Mistress to the Crown (41 page)

Will put a hand on my shoulder. ‘Let’s get you home.’

‘Home!’ I echoed bleakly. Back to Silver Street as though I was a wicked child. ‘And who has
my
home?’

Jack’s wife, Eleanor, was stern to me at first, but when she saw with what joy I greeted my nephews and nieces, her manners grew easier, and within a few days I was no longer tainted in her eyes but a welcome sister-in-law.

Margery came to see me the moment she heard I was out of Ludgate. I found myself greatly in her debt for she explained that she had helped my silkwomen move to temporary lodgings in Basinghall ward not far from the Guildhall, and she had also reap-pointed my book-keeper.

‘Only until you are back on your feet, of course, Lizbeth, and I am just the whitewash. It’s really Father who is helping them, but we cannot let that be known, not with him being newly knighted by the King, so do not breath a word of this to anyone. Now I must go. There is so much to do with the coronation in just a few days.’

The coronation! London could think of nothing else. The Saturday after I was freed, King Richard III was crowned in great magnificence in St Peter’s Abbey, Westminster. I truly pitied Ned’s poor sons in the Tower hearing their uncle ride out to his coronation, but the law had upheld Richard’s title. The only man who might have rescued them was Dorset. He had broken sanctuary on the day of Hastings’ death. However, even if he managed to outrun the dogs King Richard’s men were using to hunt him down, I doubt he had the fire in his belly to succeed. In any case, who would help him? The kingdom was already settling down to its new master.

Jack had no complaints. He had done well with orders from the court so he participated most willingly in the coronation procession. When he came back from the abbey, puffed up with pride like a courting pigeon, wanting to tell us what King Richard had worn, I lost my temper.

‘I hope that cursed crown gives him the biggest megrim in history! Pah! I really wish I was a proper witch so I might curse him to Hell!’

‘Elizabeth!’ Eleanor looked utterly shocked. ‘If the King’s friends heard you …’

‘Yes, I’d be ashes by breakfast.’

Jack was inured to my tantrums. ‘Save your scowls, sister. Quite frankly, I could not care a mouse’s turd who wears the crown except it be a man of good sense, who protects our trade. I’ faith, I’d rather have a hawk like Gloucester than the Woodville jays, all glitter and warble. Say nothing and think what you please, that’s my motto. Like Will says, you should not have got embroiled in Lord Hastings’ treason.’

‘There was no treason, Jack.’

‘Elizabeth,’ he admonished, holding me by the shoulders.

‘What did I just say? Hold your tongue and cover your heart!’

I was not the only one to be dispossessed. The Woodville family lost all their manors. To his credit, our new king did not seize any of Hastings’ lands and he must have been right fond of Lady Kate, for later that July he issued a proclamation that no one was to harm her and she was allowed to keep wardship of her children. Buckingham must have gagged at that for I’m sure he coveted Hastings’ estates.

Looking back, I wonder how many of Hastings’ men changed their cotes before their master was murdered? Were they all ladder-climbers like Catesby? If I ever met that cursed Judas again, I’d jab my fingers in his eyes. As for that serpent Buckingham, if I were King Richard, I’d watch my back.

Nightmares had plagued me since my penance. I would awake sweating, believing myself in the Tower cell or walking Paul’s Yard. I had also acquired a terror of going forth in public. Eleanor was very understanding and patient. The first day she took me out into the street was the worst. Heavily veiled and with Jack’s children holding my hands, I managed to walk halfway to Foster Lane but I was shaking and ill by the time we returned to Silver Street. Next day we ventured further and gradually I began to acquire some sovereignty over my panic. Will helped me, too, coaxing me to speak my fears aloud as though by airing them in the sane air of day would cleanse the fear away. The other healing to my soul was my old friend Margery.

The second time she visited, she offered the kiss of peace, even though Paddesley had forbade her to visit again. I was so grateful for her courage. She also brought gowns that no longer fitted her and made me try them on straight away so she might pin where we should take them in.

‘I was so jealous as a girl,’ she admitted as we sat sewing next day in Eleanor’s solar. ‘There you were, always so lovely, the
apprentices worshipping you like a goddess, while I waddled at your side unnoticed. And then, of course, you won the King.’

‘You make it sound like a game of cards, Meg. I hardly had a choice.’

‘Pah to that! Anyway, I’d have done the same in your shoes.’ She bit off a thread. ‘Does Jack know about … you know … your Father’s affair?’

I shook my head. ‘And he never will, I hope.’

In late July, when the new king and his retinue set forth on a meandering progress northwards, and Buckingham sloped back to Wales hauling Bishop Morton with him for safe keeping, I felt a greater sense of freedom. At last I was able to see what could be done to regain my possessions. My goods alone were worth three thousand marks.

‘Forget it!’ Jack advised. ‘There isn’t a lawyer this side of Paradise that will take your case.’

However, who should come inquiring for me at Silver Street but my servants, Isabel and Roger Young. We exchanged news of our adventures. They had been hiding at his uncle’s house in Kingston, too frightened to return to London. Lubbe had avoided arrest as well and was gone back to his mother in Croydon.

I was glad to see them. Of course, with my house and goods thieved by King Richard, I had no means to employ them now unless … unless, as Isabel pointed out, I could get my sapphire collar back. Well, I had been a king’s mistress; now, I might prove a thief.

‘Sneak into your own house?’ Jack snorted, when I aired my plan. ‘Maybe I should have you housed in Bedlam. Listen, we know that your place was thoroughly searched. They probably found your necklace, seeing it was mentioned at your trial.’

‘But you could be wrong, Jack. My valuables might still be there.’

‘Still be where exactly?’ asked Will.

‘Under a lavender bush,’ I admitted sheepishly. I did not mention that what concerned me more was a packet of early letters from Ned that were peppered with endearments like ‘
Beloved mistress, who hath bewitched my soul
’. Innocent loving words that might still bind me to the stake.

I had an ally in my resourceful Isabel. She found herself employment with my former neighbour, and while renewing acquaintance with some of the servants in the street over a flagon of pudding ale, she discovered who had usurped my property. Another poxy lawyer – God curse him! Some ‘Yorkshire Catesby’ who had arrived in Gloucester’s retinue and was working for the new Lord Chancellor.

According to the tidbits Isabel had garnered, every day, except the Sabbath, the lawyer walked down to Puddle Wharf and took a boat to Westminster. He did not keep a dog, his servants shopped in Cheapside on Tuesdays and bought fish in Billingsgate each Friday morning. On the last two Sabbaths, he and his servants had worshipped at the Goldsmiths’ church of St John Zachary in Maiden Lane. Well, come next Sunday, I hoped there would be a long, enthralling sermon.

Acquiring hose and doublet when you haven’t two pennies to rub together required a loose interpretation of the verb ‘to borrow’. I lie, it was done honestly; I cajoled Jack’s youngest apprentice into lending me a worsted cap with earflaps, his dark blue tunic and a pair of woollen hose, which proved right ticklish.

I confided in no one but Isabel and she insisted on helping. On Sunday morning, I pleaded the custom of women and stayed home while the rest of the household went to Will’s sermon at St Leonard’s.

I was still unused to going out alone so I was grateful for Isabel’s company. Arm-in-arm, we set forth. At least in my boy’s garb no one would mistake me for Mistress Shore, but I felt strange being able to stride out manfully with no petticotes rustling at my ankles. But we had only gone a few paces when my wretched hose began to slide and I had to go back to the house and tie the aiglets tighter.

My strategy was for Isabel to stand watch at the corner of the lane while I tackled the lavender bush. I hoped then to break into my house by wriggling through the pantry window. Its formidable grille was actually loose. A blade could prod up the inside catch, and I had a key to the inside door. If any of the household returned early from Mass, Isabel would immediately knock at the front door and distract them by inquiring where she might find Mistress Shore.

First we knocked to make sure no one was home and then I let myself into my garden. The sowthistles and hyssop were high but someone had plucked the gooseberries and picked off the dead marigold heads. My little lavender bush looked none too healthy. I set to work swiftly with the trowel I had purloined from Jack’s yard and heaved a sigh of relief that the coffer was still there. But it proved empty.

For an instant, I sat back on my heels in shock, but then I pulled myself together and patted the earth back. The sheriff’s men must have noted the fresh dug earth. Ah well, no time to indulge in a tantrum; I needed to get into my house.

Will’s spare key to the back door no longer worked and a new iron grille was nailed across the pantry window. I frowned and eyed the upper casements, wondering how I might try the blade trick on my bedchamber windowlight. Then I remembered that when I had first inspected the house there had been an old ladder slumbering, forgotten, in the briars along the back fence.

It was still there but required much untangling. An outpost of snails no doubt were cursing me in their slow way as I wrenched it forth. The wood was splintery. Some of the lower rungs were rotten and loose, but I tested the others and they felt sound enough.

I was glad of my boy’s garb as I climbed, and it proved a precarious business to slide my little sheath knife in beneath the catch and then to abandon the ladder and clamber across the sill. My heart was making more noise than my house as I landed upon someone else’s travelling chest and stood listening warily for an alien footfall or familiar creak upon the stairs that betrayed another’s presence. Then, reassured, I looked about me.

God damn him! The thieving slobberer of Gloucester’s bootcaps was using everything of mine: the blue bed curtains and coverlet with the oak leaf embroidery, my silken, diapered pillows, the best ewer and jug, the towels. His mantle and hat hung upon my wall peg; a pair of riding boots was neatly placed beside my bedsteps; his leather strop hung beside the mirror where I used to braid my hair, and a razor and lathering cup stood where I had lain my combs and stored my perfumes. Mongrel!

At least the room was perfectly kept; evidently he loved neatness or else employed a diligent servant because no crumpled shirt or discarded hose cluttered the floorboards. No sign of a wife either – no stray stocking ball beneath the bed or a scatter of hair pins on the shelf. Well, I was glad. Somehow the thought of a woman using my possessions was worse.

For an instant, I sadly stroked my fingers down my bed hangings and then a mew outside the door tore at my soul. Hercules!

I
had
to let him in. Gathering the purring bundle into my arms I let time roll back for a luxurious, indulgent instant, imagining that I heard Ned’s foot upon the stairs. But, alas, the sand was running too fast through this morning’s hourglass.

My bedchamber held two hiding places. One was in the panelling behind my bed canopy, but I had left nothing there. What I sought was cleverly concealed in the curved lid of my clothing chest, which still stood at the foot of the bed.

Kneeling before it, I eased back the heavy lid. An aroma of rosemary and meadowsweet, probably sprigs I had gathered last year, was invaded by a teasing musky scent, which rose from the several shirts folded on top. So the knave liked to smell good. Well tally ho for him! I was tempted to delve down and see if my kirtles lay beneath his garments, but the lid held the more important treasure.

Hercules sprang onto the narrow edge of the chest. I shifted him, leant forward and saw the telltale force marks on the wood. Someone had found the hiding place.

‘Oh!’ I snorted, cursing my enemies to Hell, and then— ‘
OH!
’

Something sharp was prodding my ribs and someone’s foot was anchoring the skirt of my tunic.

‘Lift your hands, stand up and turn very slowly,’ commanded a male voice with a Yorkshire twang. Was this the whoreson, who had been given my house, or one of his serving men? Either way they deserved a knee in the groin, but the way things were going I’d be back in prison by dinnertime. I hoped his balls shrivelled!

My garment was permitted liberty but the blade tip kept pace with me. I turned and swallowed. An unsheathed sword was pointing at my throat. The man was about my age. No milk and ginger northerner here, but dark brown hair and blue eyes – intelligent eyes – and … yes, a good quality doublet. It had to be the lawyer. I stared back miserably with Hercules arching against my calves.

‘Please sir, forgive me, sir,’ I wailed, dropping back to my knees and wringing my hands. ‘I dunno wot got inner me. Please, don’t turn me in, sir.’

Hercules sprang out the way as the sword tip slid past my left
ear. With a deft movement, the blade flicked my cap away. My foe’s lips twisted with smug triumph at my tight-coiled braids.

‘You forget, Mistress Shore, that your face is famous. Not to mention the rest of you.’

‘Damnation,’ I muttered.

‘In fact, you’ve been in my thoughts a great deal, madame, and not just because of St Paul’s Yard.’

‘Oh?’ I muttered loftily, my face heating. Was he going to demand a tumble in return for letting me go? Scowling at the naked blade, I muttered, ‘Is that really necessary now or does it make you feel safer in such threatening company?’

He tucked the sword under his left arm and offered me his hand. With a sigh of resignation, I accepted. His fingers were neither flabby nor moist, but pleasantly strong.