Mistress to the Crown (38 page)

‘Did you ever meet with the Widow Grey, lately styling herself Queen of England?’

What, did he think the Queen and I drew up a bedchamber schedule?

‘I was the King’s concubine,’ I replied.

‘Woman, you must provide an exact answer or we shall put you to the question downstairs.’

The threat loosened my tongue: ‘Only once did I seek an audience with her grace and that was on behalf of the Provost of Eton College that she might ask the King’s grace to restore his patronage.’

That raised the eyebrows but he rallied. ‘You never met with her by night? ’

I bit back a sarcastic answer. ‘No, I avoided her like the plague.’ I did not mention that I had discussed Ned’s health with her. I could see where this might lead.

‘And the Queen’s mother, Jacquetta? Did you ever meet her?’

‘No. She died before I came to Westminster.’

‘We have evidence that you desired to bewitch the Lord Protector.’

‘Evidence! What evidence?’

‘It is not necessary for you to know.’

‘Then you debase the law, proctor,’ I exclaimed with heat. ‘Everyone has a right to know who accuses them and what is alleged. How otherwise can I refute the lies being told against me?’

‘It is for us to decide who is telling the truth not you.’

‘I loved King Edward, God rest his soul, and he would stir in his grave if he knew of this evil accusation against me.’

O Sweet Jesu! I drew a sharp breath as my memory stirred. That day Ned had introduced me to Gloucester.
She has bewitched me
. Was it Ned’s words that had brought me to this trial? Had one of the many servants who stole in and out like wraiths given testimony? Or the Lord Protector himself?

As if he read a garbled version from my thoughts, the interrogator asked: ‘Did you ever hear King Edward say that the Queen or her mother had bewitched him?’

‘No, Father.’

‘Did he ever say to you that you had bewitched him?’
My Jehane
.

‘Actually, he did, but it was as a lover speaking lightly.’ I tried to decipher the priest’s reaction. Had I just announced my death sentence?

‘You are wise to give us the truth, my daughter. Go on.’

‘There is no more to say, Father. I needed no sorcery. I loved King Edward with all my heart and he loved me. You may find a palaceful of witnesses to tell you that.’

‘Can you deny you had power over him?’

‘Yes, I can. He was my king and sovereign lord.’

‘Yet you influenced him to change his mind when others asked you to intercede for them?’

‘Only where a cause was just. For instance, if you had come to me seeking help and I had pleaded on your behalf with the King’s grace, would that have been sorcery?’ His silence made me speak further without forethought. ‘It is my understanding that witches only seek to do evil. God be my witness, I only ever desired to help good men find justice.’

‘How do you presume to know what witches seek? Have you consorted with other witches?’

‘No!’

‘Do you confess your sins as a fornicator?’

‘Yes,’ I sighed, ‘I confess my sins.’ What did they want me to do, wear a rayed hood from now on? Live outside the city walls? Make confession every day? ‘Yes, King Edward and I were lovers, but I am
not
a witch!’

‘Did you and Thomas Grey, lately styling himself Marquis of Dorset, make any wax dolls or participate in any rites of sorcery?’

‘No.’

‘Did you and the traitor Hastings or any of his household make any wax images, draw up horoscopes or participate in any rites of sorcery?’

‘No.’

It was all written down but interrogation was repeated two hours later and again two hours after that. The same questions. The same answers.

That evening I was permitted a visitor of my own flesh and blood. My brother Will bravely came to see me after he had learned from Mayor Shaa of my arrest. He stood in the heart of the little cell and scolded me for not heeding his counsel. With no choice but to listen, I huddled miserably against the wall, conscious of the agonised prayers gouged into the stone behind my back.

‘All you say is true but don’t let them burn me, Will,’ I pleaded. ‘Surely the Bishop of Ely will speak on my behalf?’

‘Didn’t they tell you he’s mewed up here as well. So are Lord Stanley and Oliver King, the Prince’s tutor. You are in dire trouble, sister.’

For loving Ned and Hastings?

‘There are many I’ve helped when I had the power, Will. Is there no one to bear witness on my behalf?’

‘What? Risk the ill favour of the great lords who are now the authority in this land just to defend a sinful woman? Use your head, Elizabeth?’ He crouched before me and chafed my cold
hands. ‘It is a different world out there.’ I must have looked so devastated for he added cheeringly, ‘Be brave. There’s still Lord Mayor Shaa. I’ll see what he advises. Do you want me to send for Father?’ I shook my head.

We knelt in prayer, then he kissed my cheek. ‘Better go, eh? I’ve a sermon to write.’

‘On unbiddable women?’ I muttered, swallowing my tears. ‘Wait, Will, there’s something I must tell you in case we never meet again. Something you must tell Jack if I am sentenced to die. I don’t want him to remember me as evil.’

Will listened with growing indignation as I explained about Father’s thieving mistress and how I had given my savings to save the family’s reputation. ‘The Shaas can confirm I’m speaking the truth, Will,’ I assured him. ‘Anyway, I made Father promise that once he had money in hand again he would buy a house in Hertfordshire for Mama and turn the shop over to Jack.

‘Why on earth didn’t you tell us, Elizabeth? We’re your brothers. We had a right to know.’

‘It was between Father and me. I didn’t want Mama hurt. Anyway, both Rob and Jack were overseas at the time.’

‘Yes, but—’ The guard clanged in, growling at Will to leave. My brother ignored him. The wheels of his mind were turning fast. He looked so devastated. ‘Then we owe you everything. I couldn’t have finished my studies if you hadn’t made that sacrifice, could I?’ The soldier shoved him to the door. ‘And Jack wouldn’t have the shop and—’

‘It doesn’t matter, Will,’ I cried as the lock clanged shut. ‘And don’t blab to Jack unless.’ I broke off, trying not to cry.

‘Be brave,’ he shouted through the wood. ‘I’ll pray for you this night.’

I hoped he would. But was anyone except the Devil listening?

The proctor appointed to defend me came to my cell that evening. A whey-faced young man with a laugh like a he-ass. Myopic, too, forever craning forward, screwing up his eyes and drawing his lips into a tight ‘o’ of concentration.

When I asked him for the true gravity of my circumstances, he overwhelmed me with ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’. The gist seemed to be that, depending on the testimony of witnesses and the suspect’s responses, there were eleven levels of action that might be taken against witches.

In passing sentence, the bishop would be required to judge whether the suspicion of sorcery was light, strong or grave; whether the witnesses’ intent was to defame; whether I had confessed; whether I was relapsed, penitent or impenitent. An appeal against an adverse sentence was possible but it depended on whether the judge deemed the action frivolous or lawful and just.

All clear as mud.

‘Now I need to ask you some important questions, Mistress Shore. Have you ever cursed a herd of cows?

‘Not recently.’ But seeing he took my wit at face value, I swiftly made denial. Then followed an interrogation that in lighter circumstances would have had me doubled with laughter.

Had I caused lightning and hailstorms? Had I changed anyone into the shape of beasts, sacrificed babies to the Devil, impeded procreation, bewitched anybody into inordinate love or extraordinary hatred?

‘No, never.’

The final question terrified me: had I caused any man to lose his virile member?

Of course I had not, but what if Shore was brought from Antwerp to testify?

With the questions done, my young advisor warned me my head and body hair might be shaved, pins stuck in me to test
if I felt pain and my body examined for extraneous teats where incubi might suck.

I was tempted to retort that every man I knew had two of them upon his chest. Instead, I pointed out that this examination had already been done.

‘Nothing was found.’ I said with confidence.

He looked at me with pity. ‘I have argued that you should not be “put to the question” again, Mistress Shore, but it is still a possibility. It was also suggested that some of your household be brought to give evidence.’

Brought?
The word reeked of Buckingham.

‘I have nothing to fear,’ I declared. Yet in my heart, I was terrified that if I saw Isabel tortured, I might babble the sky was green or that Buckingham was Christ come again.

Once more in the cell, I was left with the stub of a candle, the patter of rats and a sleepless night of fear stretching through the cold hours into morning. Cradling my knees, I sat against the wall, grieving and crying out silently to the shades of Ned and Hastings for justice. Yes, I had sinned with them, I admitted to God. Adultery many times over. Yet I was always faithful, I’d never betrayed either of them. But to burn for witchcraft …

When you face death, you begin to cast away old values. In looking back over my life, I realised that night how much vanity I still carried; how I feared the hurt to my pride if they degraded me by shaving off my long fair hair and yet, when we face God’s throne on Judgment Day, of what significance are grey eyes, blonde hair and breasts that others envied?

The memory of seeing a poor Lollard burned when I was a child came back to me. Jesu, to be hurdled through the streets and bound to a stake with wood beneath you, to feel your flesh melting, to smell your own skin starting to smoulder. How long would the pain endure? How long before the smoke suffocated you?

I was in such cruel reverie when the bolts scraped back and Master Catesby stepped in, wrinkling his nose. ‘Good morning, Elizabeth.’

A cloak lay over his arm and he was carrying my gardening shoes.

‘Well, look who the Devil has blown in,’ I snarled, observing the glint of embroidered shirt above his satin stomacher, the emerald and pearl brooch upon his hat and the extra rings adorning his hands. ‘Have you come to gloat, you foul traitor?’

‘You spread your legs to the wrong man, Elizabeth.’ He handed me the shoes. ‘Now let’s see if you can charm a bishop.’

VII

When we entered the boat, I expected to be taken to the Lollards’ Tower at Lambeth Palace, but instead I was taken to St Stephen’s Chapel, Westminster, to stand trial before Thomas Kemp, the Bishop of London.

Devoid of tapestries and sparse of furniture, the palace had a hollow, eerie feel. It was early, there were few servants about and even they looked furtive. Outside the chapel stood the sheriff’s soldiers, waiting to swoop on me like kites once my conviction was secured. They eyed me contemptuously. I suppose I looked a gutter slut with no coif to cover my head like an honest woman.

Incense from early Mass hung in the chapel air. The board set before the bishop’s chair stood where Ned’s body had lain before the altar. I sadly knelt and crossed myself, beseeching Ned’s spirit to protect me for I felt so defenceless.

Catesby was openly gloating at my discomfort nor did I like the inscrutable, covert looks that the interrogator and other magpie clerics were casting my way.

Do we have guardian angels? I hoped mine had woken because my young proctor arrived yawning. Hardly a silver-tongued Cicero.

They made me stand while we waited for the bishop. I prayed silently, fervently, imagining the beads sliding through my fingers, petitioning Our Lady and St Mary Magdalen to give me strength.

At nine o’clock Bishop Kemp hobbled in with sticks, his face strained with the effort. Pain makes a testy judge. His crepe-skinned hands shook as he shifted his papers before him but his gaze was sharp enough. Firstly, he called for a stool to be brought for me and then he studied my person: the hands without jewels clasped upon my lap; the tendrils of long hair uncombed since yesterday, the soil of my garden still blemishing the wizened leather of my shoes.

The charges were read: that I had conspired with Hastings and the Queen in sorcery against my Lord Protector; that I had carried messages under a false name; that I had accepted a jewelled collar from Dorset to pay agents to spread rebellion; that I was guilty of leading the late king into debauchery by which lewd living the days of his life were shortened; and that he was forced to oppress his people by taxes to pay for my services and feed my insatiable appetite for riches.

I pleaded innocent of treason and sorcery but guilty of carnality. I had thought out some arguments to defend myself but Bishop Kemp warned me to hold my peace. Nor was I requested to give evidence because he had already read my deposition.

He peered cantankerously at Catesby before he exclaimed: ‘There is much here confirming this woman’s adultery, but are there any present that will give testimony of this woman’s
good
character?’

Who would?

‘I shall speak for her.’

A murmur of astonishment rippled through the chapel. At first I did not recognise the short churchman who stepped forward and placed his hand upon the Gospels.

‘I am the Provost of Eton College,’ he announced, swinging his gaze round over the entire assembly. ‘I can tell you Elizabeth Lambard is a sensible, intelligent woman of generous and charitable disposition. Without her intervention – which was given freely without thought or request of any reward – I doubt Eton College would still exist.

‘And, my lord judge, I know this is hearsay, but Mistress Shore’s reputation for compassion stretches beyond the walls of this palace. Many there are who would be beggars had she not begged on their behalf.’

Oh, I could have thrown my arms around the provost’s neck as he stepped down.

‘I will speak for her good character also.’ James Goldwell, the Bishop of Norwich, stepped forward to take the oath. ‘This woman was a goodly influence upon the King. There is no malice in her.’