were no longer at the Tower, your grace,” he told her. “He is a decent fellow and claimed he had no knowledge of their whereabouts. His story—and I believe ’tis naught but a tale he has been told to broadcast—is that the king had secretly removed them to a safe place following the failed rescue in the summer. Certes, I saw no trace of them or their guards, even in the innermost chamber, where they had been lodged the last time I saw them.”
Elizabeth fluttered her free hand, agitated. “But, Doctor Argentine, we heard a rumor they were . . . dead.” She faltered on the word, and Argentine was moved to see her evident anguish. “Were they well when you saw them last? Was Ned well?”
The doctor pursed his thin lips. “He complained of a pain in his jaw, but I could see naught wrong with it,” he answered. “His manservant told me the lad was prone to headaches, and I left a draught with some instructions to ease them. But little Dickon was in fine form. I have not been called there lately, your grace. It is possible they have been sent away to safety.”
Elizabeth watched the doctor bind up the incision after he was satisfied with the amount of blood he had let and its color. “When the king returns to London, I will request that he inform me of my boys’ whereabouts,” Elizabeth decided, although she was certain Richard would not attempt a meeting with her. Besides, who was she any longer to demand an audience with the king? She was grateful for the loyalty of Dr. Argentine and her two ladies. She had dismissed Dr. de Serigo many months ago, and he had returned to Italy.
She was more and more convinced that her boys had been put to death or she would never have otherwise agreed to the Beaufort woman’s scheme to marry Bess to Henry of Richmond. But she needed to know for sure. Poor boys, she thought, close to tears, they were but innocents in this game of kings. She tried to comfort herself by imagining them playing fox and geese together in heaven, but it was fleeting. She had to think about the here and now. If her sons could not be kings, she would wield power again as mother of a queen. Richard may have stripped her of her title, but Elizabeth Woodville had not forgotten how to scheme. She firmly believed Richard would be overthrown if not by this rebellion, then by another, and when Henry Tudor mounted the throne, her Bess would be queen.
She suddenly thumped her free arm on the bed, startling Argentine. “Damn him!” she expostulated, and the doctor assumed she was referring to the king and hid a smile. But Elizabeth was thinking of Edward and how her husband had put her in this disastrous position. How could he have lied to her when he begged her to marry him all those years ago? she asked herself again, knowing he was already pledged to Eleanor. Had he played the same game with her? How ardently he had wooed her, cajoled her to sleep with him, and finally agreed to wed her in secret if she did. This pattern seemed to verify Stillington’s revelation, she reluctantly concluded.
She sighed and turned her attention on Argentine.
“When will the king return, do you know, doctor?”
Argentine was wary; his future depended on it. He busied himself cleaning his fleeming knives and carefully covering the bowl of blood that he would inspect more thoroughly in his own closet. He needed to strike a balance between pleasing his patron, the queen, and not denouncing the new regime too loudly until it was clear what role Elizabeth would play in it.
“ ’Tis said the king has quickly put down the rebellion in the west country, your grace. Those executed numbered only twelve in all, including my lord Buckingham. It seems his grace was merciful, thanks be to God; it could have been many more.”
Elizabeth summoned her courage to ask: “Is there word of my son, the marquess?” She prayed hard that he was not among the dozen put to death.
“Have you not been advised, your grace?” Argentine asked, surprised. “His lordship took ship for Brittany with many others to join Henry Tudor.”
“Then you bring the best of tidings, doctor,” Elizabeth cried, her spirits lifting. “I believe I feel better already.”
Thankfully for Jane, she only had to endure two days of incarceration before she was summoned before the court. Once again, she was first led into the small chamber below the cell where she recognized the broad chest and pleasant face of Thomas Lyneham. This time she did not curtsey but met his gaze, relieved she did not look as disheveled as she had before, although a welt stood out on her cheek.
“Mistress Shore, we meet again,” he began, no apparent disapproval in his tone although he frowned on seeing her injury. The Yorkshire burr was not unpleasant, Jane noticed this time. In fact it was rather appealing, given that it was spoken in a deep baritone. “Have you written any more poems?”
The question startled Jane, and she could not help but laugh. “You remembered, Master Lyneham. In a strange coincidence, it happens I composed one just last night, but sadly I lacked parchment and pen to record it for posterity. But I do not think you are here to listen to my recital of it, brilliant though cheerless it may be. Prison seems to inspire maudlin musings in me
. Do you have news?”
“You may leave us, warden,” Lyneham addressed the gap-mouthed gaoler who appeared confounded by the exchange. “Do not bother to lock the door. I doubt I have anything to fear from Mistress Shore, except for her sharp wit.” He waited until the man had left and began to pace the room, trying to tame an unaccustomed feeling of tenderness toward this prisoner. What it was about the petite woman that fascinated him, he could not rightly say, but he had thought of her often in the months following their first encounter.
Thomas Lyneham, the fourth son of eight children in a family of the northern gentry, had grown up knowing that his inheritance, if any, would be small, and he would have to live by his own wits. He had attended school and was soon better read than his teacher. Since apprenticing as a clerk of the court in York as a fifteen-year-old, he had spent the best part of his thirty-eight years diligently working his way up the legal ladder. Fortune had favored him when he came to the attention of the young duke of Gloucester at Middleham, whose legal mind had impressed him and whose trustworthiness and morality had earned him Thomas’s deep respect. Sent to pass sentence on Jane Shore in June, he had been somewhat offended by Richard’s command, believing he had more important cases to attend to. But as soon as he had come face-to-face with the notorious Mistress Shore, he had been strangely drawn to her.
A man with healthy appetites and a handsome appearance, he had not wanted for women whenever he had the time, but he had never formed an attachment nor had he seen the need for a wife. He enjoyed the company of his fellow lawyers and the men on the king’s council who had befriended him, and his work had satisfied his intellect. He thrived upon his bachelorhood. He had risen in Richard’s esteem precisely because whenever Richard needed legal advice, Thomas was to hand. His rival for the king’s favor was the obsequious Catesby, a man Thomas did not trust. In fact, Lyneham’s duty at Ludgate in June had felt doubly degrading because Catesby had been the one to delegate the task to him.
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