Mistress to the Crown (22 page)

Everyone wanted me to slide in a word on their behest in the hazy, lazy aftermath of royal lovemaking. I was pleased to be useful. Sloth and loneliness no longer tarried at my heels like a pair of growly greyhounds. This was the power I had dreamed of, spoken of to Mama when Ned first took me to his bed, the chance to make a difference.

I did not take bribes, unless you count a single rose, and I only intervened when there was clear injustice. The cynical might say I was trying to scratch some years off Purgatory or show off my influence over Ned but, honestly, no. If God had given me the chance to help the poor and meek, then so I would.

‘Taking business from me,’ Hastings jibed, flourishing a hand at the crowd outside my door. ‘Clogging up the thoroughfare. Worse than a hanging. Did you know Ned’s planning to establish a Court of Mistress’s Bench to handle this rabble?’

‘A court for women’s pleas might be very welcome,’ I suggested sternly, but the Lord Chamberlain was pleased to ignore that.

‘Your servants are not managing, are they? I’ll get Hyrst to find you a burly porter.’

Not all my petitioners were threadbare, smelly or gutless. When Ned was in the north at Pontefract, there had come a churchman of high degree.

To be honest, I was wary of priests for I had a great fear of being excommunicated and, on the rare occasions I encountered Will, my brother, he tried to herd me back into the sheepfold of virtue. So, when my new porter, Young, brought the visitor in, I had my mental buckler raised, expecting a silver-tongued friar wanting alms.

‘Provost Westbury, Mistress.’

My caller wore a simple woollen robe and hefted a shabby leather satchel. Sandals dark with age were bound around his dusty feet and the edge of his cuffs had the shiny rub that hinted at making do. His lean, pointed chin and scholarly stoop reminded me of old King Henry. Old, yes. Thick grey hair fringed his tonsure and the blue of his right eye was clouded.

‘Mistress Shore, my name is Westbury. I am the Provost of the College of Our Lady at Eton. Perhaps you have heard of us? Many of our scholars go on to study at King’s College, Cambridge.’

Cambridge?
This might not involve me at all. ‘Are you seeking the whereabouts of my brother, William Lambard, Father?’

‘No, Mistress Shore, I’m seeking your help.’ Help? The lightening of my purse, perhaps?

He unloaded the satchel and sat down with clear relief. I called for Lubbe to bring him some ale and he accepted it with gratitude and began to explain.

‘King Henry, our late king of blessed memory, founded both Eton and King’s College, but since his … his death, Mistress Shore, our circumstances have been less secure. It was his wish that we educate five and twenty scholars and care for a similar number of aged and infirm men. Not counting the servants, we have sixty-six persons to maintain and that includes ten teachers and six choristers. But in this year alone our income has dwindled from £1500 to £370. I should not complain for King’s College is in an even sorrier state with so much building not yet complete.’

Had we reached the crux of this?

‘You see, Mistress Shore, our trouble lies in the fact that the King’s grace has diverted much of our income to provide for St George’s College at Windsor for the rebuilding of the chapel, a matter very close to his heart, I understand.’

‘Indeed, it is.’

His fingers plucked nervously at the folds of his habit. ‘I believe his highness may have taken an unfortunate exception to the fact that we retained King Henry’s image on our seal. We have now rectified the matter. What we were wondering, Mistress Shore, was whether our college might prevail on your kindness to speak with King Edward on our behalf and ask him to return some of our goods and lands so we may earn sufficient income to sustain the wishes of our founder.’

I liked this churchman’s decency, not to mention his tolerance of someone like me.

‘I can certainly speak up for such a worthwhile enterprise, Provost, but I think you overestimate my influence.’

A sweetness wreathed his features. ‘Mistress Shore, from near and far I have heard of your kindness. Help us and you will ever be in our prayers.’

I smiled. Here was a priceless bribe to tempt a fallen woman – the prayers of an entire college!

He hauled his satchel onto his knee. ‘I have a summary of our ledgers if you would like to see them.’ He made use of my small table and spread the figures of the last ten years. ‘I thought we had royal protection when their graces visited us in ‘71,’ he said sadly, ‘but, see, here and here, how our income has been diverted.’

Hmm, just mentioning King Henry could make Ned irritable, but this matter seemed to be fairly urgent. Already, the college was crusted with debt.

‘I’ll do what I can, Provost, but the King has gone to Pontefract and is not likely to be back in London for several weeks.’

When my visitor had departed, I gave the matter much thought and decided to create another precedent and seek an audience with the Queen. Mind, I had as much hope of seeing her as a blind beggar but, to my astonishment, one of her ladies actually
came to King Street next day to fetch me – and to perhaps scout a little for her mistress.

Elizabeth Woodville’s bedchamber was more opulent than Ned’s and upheld her acquisitive reputation. The carpets, tapestries and stained cloths were the most skilled works I had ever beheld and the open shelves of the aumery were crammed with cups encrusted with jewels. The Queen lolled upon a daybed covered with priceless sables. She was pregnant again. A small pile of books with gilded clasps lay on a small table near her elbow next to a golden platter of almond sweetmeats. She might be listening to one of her handmaidens plucking a psaltery, but she looked as happy as a cow in a threadbare field.

I knelt on the fur rug next to her embroidered slippers.

‘Ah, the Trojan mare.’ A hand dangled provocatively in front of me and I had no choice but to kiss the lavish diamond that could have easily scratched my cheek.

‘It is very generous of you to let me speak with you, madame.’

‘Generous! Pish! It is only because I am bored. You might offer me some amusement, Mistress Shore, if it is only to cringe at the sharpness of my tongue. There’s a stool behind you or does this require grovelling?’

‘I hope not,’ I replied brightly. ‘I should very much appreciate your counsel, your grace.’ I watched the perfect arches above her eyes rise in cynical unison. ‘It is just that I have had a visit from Provost Westbury of Eton.’

The cupid’s bow lips tightened. ‘How very tedious. Wanting charity, I suppose, and favours of a more respectable kind than your normal truck.’

I resolved not to let her prick me. ‘Wanting, yes. Wanting enough to sustain the purpose of the college.’

‘And you have come to me with his plea. How very presumptuous of you.’

It was like walking against a gale but I plodded on. ‘Gracious madame, I understand you have visited Eton College. Is this man’s plea worthwhile, would you say? Are they striving to fulfil their purpose? If so, perhaps you would consider writing to the King’s grace on their behalf? Their plight seems desperate.’

She threw back her head with a husky laugh. ‘Lord help us, the King’s concubine conniving with his queen. Next instant you will be suggesting we enjoy each other’s company and attend church together.’

‘Actually, that’s strange that you should mention it …’ I began, showing her a sparkle of eye.

Her lips twitched. The smile that lit her face displayed her stunning beauty.

‘
Actually
,’ she mimicked, ‘you have amused me.’ Then she was silent, watching me like a stalking cat, and I wondered if she was even considering my request, but then she surprised me. ‘Yes, I have visited the college several times. They always made us welcome.’ Languidly she picked up the plate, offering me a sweetmeat.

I took one with a smile, grateful as an exhausted diplomat offered peace after weeks of wrangling. She ate one, too, delicately licking the crumbs from her lower lip.

‘The trouble is, Mistress Shore, there is only so much cake to go around. If you give more to one religious house, it means you have to take from somewhere else. Like my husband’s time – if he is with you, he isn’t with someone else – someone like me.’

I nodded. No knee-shuffling apology from me even if she deserved one. I assumed she would dismiss me after that swipe of paw but she did nothing of the sort.

‘Very well, we shall play matters thus. I shall consult with Canterbury and raise the matter with the King.’ Snapping her
fingers, she sent a page to fetch her secretary. ‘He’s putting on too much weight,’ she observed. ‘You must have noticed with all the rolling around.’

‘You mean the King’s grace?’

‘Don’t be thick, woman, I’m not talking about the Provost of Eton, am I? Try and discourage his royal hungriness from consuming a second supper, will you! His horse will be grateful and I imagine you will be, too.’

‘That seems a reasonable
quid pro quo
, gracious madame.’

She dismissed me then with an indolent toss of chin, but before I reached the door, she asked, ‘Where is your Achilles’ heel, Mistress Shore?’

The King’s kindness had given me vulnerability; to lose his friendship would be to shut out the sun.

‘In my heart, madame.’

‘By Heaven, I have hungered for you,’ Ned exclaimed, on his return from the north. Wasting no time, he set his arm about my waist and turned me towards the stairs.

‘Ha, really?’ I challenged, as we hastened up to my bedchamber.

All my delight in life tumbled back in full measure as I unlaced his shirt. Our lovemaking was urgent; our fulfilment divine.

‘I have been remiss, my darling. You deserve to be rewarded for your patience,’ he murmured afterwards, stroking my neck as we later lay entwined. ‘Hmmm, how about a golden collar with matching eardrops?’

‘Just being with you again is joy enough.’

‘What, such a saint, so selfless?’ He skimmed his hand down my thigh. ‘Maybe I should ask the Pope to have you canonised. We can sell locks of your hair to every abbey in Christendom and make our fortune. Ouch! Think of the pilgrims. Hey, stop
whacking me, you witch! Now come on, ask me while I’m in a giving vein.’

‘Well …’

‘See! I knew I could tempt you. There isn’t a woman in—’

I silenced him with a kiss. ‘I do have one wish,’ I conceded, stroking my fingers through the royal chest hairs. ‘I’d like one of your grooms to teach me how to ride.’

‘What, a horse? Can’t you be satisfied with riding me?’ He eased me up astride him.

I leaned forward, drowning him in my hair. ‘I mean a creature with four legs and a mane.’

‘Ah, an ass like your husband,’ he murmured, fastening his palms to adjust me better. ‘Now, to the gallop, my Jane!’

But he had listened. He ordered his marshal to designate a groom to teach me and when I went to the stable for the first lesson, there was a lovely little mare named Bathsheba reserved just for me.

When I did not travel by river, I loved riding Bathsheba. Sitting in her red leather saddle made me feel like a lady and people treated me with far more deference; they touched their caps or cleared out of my path. I felt safer, out of the reach of cutpurses and carousers.

I wanted to be above other dangers, too. The Trojan Mare yearned to canter along the sand between the plains of Troy and the Greek fleet without attack so I decided to ask the advice of my Florentine namesake, Elizabetta, the mistress of Ned’s banker friend, Gerard de Caniziani.

Amiable and rotund, she reminded me of how Margery Paddesley had been before bitterness had taken a chisel to her cheerfulness. Elizabetta gave me escort round her house, chattering the whole time in a motley torrent of Florentine, Latin and London servants’ cant. When we finally sat down in her parlour
to wine and almond pastries, I told her how I wanted to increase my wealth so I might be more independent.

‘You can talk to Caniziani, Signora Shore, but I can tell you what ‘e will say – tell the bel Eduardo to buy you a casa. A house in Charing,
sì
? Why you look at me like that?’

I chuckled. ‘You give me good counsel, but—’

‘But you have already thought of theess,
sì
?’ She shrugged. ‘What eez going on here in your block?’ She tapped her temple. ‘You do not want Eduardo treat you like a bobtail? You out of Bedlam?’

I laughed at her English but she was right. The memory of my father’s whore still haunted me. ‘Yes, ma donna, I think you have hit the nail upon the head. I like being the King’s mistress but I do not want to be seen as greedy.’

‘Bah, meglio essere invidiati che compatiti. Let the world envy you.’

I set my beaker down and leaned forward. ‘What I wondered was whether you think the Medici Bank might give me a loan. You see, I already own a silk enterprise and I’m a freewoman of the city.’

She shrugged. ‘If you must ‘ave it so, Caniziani will lend you enough to buy Windsor Castle. I’ll ask him,
sì
?’

Never trust a banker who is friendly with the king who is your lover.

Ned was angry. He strode into King Street looking like an apostle who’d missed the Second Coming. ‘In God’s name, Jane!’ he yelled, flinging his hat at my tapestry of Dido and Aeneas. ‘I will buy you Windsor-ruddy-Castle if you need it. Why didn’t you ask me first?’

‘I was trying to do things my way,’ I muttered, struggling up from my curtsy.

The royal nostrils quivered. He glared down at me. ‘Are you trying to undermine my credit?’

‘Your pardon?’

‘How do you think it cursed well looks if my mistress goes grovelling to the damned Medici for a loan to buy a house. Just a house, for God’s sake.’

‘I didn’t grovel.’ I argued, swiftly rising to my feet.

‘Everyone grovels unless they’ve discovered some dirty secret about their banker. Christ Almighty, what will the Frogs make of it? That the King of England hasn’t even a gomph stick to wipe his arse?’

‘Ned!’

‘I’m sorry.’ He flung himself down on my only chair so hard it pleaded for mercy. ‘What’s eating you, Jane?’ Heels slammed down on my footstool. ‘Is my money not good enough?’