Kitabı oku: «Mistress to the Crown»

REVIEW QUOTES FOR MISTRESS TO THE CROWN

‘Isolde Martyn’s Mistress to the Crown beautifully spins the real history of a fascinating woman into a compelling novel of passion, suspense, and, amazingly, a happy ending for one of England’s most famous royal mistresses. Marvellous!

— Mary Jo Putney, author of No Longer a Gentleman

‘Rich and vivid as a gorgeous medieval tapestry, Isolde Martyn’s Mistress to the Crown enchants from first page to last. Passion, drama, glamour and wit turn this story of a woman who challenges her world into an unforgettable experience.’

— Anna Campbell, international best-selling historical romance author

‘What joy to find a novel that blends sound research with a love story that, on its own, would attract a wealth of romance readers. Isolde Martyn links her skill as an award-winning novelist with her depth of historical knowledge to reveal the life and loves of Elizabeth Lambard (Mistress Shore), and presents her as one of the strongest, most accomplished, lovely and lovable women of the fifteenth century. It’s fact and fiction at its best, a must-have for your bookshelves.’

—Julia Redlich, former fiction editor of Woman’s Day; secretary of the New South Wales branch of the Richard III Society

‘A richly textured historical tale of a fascinating woman with a surprisingly modern determination to live life on her own terms.’

— Anne Gracie, international best-selling Regency Romance author

Mistress to the Crown
Isolde Martyn

www.millsandboon.co.uk

About the Author

ISOLDE MARTYN is originally from England and has an Honours degree in History, with a specialisation in the Wars of the Roses.

She ended up in Australia after meeting a rather nice geologist at a bus stop. Since then she has worked as a university tutor, an archivist and for six years as a researcher in historical geography at Macquarie University. She spent a year researching sedition in early colonial Australia and then became heavily involved in the Bicentenary History project and researched all the towns in Australia for the Bicentenary volume Events and Places.

Her more recent career was as a senior book editor with a major international publisher before taking up writing full time.

Isolde enjoys using turbulent historical events as the backdrop of her books. Her debut novel was the first book by an Australian writer to win the prestigious RITA award in the USA and her first two novels have won the ‘Romantic Book of the Year Award’ in Australia.

She is a former chair of the Richard III Society and Vice-Chair of the Plantagenet Society of Australia, which she co-founded with five other enthusiasts twelve years ago.

MISTRESS TO THE CROWN is her fifth novel.

For my cousins, Rita and Yvonne, and for Simone,

who was once my youngest reader and who

overcame illness with such courage

Characters appearing in this novel

Nearly all these persons are historical. Where the given name of a person is unknown and it has been necessary to create one, these are marked with one asterisk. Fictional characters are marked with two asterisks.

Maiden

Soper’s Lane, the City of London, 1463

At fourteen, we make mistakes. I had been a fool to come to this old man’s chamber on my own, but I was desperate for legal advice on how to annul my marriage. He had told me he was a former proctor, a church lawyer – exactly what I needed – and he had seemed as friendly as a kindly grandfather when I spoke to him after Mass on Sunday. But now he was tonguing his cheek as he eyed my body, and dancing his fingers slowly on the table between us. Behind him, in the corner, I could see his half-made bed.

I would not scream, I decided, slowly rising to my feet. Shrieking for help would mean my name would be all over the city by suppertime. No, I had to deal with this on my own.

‘Thank you, sir, I shall pass your counsel on to my friend, but now I have to go.’ My voice emerged creakily. I had meant to sound brisk.

He smiled, nastily now, no longer bothering to mask his purpose. Both of us had been lying. In truth, I was ‘the friend’ who desired advice, and his legal counsel was not ‘free’; it came with a fee that was still to be exacted.

‘If you are desperate, Mistress Shore,’ he declared, rising heavily to his feet, ‘you’ll be willing to please me.’

Yes, I was desperate for an annulment, but I had rather be hanged than ‘please’ this revolting old goat. My maidenhead was intact and I intended to keep it that way.

‘I made no such bargain,’ I said, fisting my hands within the folds of my skirts, cursing I had not brought a bodkin to defend myself.

‘We won’t go all the way because that would spoil the evidence,’ he wheezed, fumbling at the ties beneath his tunic. ‘Some fondling will do. For now.’

‘Oh, just fondling,’ I said with a pretend smile of relief. ‘I thought you meant—’

I rushed to the door but the latch tongue stuck. He grabbed my left forearm, dragging me back.

This was the moment, or never. I swung my right fist with all the fury I possessed into his face. I heard something crunch. He went staggering back and crashed against the table, the bright blood spurting from his nostrils. That and the toppling inkpots would spoil his clothes, or so I hoped as I ran down the stairs.

It was realising the enormity of my folly that rearranged the contents of my stomach once I reached the street. I did manage to hide my face as I retched, and the moment I could stand upright, I ran past the tenements up to Cheapside, and with a gasp of relief, plunged into the chaos of carts, pigs and people. My mind was still in panic. What if the old man threatened to blab to my husband or to my wealthy father?

My slow progress through the crowd calmed my shakiness. I felt concealed. Outsiders might be afraid of London cutpurses, but this wonderful, raucous hub of noise was my neighbourhood, safer to me than any quieter lane. I pushed further along to where a tight press of people was clogging the thoroughfare and wriggled in amongst them. In their midst, a hosier’s apprentice was standing on a barrow. I had heard his silver-tongued babble before. He was good.

‘The best price in Cheapside,’ the lad was yelling, waving a pair of frothy scarlet garters. ‘Just imagine your wife’s legs in these, sir.’ Laughter rumbled around me. His gaze scanned our faces. ‘And what about the jays and robin redbreasts among you sparrows?’ he challenged, flourishing a pair of men’s hose – one leg pea green, the other violet, and then his cheeky stare sauntered back to my face and slid lower.

Lordy! Squinting downwards at the gap in my cloak, I realised what the proctor had glimpsed as well – a woman’s breasts straining against an outgrown gown. And it was not just on the outside that my body was changing. I knew that. Dear God, that was why I needed the urgent annulment. I was an apple almost ripe for plucking, and my husband, Shore, was watching – waiting – like a hungry orchard thief.

I gave the apprentice a hands-off glare, tugged my cloak tightly across my front and, aware that the proctor’s neighbours might still raise the alarm, I determined to stay where I was with every sense alert.

No hue-and-cry was coming from the direction of Soper’s Lane and I said a silent prayer of thanks for that. Maybe the foul old fellow was as fearful for his reputation as I was for mine. That welcome thought made my shoulders relax. And, apart from learning that men of all ages were not to be trusted, I had at least gleaned one piece of useful advice. The proctor had told me that ‘my friend’ needed to have her case heard by the Court of Arches, the Archbishop of Canterbury’s especial court for hearing divorce petitions. St Mary-le-Bow, the church, which housed the court on weekdays, was just a few moments’ walk back along Cheapside. Perhaps the Almighty was watching over me, after all. If I went to St Mary’s straight away …

‘Pretty mistress? Hey? Anybody home?’ Lapis-blue garters pranced before my eyes. The glib-tongued apprentice had singled me out again. ‘Pet, you’re not listening,’ he declared with feigned dismay, reaching out to tweak my nose. ‘Come, give your husband a surp—’

‘Exactly my thoughts!’ I exclaimed fervently and elbowed my way out.

One of St Anthony’s wretched sows blundered along in front of me, as though she had some similar mission. At least she cleared my path.

St Mary-le-Bow lay almost a stone’s throw from the alley off Bow Lane where I now lived. Richard Lambard, my grandfather, was buried beneath the church’s nave so that was why my family sometimes worshipped there to pray for his soul. My brothers used to tease me that the steeple was haunted, and if you stood in the churchyard for long enough, you were sure to see a chunk of masonry fall from the roof, and that was Grandfather’s ghost making mischief.

To my relief, the doors of St Mary’s stood open. I crossed myself and prayed to Our Lady the Virgin to give me strength. After all, Our Lady’s marriage had been arranged, too, and I doubt she had cared for St Joseph at first, especially when he was so angry about the Angel Gabriel.

I could, would, do this now – go in, swear on the Gospels that I had been wed against my will and that the marriage had not been consummated. They might insist upon a midwife to examine me, but my body’s evidence would prove I was no liar. Of course, I’d need to move back to my parents’ house and I could not be sure Father would take me in; but first things first. With a deep breath I grabbed up my skirts. Freedom was just steps away.

But I was wrong. A pikestaff dropped obliquely across my path. I had not noticed the sergeant on duty.

‘I have business inside, sir,’ I announced, imitating my mother’s tone when she addressed the household. ‘It’s a matter of urgency.’

The soldier jerked a thumb at a parchment nailed on the door. ‘Plaintiff or defendant, mistress? What time is your hearing?’

‘I … ah … er …’

He propped the pikestaff against the wall and shook his head at me. ‘The rule is you cannot go in unless you are on today’s list.’

‘But I need a marriage annulment, sir. By the end of this week. Today, if possible.’

‘Bless me, young woman,’ he clucked. ‘Have you been sleeping in some toadstool ring? Don’t you know it takes months, sometimes years, to get a hearing?’

Months? Years? My first monthly flow might be only days away.

‘They’ll understand the matter is urgent,’ I assured him, wondering if I could duck beneath his arm, but he was no fool.

‘Listen, first you find a proctor to write your petition, then it has to go all the way to Rome, and the Pope himself must be told of it. His Holiness may say you have a case to be heard or he may not.’

‘But I do. Oh, please, let me through.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Almost fifteen, sir.’

‘Fourteen then. Well, pardon me for asking, but does this husband of yours cuff you around when he’s had a bellyful of ale?’ He peered down, inspecting my face for bruises. ‘Is he unkind to you?’

‘No, sir.’ This was becoming embarrassing. Next he would ask whether Shore had lain with me. Instead he said, ‘Does your father know you’ve come here?’ And that angered me.

‘No, sir, this is my business. I am quite capable of handling it.’

‘I can see that.’ I could tell he was trying not to laugh. ‘So, who is to pay the legal fees?’ He cocked his head towards the door. ‘None of the carrion crows in there will take your part unless you pay ’em. They can’t live on air, you know. It’s business, see.’

How naïve of me. I thought it a matter of justice.

Dismayed, I stared down into the churchyard, biting back my tears, looking so forlorn, I daresay, that the soldier creaked down upon his haunches and took my gloved hands. ‘Give your marriage time,’ he advised, with a kindly tug on the end of my blonde plait that must have been showing beneath my coif. ‘Lovely girl like you can twirl your husband round your little finger if you play it right. Now you go home and make him his supper, eh?’

Someone cleared his throat impatiently behind me. Three churchmen were waiting to pass. My self-appointed counsel snapped up to standing, his chin turning a dull red beneath his stubble. ‘Go home an’ forget all about this, eh?’ he muttered after he had waved them through.

Forget? The rest of my life is staked out unless I cut the ropes.

How easily Life can flick us. Like an idle boy’s fingernail against a tiny fly. We are so fragile, our destinies changed so easily by a quarrel, a smile, a death – or marriage.

I was twelve years old – that’s two years ago – when I was wed to William Shore. He was twenty-six and already a freeman of the Mercers’ Guild when he became my suitor. My father considered him an honest man with good prospects.

Once I reached thirteen, I was sent to live with him. I found him kindly, but whenever he stepped inside the door at the end of the day he seemed to bring a weariness that settled like a dust upon my chatter. He still does. I have no idea how to engage him save to inquire dutifully about his business, and most times he will not speak of it. Nor does he wish me to play music or read to him, save from the scriptures.

He is dull, dull, dull. I don’t mean like a numbskull, but dull like an old coin dug up by the city wall. Maybe some other bride might have brushed the earth away and shined him up, but I do not have that urge, and the thought of him taking my maidenhead makes me shudder. Shore likes the way he is; it is me he desires to mint to his liking, but I’m not a yes-sir-please-you-sir girl.

He chose me for my looks and because I was a Lambard, and he did everything wrong. He and his brother-in-law from Derbyshire, John Agard, inspected me before I even met them. I don’t mean they stared at me across the pews or during a sermon in St Paul’s Yard. No, really inspected. I awoke one January morning to find my night robe up around my thighs and the sheet drawn back. It is quite commonplace for parents to permit prospective husbands to view a daughter naked, but how demeaning.

The bargaining was done swiftly after that. Both Shore and my father were in haste to shake hands on the contract. Shore saw himself acquiring a useful patron, because, besides being a wealthy merchant and influential in the Mercers’ Guild, my father, John Lambard, is Alderman for Farringdon, which contains St Paul’s Cathedral and the rich abbeys of the Franciscan and Dominican Friars. What’s more, Father was also Sheriff of London that year, second only to the Lord Mayor. Anne, my mother, is the daughter of Robert Marshall, a reputable merchant of the Grocers’ Guild.

What Shore did not know when he offered for me was that Father had loaned a huge sum to the Duke of York for the war against Queen Margaret, and when the news reached us that her grace had just nailed the duke’s head up on a gatehouse at York, and her army was marching south to enter London, my father was in terror of his life. If the Queen found out which aldermen had lent money to the duke’s cause, it was good odds she would execute them for high treason – hanging, drawing and quartering – or, at the least, exact huge fines.

Father was in haste to provide for us children before all his possessions were seized. He arranged apprenticeships for my two older brothers, Robert and Jack. My younger brother, Will, was promised to the church. I was the only daughter and Father feared if he did not find me a husband straight away, he never would.

Do not think I did not protest. I wanted to be apprenticed like my brothers. I wanted to be the first woman to sit on the Council of Aldermen, to have my name in the Great Chronicle of London, maybe become the first woman Lord Mayor, but no one would listen and the rod across my shoulders was a painful argument.

Well, my father has not had his innards ripped out on Tower Hill. The Duke of York’s son, handsome Edward, has seized the throne, driven Queen Margaret into exile and locked up old, mad King Henry in the Tower of London. (He has even outraged everyone by marrying a steward’s daughter.) Father’s business is prospering, although he is disappointed not to have received a knighthood, but he carries on his life as a highly renowned alderman, while I am stuck in this loveless marriage.

I believe there is a way to unlock the chains of wedlock, even for a woman. I won’t give up. I won’t. I won’t.

Lover

I Bow Lane, London, 1475

How easily Life can flick us. Like an idle boy’s fingernail against a tiny fly. We are so fragile, our destinies changed so easily by a marriage, a death, a quarrel or a smile. I have been waiting a long time for Life to edge his finger close again.

You see, I am twenty-five now and still tied to William Shore despite all my efforts to break free. At times I have considered murder and adultery, but I have resisted both, despite immense temptation to do the former and insufficient enticement to enjoy the latter.

My mind aches for challenge. When my father was sheriff of London, our family house was ever full of esteemed and knowledgeable men, and their talk at table was of kings and dukes, of battles and parliaments, of laws and verdicts, trade and strategy. I learned what went on at the Council of Aldermen, the quarrels between the guilds, the jostling for advancement, the give and take between the city fathers and the King. I miss that rich discourse. When Shore bids fellow liverymen to dine with us, such matters are only for the men; we wives are banished to the parlour. I mean no disrespect, but much of the women’s talk is about their children. And I am childless. Oh, you might look at me and notice no discontent. I am like some tree with ring upon ring of thick armour around my heart, waiting for the woodcutter.

But there is a rainbow promise in the sky. Shore has become impotent, and at last he has agreed that we should no longer share a bed. I also have a little money of my own coming in because he has grudgingly allowed me to set up a workshop of silkwomen, and I am going to save up until I can find an honest lawyer to present my case to his Holiness in Rome. Yes, there is hope.

That was my thinking as I climbed onto a set of steps behind the counter in Shore’s shop. So thankful to be alone, I was looking forward to making a display of the jewelled girdles that my silkwomen had finished the day before. Outside, a fierce April shower was cleansing the street so there would be no customers until the sun showed her countenance again, and I could take my time.

Behind the counter, I draped four falls of fabric from the uppermost shelf. The ruby velvet and the blue-black brocade, wefted with silver thread, were borrowed from my family’s shop in Silver Street. The other two were brunette and russet, the humdrum fabrics that my husband sold.

I had already arranged the most expensive girdle around the brocade in semblance of a noblewoman’s waist. It was so beautiful – a sliver of silver samite stitched with tiny seed pearls and completed with a trio of teardrop pearls set at either end. By contrast, the belt that I took up next was a plain, silk cord, but its shining blue would enhance the brown cloth behind it like the flash of azure on a mallard’s wings.

I was concentrating so diligently with the pinning that the sudden sound of someone’s cough nearly toppled me. On the other side of the counter stood a man in expensive apparel and he looked to be enjoying a view of my ankles. Can ankles blush?

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ I exclaimed with a gasp of surprise. ‘I did not hear the bell.’

‘I did not ring it.’ His voice was utterly beautiful. What’s more, he had a smile to make my toes curl. Not lascivious, but as though we shared a jest and the rest of the world could go and be hanged.

I descended as gracefully as I could and smoothed my tawny skirts, trying to glance up at him with modesty when I so longed to stare. I knew Shore supplied several noblemen with livery cloth for their households, but such men never came to the shop.

A brooch of pearls and peridot lit the black velvet of this stranger’s cap and he wore a fine murrey riding cloak loosely cordled at his throat. Raindrops showered to the floor as he shrugged the cloak off and laid it across the end of the counter against the wall. I was intrigued to notice that the velvet of his slate-blue cote was flattened across each shoulder. This was a man who usually wore a heavy collar of great office.

I curtsied low. ‘How may I help you, my lord?’

He did not correct my address of him. That smile again. ‘Sir Edward Brampton has recommended your silken belts,’ he murmured, looking up at the samite and pearls. ‘I desire to buy one for my stepdaughter. She is almost sixteen and soon to be married.’

Well, I wished her happiness in her marriage, but more than that, I wished myself in her shoes, able to feast in this man’s company.

‘May I show you some that may be more appealing to her youth, my lord?’ I fetched out half a dozen belts and laid them in a row for his consideration.

He did not inquire the prices like most would. Instead, he seemed genuinely interested in the craft and beauty. Drawing off his gloves, he set them at the end of the counter beside his cloak. I was curious to observe his hands.

Look behind the outward show, my father always advises every new apprentice. Observe a man’s fingernails when he takes off his gloves to feel the quality of the cloth you are selling. See if his nails be clean beneath and filed smooth. A rogue may dress like a lord but his hands will show the truth.

This man’s nails were clean, buffed crescents, and his hands would have thrilled a sculptor for they were robust yet slender, unblemished by the sun. A flat diamond adorned his third finger. It was one of the largest gemstones I had ever glimpsed.

Together we peered over the merchandise, our foreheads almost touching. I could smell the imber-gres and chypre essence this man was wearing and, oh, it stirred my senses, and I prayed that no other customers would venture in.

‘You do not sell expensive cloth, mistress,’ he observed, glancing round at the bales leaning against the walls. ‘Who supplies the jewels, then, for these belts?’

‘The goldsmith, Alderman Edmund Shaa. He has also given my silkwomen a workroom so they may be together.’ Then lest my business relationship be misconstrued, I added swiftly, ‘He is the father of a good friend of mine, my lord, and this is a new venture on my part. I am praying it will succeed.’

‘I am sure it will,’ he replied courteously. ‘I am well acquainted with Master Shaa. He must think very highly of you.’

I blushed, honestly delighted by his remark. I so longed to ask him who he was but courtesy bridled my tongue.

By now we had reduced his choice to three. He was taking his time in reaching a decision.

‘Forgive my impertinence, mistress,’ he said, observing the tiny wisps of blonde hair that had escaped from my cap. ‘Your hair and colouring are similar to my stepdaughter’s and she often wears that same blue there.’ He half-crossed himself, his third finger drawing a line from his heart. I glanced down at the bright blue modesty inset within my collar, and grew hot within my gown. He took up one of the belts and held it out to me. ‘If you please, it would help me if you could hold each of these in turn.’

So I obeyed, lifting each pretty girdle to gleam against the square of bluebell velvet that crossed my cleavage.

Thinking much about this encounter later, I realised it gave him plentiful opportunity to stare at my bosom, and yet at the time it did not strike me as sinful. If he was interested in more than the ornate belts, he was subtle.

‘That one!’ he declared finally. It was expensive – honey silk shot with gold, lined with taffeta and embroidered with tiny scallop shells, each with a pearl nestling in its heart. A row of little tinkling shells weighted the ends, promising that it would hang gracefully. A lively girl would find it delightfully frivolous.

‘A good choice. I think your stepdaughter will be very pleased,’ I answered honestly as I fetched out a shiny drawstring bag to match his purchase. He watched me wind the belt into a coil and nestle it safe in a little nest of rabbit fur before I slid it inside. ‘Actually, my lord, Lambard’s shop in Silver Street has some Toulouse silk shipped in only this week that may please your stepdaughter if her marriage chest is not yet full. A bright blue embroidered with white milles fleurs. Toulouse dyes are fast and the quality is excellent.’

‘Lambard’s, you say?’ There was flicker of amusement.

‘Yes, my lord.’ I did not tell him John Lambard was my father. ‘And if you do visit, pray say you came from here.’

‘Thank you.’ He looked genuinely grateful, but then he teased me. ‘Now before you recommend some other delightful ways of emptying my purse, we must negotiate for this.’

Curse it, I’d forgotten to bargain. ‘Oh,’ I exclaimed, touching my left-hand fingertips to my lips in innocent confusion. The girdle had only been finished last night and I had not put a price on it. Yes, that sounds as though I was poor at selling, but in truth this man had me dazed, so delicious was his company. As if he sensed my dilemma, my handsome customer came to my rescue.

‘I see you stock murrey broadcloth here. My steward can visit tomorrow to bargain with your master.’ His words caught me on the raw.

‘There is no master.’ I flared swiftly with a lift of chin and then thought myself an utter fool for behaving so. ‘Your pardon, my lord, my husband owns this shop but the girdles are my enterprise. You may have the belt for six shillings.’

He took the coins from his leather pouch. ‘And you are Mistress …?’

‘Shore, my lord.’

‘Then I give you good morrow, Mistress Shore.’

I knew my duty and hastened to open the door for him. Outside, huddled beneath the lintel, were two men in livery. They arranged their lord’s cloak about him and stepped back. His groom straight away led up a fine chestnut stallion, but my noble customer was in no hurry. He stared out into the rain pensively and then turned his head to me.

‘I think perhaps I should discuss the livery cloth myself, Mistress Shore. What time may I come to speak with your husband?’

‘My lord,’ I gasped. ‘I pray you tell me which hour is convenient to you and he will oblige.’

‘Shall we say one o’clock tomorrow, then?’

‘So please you.’ I curtsied, my hand in deference across my heart. ‘And pray you, my lord, may I tell my husband your name?’

‘Hastings.’

My jaw slackened. The King’s Chamberlain, Lord Lieutenant of Calais and Master of the Royal Mint! I could not answer for shock, but I managed to make a deeper obeisance. After he had stepped forth, I closed the door, gave a squeal of delight, grabbed up my skirts and, humming, spun around our showing room as though I had found the crock of gold at the foot of the rainbow.

Tomorrow shall be my dancing day;

I would my true love did so chance

To see the legend of my play,

To call my true love to my dance.

‘Ahem.’

Jesu save me! He stood within the shop again. What was worse, he had glimpsed me prancing like a merry five-year-old. My face must have looked mighty sheepish because he burst out laughing.

‘I-I like d-dancing,’ I explained, smoothing my skirts.

‘And does Master Shore dance with you?’

I shook my head.

He looked downwards, smoothing the fingers of his right hand glove to make a better fit; even that was done with a languid grace. ‘Pardon my curiosity, but is it that Master Shore will not or cannot dance?’ He raised his gaze slowly. There was nothing improper in his expression and yet …

‘My husband cannot, my lord.’

‘That’s a pity. But I forget my purpose. I have other business to transact after noon tomorrow so tell your husband I shall come at ten o’ the clock. It was pleasant talking to you, Mistress Shore.’

O Heaven! I should not sleep that night. Lord Hastings’ presence lingered with me like a fragrance upon my wrist. Every phrase he had spoken I lifted gently from my memory and examined over and over again with a collector’s care.

I was humming to myself when Shore returned to the shop an hour later. Even he could sense that something had changed. I must have looked more alive.

‘I have good news for you,’ I said triumphantly. ‘You missed an important customer, no less than the King’s Chamberlain.’

‘Lord Hastings?’ Shore nearly had an apoplexy on the spot. Disappointment to have missed the noble lord shone from every pore.

‘Ah trust Howe treated him well?’ His Derbyshire dialect was always stronger when he was upset.

‘No, I served him,’ I replied proudly. ‘He purchased a lady’s belt and he is returning to see you at ten tomorrow to bargain over the broadcl—’

‘You?’ He cut in with such disgust that I recoiled. ‘By the Saints! You fool of a woman, why did you not summon Howe?’

Howe was our oldest apprentice but I was just as capable.

‘Because he was gone to Blackfriars to negotiate the dagswain order, remember? What was I supposed to do, sirrah? Close the door in Lord Hastings’s face?’

‘No need for that kind of tongue,’ Shore admonished. ‘It’s just that ah’ve a large order from Lord Rivers’ steward an’ if word gets around that ah’m dealing with Lord Hastings as well, they may cancel it. Happened to one of the Drapers’ Guild.’

‘I wish you had told me,’ I said wearily. Not that it would have made any difference.

‘Lord Rivers, the Queen’s brother, and Lord Hastings have fallen out over who should be governing Calais, see, and if you look to be dealing wi’ one of them, the other will ha’ none of you.’

‘That’s ludicrous,’ I declared. ‘King Edward must find it hard to deal with their quarrels.’

‘Very likely. That’s probably one of the reasons the King sent Lord Rivers to ha’ charge of the Prince of Wales at Ludlow. Anyroad, like ah said, you should have sent for me straightway.’

‘But you won’t turn down Lord Hastings’ business, surely?’

‘Tha’s summat for tomorrow.’ Shore was looking at me strangely. ‘Why didn’t you send to find me, Elizabeth?’

‘I did not know rightly where you were, sir,’ I answered, although I was certain he had been trying to raise himself with a gap-toothed seamstress, who lived two streets away. ‘But I’ll obey in future. Next time her grace the Queen knocks and you are out, I’ll hide beneath the counter and pretend we are closed.’

‘Aye,’ he grunted. ‘Do that.’

During supper that evening, he said not a word until we had finished eating. ‘Lord Hastings is a great lord, wife. You should ha’ said ah would attend him at t’Palace.’

‘But he offered to come back tomorrow. Anyway, being such a “great lord”, I daresay he may take his leisure where it pleases him, and it pleases him to return tomorrow morning. Are you decided? Shall you accept his business?’

He set his alejack down and made a face. ‘Depends whether he makes an offer. Ah hope you asked a good price for the girdle?’

‘I think so. It was for his stepdaughter.’

‘Aye, that would be the Bonville girl. Worth a fortune, she is.’

‘Well, he took much trouble in choosing it for her and he was pleasant and not high-saddled at all. You should have seen the clothes he was wearing.’ I shook my head, still marvelling. ‘I advised him go to Father’s and see the new delivery.’

His face creased in disapproval. ‘Jesu! You presumed to direct a great lord like him?’

‘But he didn’t mind at all.’

Shore’s eyes narrowed. ‘Mayhap it was not just the girdles that interested him.’

This conversation was travelling onto hazardous ground. Shore had not agreed easily to me employing some silkwomen and making a little money of my own.

My hands fisted in my lap. ‘What are you saying?’

He snorted and clambered from the trestle. ‘Have you not noticed that when you are in t’shop, we have more men come to buy?’

Foolish logic! How could I notice the difference when I was not there?

‘I do not like your implication, sir,’ I said, swivelling round to face him. ‘Nor do you make any sense. Just tell me how would men know whether I am in the shop or not before they come in?’

He was looking down at me as if my dress was immodest. ‘Because ah’ve seen them staring though the doorway as they pass, or else they traipse in, feign interest in summat and then leave if you are not around. God’s truth, when you are there, they dawdle like sniffin’ dogs. Ah’ve observed it’s only the men, not the women.’

‘And ah observe that you have a great imagination,’ I muttered, gathering up the platters for our maidservant to remove.

He grabbed my shoulder and growled, ‘Are you calling me a liar, wife? Why do you think ah’ve always been reluctant all these years to have you in the showing room?’

I shook his hand away as I stood up. I knew very well but I said, ‘Well, I always thought it was in case people believed you too poor to employ sufficient apprentices. If I am good for business because my manners please people, sir, then you should be content. I am not like my friend, Alys Rawson, using my looks to turn men into fawning lapdogs.’

He looked so peevish that I could not resist tormenting him further.

‘Oh Heavens, Shore, you surely do not fear I shall cuckold you? What would Lord Hastings want with a lowly creature like me?’ There is such a thing as a husbandly grunt and Shore’s was perfected. ‘Anyway,’ I added, pouring some more ale into his cup, ‘let us not quarrel but celebrate our good fortune. If you can be cunning and sell to both lords, you shall have much profit.’

But Shore’s jealousy was pricked. Next morning, the sly knave sent out an invitation to his friends’ wives to come at a quarter to ten and take refreshment so that when Lord Hastings arrived, I should be making petty talk upstairs and unable to come down. Oh, how his distrust made me seethe.

No bargain was made with Lord Hastings that morning, but I noticed later that he had left his gloves behind, not on the open counter by the measuring rule, but tucked at the end between a shallow basket of remnants and the wall.

What should I do? Send an apprentice to Westminster or my lord’s house? Tell Shore? Take the gloves myself? Was this forgetfulness deliberate? Ha, vain fantasy on my part to suppose such a thing. This great lord would no doubt send some menial to retrieve the gloves, yet I stood there holding them and dared to dream.

II

I met Lord Hastings again within a few days. He summoned my father to bring samples of silks and gauzes to Beaumont’s Inn, his London house. The request read: Since the fabrics are to be purchased for my lord’s stepdaughter and Mistress Shore resembles her, would Master Lambard please ask his daughter to accompany him! So Lord Hastings had discovered the family connection. I felt very flattered. Of course, Shore would have made trouble had he known, but he had gone to Suffolk to collect cargo that had arrived from a manufactory he part-owned across the water in Bergen-ap-Zoom.

I had visited the houses of wealthy merchants, but I had never stepped inside a noble lord’s dwelling, and Beaumont’s Inn, with its two gables and three storeys, looked to be extremely modest. It lay at the south-east end of Thames Street, close to Paul’s wharf and neighbour to Baynard’s Castle, where King Edward’s mother, the Duchess of York, lived. Only a strip of garden and a laneway separated the two properties.

Father and I were shown up into a hall with long windows that looked westwards towards the River Fleet. Two immense tapestries adorned the facing wall. I do not know a great deal about the stitching but the dyes I do know. Indigo, woad and madder predominated and I would have wagered these hangings had been made in Anjou and come to England as part of Queen Margaret’s dowry when she married King Henry. In fact, the golden salt upon the high table might have been hers as well for it was shaped as a swan, one of her badges.

The man who had been privileged to receive this spoil was in conversation with two men from the Tailors’ Guild and all three were leaning over drawings set out on the high table. When the steward announced us, Lord Hastings dismissed them and stepped down to greet us.

Ah, I am a mercer’s daughter to my fingertips! There is such beauty in a well-dressed man. Lord Hastings had excellent taste. He clearly understood colour, and his long robe of Saxon blue velvet was tailored skilfully across his shoulders. Falls of gilt brocade hung from his padded sleeves just above the elbows and his indoor shoes were finely tapered and made of dark blue leather embroidered with his maunche in white and violet thread.

‘Ah, I see you have brought my gloves, Mistress Shore.’ My senses picked up a descant to that plainsong remark. ‘Bring the samples to the windows, Master Lambard, if you please.’

As he stood with his steward flicking through our squares of cloth, the sunlight showed me a lord who was far older than I had first thought. His forehead was lapped by fine, plentiful hair of a lustrous fairness, a pale scar angled up from his left eyebrow and a frown mark slashed his brow above his nose. Otherwise, the lines in his face hinted at a kind and generous disposition.

‘Your daughter is of my stepdaughter’s complexion,’ he said, looking round at Father. ‘It would please me if she could remove her headdress.’

‘Of course, my lord,’ agreed Father, his mind utterly on selling.

What choice had I? I took off the velvet and buckram cone that sat upon my coiled plaits and let the steward take it into his care.

‘Since she is not yet wed, my stepdaughter, Lady Cecily, wears her hair loose. If you would oblige me, Mistress Shore?’

I did not take my gaze from Lord Hastings’ face as I reached up and removed the pins, one by one, and let my blonde plait fall. There was something deliciously sinful in him asking this of me. A married woman’s hair is for her husband or her lover.

‘Unbraided!’ commanded Lord Hastings, his gaze touching my hair and coming to linger on my lips. In obedience, I brought my plait forward over my right shoulder and slowly loosened the braid and with a toss of my head sent the strands swirling across my shoulders like an unfurled cloak.

‘You have beautiful hair, Mistress Shore.’ So had he. I could have clawed through his and drawn his face to mine. I had never experienced the power of kisses, but this lord would know the craft of lips, the delicate thrusting, the petite mesure parfaite.

My father, fussing which brocade to proffer first, had missed the dance of stares, but he knew what to advise. The choosing was swift and decisive, and leaving my father to bargain with Hyrst, his steward, Lord Hastings led me up to the dais.

‘Tell me what you think of these.’

‘Are they for a tapestry, my lord?’ I asked, picking up the nearest paper – a charcoal sketch of a helmed man wearing a mask, breastplate, leather skirt, greaves and sandals.

‘No, it’s an entertainment for the court. The Siege of Troy. Lord Rivers’ notion. Unfortunately I doubt I’ll have time to put it on this year. Here’s the Lady Helen.’

The drawing showed a creature in a long, yellow wig and voluminous white gown. Metal cones armoured her massive breasts and steel tassets protected her broad thighs. She looked like a fishwife playing Joan of Arc.

‘Why are you smiling, Mistress Shore?’

‘Your pardon, my lord, but unless your desire to is to make people laugh, I cannot imagine anyone stealing this lady from her husband. Why, Prince Paris would need a derrick to get her on board his ship. Oh, but I suppose she is to be played by a man.’

He took the cartoon from me. ‘Do you believe any of this tale is true?’

‘That a princess could leave her husband for a handsome Trojan? I am sure that has been happening since time began. However, I do not suppose the war lasted ten years. That is probably the storyteller’s exaggeration. Or if it did, I expect the Greeks went home at Christmas and Easter.’

‘They were heathens, Mistress Shore.’

I shrugged. ‘Ah, well, perhaps they had orgies to attend.’

I was flattered by his company. There must be weighty matters on this great man’s mind and yet he was making every effort to be pleasant.

‘My lord, is it true we shall be soon be at war with the French?’

‘Yes, Mistress Shore.’

‘That is not good news for the city. Is it to punish the King of France?’

King Louis had funded a mighty rebellion a few years earlier. He had brokered an alliance between King Edward’s cousin, Warwick, the King’s younger brother, George, and the exiled former queen, Margaret of Anjou. The result was an invasion that drove King Edward and Lord Hastings out of England for the winter, but they returned in the spring and after two bloody battles at Barnet and Tewkesbury, King Edward slid back onto the cushions on his throne at Westminster and clapped on his crown again.

‘To punish the King of France?’ replied Lord Hastings, humouring me. ‘Yes, Mistress Shore, it could be seen that way but there are better reasons. You do not approve of the King’s enterprise?’

‘I know that King Louis has invaded Brittany and would like to conquer Burgundy, my lord. I understand also that England has treaty obligations with Burgundy, but I wish the realm might have continual peace so our trade may prosper. War means higher taxes and good men risking their lives. Hasn’t there been enough killing in the quarrel between the Houses of York and Lancaster? No, I do not uphold a war with France.’

He seemed amused by my outspokenness. ‘I shall inform his grace the King of your opinion, little mistress.’

‘I pray you do not, my lord,’ I said genially, for I knew he was teasing me, but inside I was bristling for I dislike being belittled. ‘As for taxes, a man may milk a cow, for sure, but there comes a time if there is insufficient grass when—’

His gasp of laughter interrupted me. ‘Mistress Shore! And there was I believing you only get milk if you pump a cow’s tail, but now you tell me it’s a matter of grass.’

For an instant I thought to clamp my lips closed and wallow in mortification but instead the she-devil in me brazenly retorted, ‘My lord, you may believe what you will. Perhaps in Leicestershire there are a lot of cows with aching tails!’

Hastings drew a breath at my audacity, for he was from those parts, then laughed heartily, slamming his hand upon the table. It was fortunate that his steward’s polite cough ended the conversation for although you can push the boat out far when you are younger and female, it is best not to get into unfamiliar waters.

Lord Hastings’ hand between my shoulder blades was extremely agreeable as he escorted me back to Father. ‘Your daughter has a sharp wit, Master Lambard.’

‘Oh, please do not tell him that, my lord, or he will start noticing.’

Father pushed an armful of samples at me with a glare to hold my tongue.

As we walked back to Silver Street, he said, ‘That man will seek to have you, Elizabeth.’

When I made no answer, he added, ‘You’ll not encourage him. I’ll not have any daughter of mine causing a scandal. The Guild won’t like it.’

‘I do not think you have any right to preach to me, sir.’ I watched his handsome profile redden.

‘Damn it, I suppose you’ll never forget I made a fool of myself.’

We walked on in silence, both of us remembering how he had stupidly leased a house in Wood Street for his mistress and then when he had finished with her, she had moved out taking everything that could be lifted, unscrewed or levered off. Because the dwelling was rented from the Goldsmiths’ Guild and Father did not have the coin in hand to pay for the woman’s thievery, his reputation would have been ruined. Fortunately Alderman Shaa forewarned me and provided a list of all that was owed. It took all my savings to pay my father’s debts.

‘I helped you then with what little money I had, Father,’ I exclaimed, hastening to keep up with his angry stride. ‘But now all your cargoes have been safely delivered, you might consider helping me.’

He halted. ‘To grease some slimy lawyer’s palm, Elizabeth, so he’ll write to His Holiness in Rome on your behalf? Jesu! If divorce was easy, princes would change their wives like they change their cotes. Besides, you and Shore have managed all these years.’

‘Managed!’ I echoed indignantly, tempted to toss Father’s precious samples in the nearest sewer. ‘Shore’s been impotent since he had that quarrel with the cooper’s cart, and before that was not much better.’

I knew what I was missing. I had discovered how to pleasure myself.

‘I concede that Shore is not of the right temperament for you, Elizabeth,’ Father was saying, ‘but as I’ve told you many times before, he’s no sluggard and the Mercer’s Guild thinks highly of him. Why, I’ll wager he could become an alderman like me in a few years’ time. Just be patient.’

‘Patient for what? I did not want this marriage when I was twelve and now I am twenty-five and childless, I am even more resolved to end it.’

Several passers-by were eyeing us now and Father rapidly dredged up his pat-on-the-head-and-she-will-calm expression that he used with Mama when she was angry.

‘Sweetheart,’ he cajoled, putting his free arm about my shoulder to urge me forward, ‘taking a husband to law is not how a decent woman behaves. Marriage is for life. It is God’s will.’

‘God, sir, was never married.’ I shoved his merchandise back into his arms and fisting my skirts marched on alone.

‘You try my patience, Elizabeth,’ he grumbled, hastening after me. ‘Even if you had the money for a petition to Rome, his Holiness in Rome would never listen to a woman.’

‘I’ll make somebody listen,’ I vowed.

And maybe it would be Lord Hastings.

III

‘What’s going on, Margery?’ I whispered to Alderman Shaa’s daughter on Sunday, a week later after we had heard the sermon at St Paul’s Cross. I could see that her parents and mine were heading off together to their favourite tavern for ale and pies, but Margery was blocking my way, insisting that Shore and I remain with her in the stands at St Paul’s Yard beside the cathedral. She had more flesh to keep her warm; I was feeling chilled and ravenous.

I had always trusted Margery. We had become friends at the Cripplegate School for merchants’ daughters and neither of us had found marriage easy. But there was something else that bound me to her family. Not just their help in strangling the scandal that would have dishonoured my father, but Master Shaa’s kindness in persuading Shore to let me have my little enterprise with the silkwomen.

‘Wait-and-see!’ My friend tapped the side of her nose. ‘A surprise.’

‘Oh lord, we haven’t got to watch another pair of priests being flailed around the yard, have we?’ I sat down again with great reluctance. The hour’s sermon on Divine Love, delivered by a Franciscan with a blocked nose, had been tedious. ‘Won’t your children be missing you?’ I muttered.

‘Lizbeth! Be patient!’

The last thing I wanted was to watch some poor wretch doing penance for their sins. God’s mercy! I was the last person to desire to cast the first stone. Part of me was bursting to tell Margery about my encounters with Lord Hastings, but her tolerance of others’ foibles had narrowed since her marriage to the goldsmith Hugh Paddesley, a man I did not care for. Sometimes she sounded more like Paddesley than he did.

‘Ah, here we go,’ she exclaimed, nudging me with her elbow.

A ragtag mob of people, who had not heard the sermon, was thickening the crowd. Alarm bells sounded in my head. Adultery! It had to be adultery! I cast a sharp look at my friend. Had she suspected I was dreaming of taking a lover? No, that was lighting a bonfire with green wood for I read no rebuke in her eyes, and Shore and Paddesley were discussing cockfighting with their friend Shelley. Nothing was untoward.

‘I promise you, Lizbeth!’ she exclaimed. ‘You’ll be glad you stayed.’

There was only one penitent in the open cart, a woman in a white shift with her long dark hair unbound about her shoulders. Not a common strumpet by the way she held herself. Well nourished, too, neither scrawny nor obese. The crowd whooped as the sheriff’s soldiers pulled her roughly down onto the cobbles and untied her wrists. A priest handed her a lit taper, and then with two soldiers ahead of her and two behind her with their halberd blades prodding her forwards, she began her journey of contrition around St Paul’s Yard.

I had seen these walks of penitence before, but today the crowd’s jeers made me shudder as though someone had walked across my grave. The human cockroaches from the back lanes had brought buckets slopping with excrement. Soon the woman’s shift would resemble a filthy rag.

At first she tried to keep her dignity, but as the pelting grew, she started to flinch, her body jerking this way and that like a thief on a hangman’s rope. As she approached our stand, I could see she was about ten years older than I. Her forehead and left cheek were bleeding, and spittle and dung spattered her hair and skin. The thin, putrid shift showed her nipples and she was shivering as though she had the marsh disease.

Shore and Margery’s husband leaned over to spit at her.

‘Come on! Hiss!’ Margery sprang to her feet and, like the other merchant’s wives, shook her fist and jeered. I stood up with the rest but I could not abuse the poor creature. This was no prostitute snared to give the crowd its monthly dose of titillation. She could have been an erring wife or a courtesan; just a woman who had fallen into temptation.

‘Vile,’ I muttered, wincing as I watched the woman whimper and fling up her hands as the stoning began again.

Flushed and pleased, Margery subsided on the bench and put her mouth to my ear. ‘That was your father’s greedy whore. She was caught last week fleecing a merchant from the Grocers’ Guild. Didn’t you hear all the hubbub? The guild has expelled him.’

‘Sweet Christ!’ Now I understood why her parents had hurried mine away. Or had my father done the hurrying?

I searched the faces around me. Did our husbands know?

‘Too tame,’ Paddesley was complaining, with a sneer of nostril. ‘They could have whipped the whore around the yard.’

‘Aye, better sport,’ agreed Shore, which made me want to stick a dagger in him.

‘For my part, I cannot see what charm she held for the poor dotard,’ Master Shelley was saying. ‘Breasts like a beggar’s purse. Whereas that cherrylips a month ago.’ He whistled. His eyes skewed covertly in my direction. ‘Legs to her armpits, but this hag …’

‘Ah, but …’ Paddesley whispered something behind his hand. The other two laughed.

Margery, excluded, reddened. ‘You might give me thanks,’ she muttered, taking out her annoyance on me. ‘I thought you’d be pleased.’

‘Pleased! I found it offensive.’

‘Twaddle, Lizbeth! Women like her make it harder for the rest of us.’

‘Make what harder, Mistress Paddesley,’ quipped Shelley, elbowing her husband.

‘Yes, what are you trying to say, pet?’ Paddesley asked, trying to exchange a grin with me.

Margery was already in a nose-up huff. ‘No matter. Can we go now?’

‘Yes, Margery, what did you mean?’ I whispered as we descended the stairs ahead of the others.

She had to be coaxed. ‘Just that respectable wives like us are not supposed to play the games in bed that she does. If we do, we’re accused of being wanton.’

‘So it’s a sin to enjoy a husband’s lovemaking? How very absurd, but then I wouldn’t know, would I?’ How bitter I must have sounded.

‘Well, I think the whore deserved her punishment, Lizbeth. She’s the worse sort, tempting husbands to be unfaithful.’

‘What, you think she’s worse than a common strumpet?’

‘Winchester geese do it to stay alive. And it’s a business transaction for men who have too much—’ She gestured. ‘You know.’

‘Ah, “the fiery men who become ill if they do not have regular intercourse with a woman”,’ I said, quoting a treatise on the issue.

‘Exactly,’ agreed Margery. ‘Whereas that bitch’s sort does it because they enjoy it.’

‘So it’s her pleasure you take issue with?’

‘Well, yes.’

It was a point of view I had once shared. The sisterhood of respectability. Guild wives were supposed to uphold God’s commandments to the letter. But poor Margery was feeding the incubus of Envy. If she could not enjoy the sport of the bedchamber, she did not want anyone else to either.

I, too, had never enjoyed a man’s lovemaking. Suffered, yes. Shore had first used me when I was fourteen years old. His recent impotence was a blessing. Alas, now I was five and twenty! More than half my life gone already. But none of the London guildsmen had measured to my taste. No man except … And into my mind at that moment crept a scheme so outrageously sinful that I halted on the cobbles with a gasp.

‘Lizbeth, what’s wrong? Are you ill?’

‘Possibly.’ I laughed. Crazed might be the word.

Yes, wild, fevered, CRAZED! Deliciously mad with a spire-high, illuminated ‘C’.