Mistress to the Crown (13 page)

The royal servants were immediately in attendance, lifting the table closer to us for comfort and removing the pinnacled, jewelled lids from the exquisite goblets.

The chamber was softened by tapestries. Above the musician’s head, a voluptuous Helen and sinewy Paris were escaping from
Sparta, and facing the supper table was an arras of St George, his sword bloody and his steel foot set upon the writhing dragon.

All about the room, Love and War glittered in glorious contradiction. A naked battle sword lay starkly across two wall braces but dangling from its blade was a child’s drawing of a heart. Upon the little table by the hearth, a statuette of a curvaceous St Mary Magdalen presided over the stony-faced chessboard military; and a Venetian bowl of blood red glass, entwining lovers enamelled upon its curves, was at odds with the single arrow that rested across its rim. And the two books with ornate claps beside King Edward’s chair of estate? A tale of Sir Lancelot du Lac weighed down beneath a tome on martial strategy?

I glanced sideways beneath my lashes at the man beside me – the muscular soldier’s body, the dimpled, pleasing smile. The same contradiction – a ruler who denied his enemies the right of sanctuary yet tumbled to his knees, bewitched by a beautiful widow. But there was no sense of the Queen in this room, no reliquary of her about his neck. Was this man shallow, whimsical, a mirror to his flatterers? But then I saw beside the books a splintery old footstool, tapestried with a ragged, faded falcon-in-fetterlock. Something kept and loved.

‘My lady?’ A little page with a Rheims napkin across his shoulder held out a silver ewer. I dabbled my fingers in the perfumed water.

My lady?
Were my manners good enough? Would the sovereign lord of England find me dull? Oh, I must smile and please from now on, especially since his hand was resting on my thigh and his gaze was stroking me with a lover’s caress. Hypocrite! If his love for Elizabeth Woodville was past, how long could Elizabeth Lambard last – a comet that might flash a few nights in the sky and then no more?

But the King was trying to be pleasant, and the truth was that Elizabeth Lambard, the envious girl who had watched a shining,
victorious youth ride into London, was sitting alone beside him now he was a man – and he desired her.

I must not succumb to his charm, I told myself. Stay in control, Elizabeth. Like the other men, he sees you as a body for his use, his pleasure. But the Eve in me was whispering that pleasure could be shared. Hadn’t I enjoyed my lessons with Hastings?

His hazel eyes were examining me with a mixture of kindness and puzzlement.

‘Be at ease, Mistress Shore,’ he said, and he withdrew his arm and stretched out both hands to select one of the strange fruit that lay before us upon a silver platter. Six gaudy, yellow fingers joined at the knuckles. He snapped one free.

‘It’s called a long apple or apple of Paradise. Peel it thus and if you break it so, there’s the Holy Cross or Trinity, see.’ He held out a span of pale creamy flesh for me to bite. ‘Like it?’

It was luscious. The long flesh so soft. I did not dare consider how much one lick of a tongue was worth. ‘Perhaps.’ I suggested softly, ‘this was the true apple that the serpent offered Lady Eve in the Garden of Paradise.’

King Edward finished the other half and ran his thumb along his lips. ‘Well, I reckon she’d have certainly turned down an apple-john or leather-coat.’

‘Our homely windfalls, ravished by golden wasps?’ My laughter was genuine as I shook my head. ‘But these fruits are a true wonder. Where do they come from?’

‘The Fortunate Isles off Mauritania.’ He broke off another of the strange fruit. ‘Here, enjoy, it’s all for you.’ And he watched my fingers as I explored the skin. ‘Could be the apple mentioned in
The Travels of Sir John de Mandeville
.’

‘The one that rots within a week?’ Yes, like my reputation once the gossip reached the city.

‘Except these don’t perish during the voyage, learned mistress, they are packed grass green.’

I peeled down the three pieces of the fruit’s strange skin and took a bite of the creamy flesh while King Edward watched my face indulgently.

‘Are they a gift from Sir Edward Brampton?’ I asked.

‘From dear Duarte?’ The King gave a flourish, mimicking his Portuguese friend, making me smile. ‘Yes, you are right. Not a horse short of a shoe, are you, my pretty citizen! Ah, but, of course, you know Duarte’s wife. Suppose you noted my queen was wearing one of your girdles?’ His attention slid down to the samite stitched with pearls that snaked my waist, then appraisingly up over my breasts to the collar of leaves about my throat, and settled at my lips.

Warmth was stealing through my body, turning my skin to rose and my apprehension was sliding away, too, as I gazed back. Here was a man who genuinely liked women. There seemed no contempt in his demeanour; no cruel agendum hiding behind his kindness.

‘You danced like a nymph tonight, Mistress Shore,’ he said appreciatively. ‘Did you expect me to order a repeat performance?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Thought so, the way you marched in.’

‘I did not!’

‘You dance better than you march.’ His strong fingers were wielding a knife. He pierced the flesh of a fig and set its two halves before me. ‘And I’ll wager you skate with the same grace, too.’ But his eyes were asking a different question.

I coaxed some slivers of soft cheese onto the platter between us and then tasted a piece of fig.

‘I’ve never skated, your highness.’

‘Then, come winter, you shall.’ He took a swig of wine and gave me a teasing, gorgeous grin. ‘You will look as sweet as a rabbit kitten with fur gauntlets and a matching cap. Once you’ve
got the way of it, I’ll teach you how to skate backwards. Would you like that?’ Now his gaze was running hot fingers down my cheeks, across my lips and I was beginning to burn.

‘Yes, I would, your highness,’ I answered huskily. What sorcery was happening to me? How could I be yearning to feel his tongue upon my breasts, his touch between my thighs?

‘No “highness” or “grace” in here. Ned will suffice.’

There were no servants now. One by one and subtly, the candle flames had been smothered so that only about the table was there sufficient light to show the sheen of skin. The musician had quietly left.

King Edward watched me take a gulp of wine, shook his head teasingly and removed the goblet from my clasp. He let his gaze fall to my cleavage and then rise once more to my eyes.

‘Well, my proud Londoner, shall you let me unclothe you, adore and worship you? If not, flee now, for I’ve an appetite on me that needs must feed.’

‘And my appetite?’ I asked.

‘Fire for fire, sweetheart.’

His lips touched mine teasingly and before I could respond, he drew back.

‘Sweetheart, I have learned that Life is a trickster and Fortune his strumpet. You live for the moment because you don’t know what he has in store for you. That sinful fellow has taught me some cruel lessons, seesawed me up, seesawed me down, set me against those I believed my friends.’ He carried my hand to his lips. ‘So, my beautiful mistress, let us live this night as though it is our last upon this earth. What say you? ’

I nodded, watched him push the table back, stand, and turn to face me.

‘Take my hand and dance, Mistress Shore, dance before the music is over.’

He held his left hand out to me, palm uppermost. Gold banded his fingers, graceful fingers for so large a man.

Our faces drew close. He looked down into my eyes and tenderly brushed his lips along mine. Had the real Helen felt like this with Paris? Then he made another pass, grazing playfully this time. And deep inside me, the she-serpent reached up her arms through mine and sensually eased her fingers through his long hair and drew his face down.

We kissed hungrily. The King’s breath mingled with mine, our lips devoured, our hands were everywhere. He did not lead me out to that great state bed but gathered me up into his arms and carried me to the innermost of his private rooms, his true lair, where the bed coverlet lay glittering with silver fleur-de-lis and golden lions. He tossed it back, exposing its soft belly of fur.

‘Better than that damned Bed of Ware out there?’ he asked, lowering me before him.

‘Infinitely better, my gracious lord.’

‘Ahhh.’ With a sigh of male approval, he moved behind me, slowly slid my gown down my shoulders and ran his hands over my breasts. The rub of his palms, his subtle fingers on my roused nipples had me wet and hot for him. I was liquid, ravenous. He loosed my silken belt and pushed my gown down below my hips.

‘Elizabeth, my beautiful girl.’ His breath caressed my throat between kisses. ‘I’m glad you made me wait, for our pleasure will be infinitely greater.’

All reasoning fled. Tugged back against him, I felt his hardness pressing into me before he turned me to face him. ‘See the power you have over me. Feel how much I want you, need you, want to taste you.’ He slid my body across the bed and then swiftly he took off his clothes and stood looking down at me like a naked god before he took me in his arms. His mouth fed on mine as
the soft ermine lapped against my skin and his hands slid up, up stockings and garters to between my legs.

‘So you do want me,’ he murmured with a male purr of satisfaction. ‘Ripe and wet.’

‘Yes, I want you,’ I gasped. Although I was burning for him to slide inside me, I wanted him to be hungrier still. I pushed him back and slid a leg astride him.

He laughed, drew me down and possessed my mouth, curling his tongue about mine with open-lipped thirst while his hands played upon me like a sculptor’s, creating an art of love, outside me, within me and my fingers too were skilled now, teasing, enticing.

I kissed his broad shoulders, ribs and belly, lapped him with my tongue down to the thicket of tiny curling hairs and his prick. He arched and cursed and groaned like a great golden dragon, writhing beneath me until he could bear no more. With swift strength, he had me on my back. His mouth was a slash of tension as he readied me. His skin was slicked with sweat as he thrust into me at last.

And there are no words left, try as men may, to describe that little death, that incandescent instant when, transacted with mutual love, there is no difference between sweet submission and exquisite conquest.

I reached out and fingered one of the golden tassels that adorned the pure white bedcurtains. The early sun was stealing through the glass, edging towards my lover’s face. He stirred, yawned, stretched. There was no morning arousal. He was sated. We both were.

‘That was a goodly night,’ he murmured, drawing me closer to his side. It was the first time I had ever slept through until
morning with a man I liked, and I snuggled close revelling in this glorious miracle – Elizabeth Lambard lying within the arms of King Edward of England.

‘Happy?’ he asked.

‘This much.’ I rolled back and stretched wide my arms. ‘Deliriously. Exquisitely.’

He smiled and looked at me with such great tenderness. ‘Excellent, I have made at least one of my subjects joyous this morning.’ Then he leaned up on his elbow and jabbed me on the nose. ‘Listen, wench, are you always called Elizabeth?’

‘My brothers call me Lizbeth.’

He shook his head. ‘Won’t do. The Queen prefers Elizabeth and my daughter is Bess. What about Jehane for you?’

‘No!’ I had seen a Lollard’s gruesome death and the memory still terrified me. ‘No! They burned Jehane as a witch.’

‘Pah, I don’t believe that,’ Ned scoffed, lying back and clasping his hands beneath his head. ‘I’ll wager she was no ignorant shepherdess either.’

I stared at him in astonishment. I had never questioned the tale.

‘Well, some poor creature burned,’ I said sadly, ‘but it would be sweet to believe that Jehane escaped.’ A slender maiden in armour astride a white destrier, the lion and lilies pennon fluttering above her inspired face. ‘So brave for a woman, even if she was our enemy.’

‘The name fits you.’ He leaned over to his bedsteps and lifted up a goblet, dipped his finger in it. ‘We could make it more English. What about Joan?’ I must have winced. ‘Or Jane? Not too many of them. Yes, I like it. What do you say,
Jane
?’

Before I could argue, he drew a cross upon my brow.

‘You didn’t let me
say
.’

He laughed and kissed my brow. ‘Oh, feel free to disagree. I do listen sometimes.’

I clouted him.

‘Stop doing that, you witch. That’s treason.’ He playfully nuzzled my hair. ‘When I get back from the campaign in France, I want you to come and live here at Westminster.’

‘Whoa, my liege, I think you put the cart before the horse.’ I pleated my lips, close to crazed laughter; last evening had been so full of horses. ‘Truly, you hardly know me.’

Surprised at my reluctance, he said haughtily, “If you think I am going to send a servant all the way to Farringdon past your father every time I want your company, stow that!’

‘I do not live in Farringdon.’

‘Ah, no, I forgot we have the feelings of poor, broken-masted Master Shore to consider. Send him along to see me.’

‘My lord … Ned …’

‘Going too fast for you, am I, Jane?’

I nodded, laughing. ‘Just a little. I have been rebaptised, my movables shifted to Westminster, my husband about to be—’

‘Placated?’ Ned’s eyes devoured me. ‘No, how could he be unless he’s blind and senseless?’ For an instant it was as if the wraith of Shore hovered between us. ‘Is your husband ambitious, greedy, venal? Helps to know.’

‘No, my gracious lord, he is hardworking and diligent.’

My lover pulled a face. ‘
Respectable?
’

‘With an illuminated “R”.’ I said with a little growl.

‘Oh, one of those. Poor Jane. Well, we’ll sort him out. I’ll see him after Mass this morning.’

I held up my palms. ‘Your gr—’

‘
Ned
! Come on, I did not think you so slow-witted.’

‘Ned, I feel I am on the back of a runaway horse. No, don’t laugh at me!’ I ran a finger down his stubbled cheek and spurred the conversation down a different path. ‘Tell me, can the King of England stay in bed as long as he likes?’