Royal Mistress (26 page)

I
t was a showery day in late April when Jane picked her way in her high wooden pattens around the puddles and muck on her way to the Jewry. She hoped one of the Italian moneylenders she had known since her childhood would give her a fair price for one of her baubles wrapped in velvet in the pouch at her waist. An hour later, with Ankarette trailing tut-tutting behind, she emerged
from a doorway and into bright sunshine, the concealed pouch now heavy with coins.

As she rounded the corner into the Poultry by St. Mary Colechurch, humming
Sumer is icumen in
and exhilarated by her success, she failed to see a horse-drawn cart lumbering toward her and too close to the building. Just in time, Ankarette pulled her mistress to safety, but not before Jane’s skirts and mantle were soaked in foul-smelling spray from a deep rut in the road.

“Look where you’re going!” the carter yelled back over his shoulder.

Jane crossed herself twice and thanked her resourceful servant for her escape. She well knew that other than pox and the plague, accidents like these were the commonest cause of deaths in London. She leaned against the church wall, her chest heaving and her heart pounding.

“Jane,
lieveling,
vhat are you doing here?” Sophie Vandersand’s motherly voice came out of nowhere, and Jane had never been so glad to see her friend, who was accompanied by two of her children. “Look at you!
In Godsnaam,
you are filthy. You must to come to our home.”

Jane was soon wrapped in Sophie’s wool cloak and ensconced by the smoky fire of the downstairs room, her outer garments hanging to dry among the earthenware pots and iron utensils in the large kitchen hearth. The two younger children were sitting cross-legged in front of her, gazing in awe at their mother’s friend with her soft velvet bonnet and bejeweled fingers. Sophie was wringing out a cloth in hot water from the kettle over the fire before sponging Jane’s cold feet, shooing Ankarette away when the servant insisted it was her job to care for her mistress.

“Look at that, Sophie,” Jane said, pointing to her foot’s bright green color. “When will they ever invent a dye that does not come off leather when it rains? I do so hate getting my feet wet.
Aah, that feels wonderful.” She looked around the once-familiar house and felt a pang of remorse that she had not visited Sophie before now. In truth, she had been avoiding Sophie’s censure and was unsure how to reestablish their friendship. She knew Sophie could not approve of what Jane had become, and now they seemed worlds apart.

“I would have come sooner, Sophie, I promise you,” she began by way of an apology. “I hope you are not too disappointed in me?” She observed the prim line of Sophie’s mouth and hung her head. “Aye, I can see that you are, and ’tis the reason I have not invited you to visit me. I cannot bear your disapproval. Would it help if I told you I am happier than I have ever been? Nay, I suppose not.” Then her eye lighted on her pouch that had been set on the table while her clothes dried, and she reached for it. “You asked me what I was doing in the Jewry. I have been wanting to help you and Jehan for so long, and now I can,” she cried happily, jingling the coins. “I was on my way here when you found me. This is for you. ’Tis for a new slate roof so your children will be safe from fire and you do not have to worry about all those leaks. I pray you, take it and make me happy.”

Sophie’s expression went from sober to surprised and finally back to disapproving. “I cannot take your money, Jane. It is”—she searched for the right word—“stained.”

“You mean tainted,” Jane corrected, coloring. “Oh, Sophie, please take it in friendship.”

From the loft above where she was caring for little Pieter, Sophie’s eldest daughter called down: “Take it, Mother, please. If Aunt Jane gives it in friendship, you would be unkind to say no, and besides, a slate roof would mean we won’t sleep in a wet bed all winter.”

“You see, Sophie, Janneke understands,” Jane pleaded. “I do not need the money, but your family does.” She stroked Sophie’s rough hand, noting the calluses and cuts from years of working with a
spindle and raw silk, her care-worn plain face already showing signs of age, and Jane’s heart ached for her less fortunate friend. “I beg of you, think of them.”

Sophie looked into Jane’s eyes, the firelight making them more hazel than green, and saw that for all her friend was living a life neither God nor Sophie would condone, Jane’s generosity and kindness had not changed. She smiled and nodded. “If it is vhat you want, Jane, I vill take it.” Then she put her hand to her mouth. “But how do I tell Jehan? He may not accept.”

Jane laughed. “My dear Sophie, I have learned much about men in the last year, and I will tell you that very few have scruples enough to turn down money”—she was thinking of Edward and Will’s French pension—“no matter how it was earned. Here.” She pressed the bag into Sophie’s trembling hand, and Janneke clapped her hands with delight, which made the other children get up and dance, pulling Ankarette into the circle. Soon Jane and Sophie could not resist joining in, and it was a bemused Jehan who walked unexpectedly into the midst of the revelry and stood staring at the laughing, jigging group singing “Ring-a-ring-o-roses.”

Jane had been right. The weaver was not too proud to take the gift. All smiles, he picked Jane up and swung her around with enthusiasm.

“The Vandersands thank you, Jane Shore,” he said later, when Jane was ready to leave.

“Ja, lieveling,”
Sophie agreed, embracing her friend, “from the bottom of our hearts.”

On the way home to Thames Street, Jane felt light-headed from the good she had accomplished, and she waved at a surprised carter pushing his barrow home from Paul’s Market. She had even sent Ankarette ahead to ready a bath. As she slowed near the house, she began humming the children’s tune again merrily to herself, unaware she was being watched by a young man leaning on a tree nearby.

“This is almost the Jane Lambert I remember,” he said, stepping
out in front of her, halting her progress. But he did not smile. “Carefree and innocent. But you are not so innocent now, are you, Jane?”

Jane felt the air rush from her lungs and put out her hand to steady herself on the tree. Tom Grey snatched her hand instead and pressed it to his heart.

“Whose heart is broken now, Jane?” he said low. “You gave yourself to the king after refusing me on moral grounds. Where are your morals now?” And he upswept his arm to encompass her house.

Jane swiftly withdrew her hand and hoped no one was observing them. “If I recall correctly, my lord Dorset, you refused
me
first on moral grounds.” Her heart was thumping, and to her chagrin his touch had revived the strong feelings for him she had tried to suppress in the past six months. But she was Edward’s mistress now, and she had no wish to betray the love with which the king had honored her, so she attempted to move on with a curt “Good day, my lord marquess.”

“Not so fast, Mistress Shore,” Dorset said, piqued by her cool dismissal and stepping in front of her again. “I beg of you, give me five minutes of your time.”

“For what, my lord? Will you lecture me on morality? Will you risk being seen accosting the king’s mistress?” she added. And again she brushed past him and reached her door.

“I have never forgotten you, Jane Shore,” Tom confessed, his sincerity making her hesitate. “I would hear from you that I am forgotten, so I may shut you out of my heart.”

Jane almost swooned. “You must go, my lord,” she whispered, “or I shall be undone.” Then she pleaded with him and could not keep the sadness from her voice. “Please, Tom, go.”

Just then, upon hearing voices, Jane’s steward opened the door to his mistress. Before Tom could stop her, Jane disappeared inside the house, and the door was firmly shut.

Tom stood staring at the oak carvings, deciding if he should
risk Edward’s ire and barge in to claim her or quietly walk away. He chose the latter, Jane’s parting telling him what he needed to know: Jane Shore loved him still.

J
ane was relieved that Edward did not return to her bed for a week or more for it took her several days to recover from the unexpected meeting with Tom Grey. During one of her sleepless nights, she had consumed a whole jug of wine and had dozens of imaginary conversations with the young marquess. Most of the daydreams ended with Tom declaring his undying love and the two of them fleeing abroad, but then there were other daydreams where she spurned him in favor of the king.

And all night, she ruminated on love. She did love Edward for his charisma, for his generous, easygoing nature, his sense of humor, and for the way he awakened new sensations in her every time he touched her. But was that love? How she wished she could talk to Will, who made her feel safe and respected her opinions. Perhaps, in his wisdom and, according to John Norrys, his experience with women, he could advise her, but he was still in Calais.

By the time Edward did return, Jane had begun to think she had imagined the meeting with Tom, and she was as happy to lie in Edward’s arms as he was to lie in hers. Not long after her visit to the moneylender, Edward asked her about one of his gifts to her, and she was forced to admit she no longer had it.

“Did someone steal from you?” Edward began angrily. “Why did you not tell me or Norrys as soon as you discovered it was missing? By the rood, I will have the thief’s guts for garters!”

Jane had hung her head. “No one stole it, your grace. I . . . I . . .”

“Aye?” Edward was perplexed by Jane’s discomfort. “Did you swallow it? Drop it down the garderobe chute? ’Twas but a trinket, Jane, and there will be more, have no fear. I beg of you, tell me. I shall not chastise you, I promise.”

“I . . . I sold it,” Jane finally admitted, lifting her head and
looking him helplessly in the eye, yet ready to take her punishment.

Edward was astonished. “Sold it? Why? Do you not have everything you need here?” he asked, looking around at the rich hangings, brightly colored Turkey rugs scattered over the floor, and polished silver candlesticks and plates on the heavy oak table. “Tell me, sweetheart, do I not reward you enough for your charms?”

Jane winced at the offhand inference to her concubine status but confessed the truth. “The money paid for a new roof for my friend Sophie’s house. The children had rain dripping on them in their beds,” she rattled on nervously, “and I simply had to help them.” She got on her knees imploring him to forgive her.

Edward stared hard at his lovely leman for a few seconds before a smile spread across his face. “You gave away my gift to help your friend? Then the jewel was worth far more than mere marks, Jane. It was worth this king’s fervent admiration.”

Then he had taken her to bed again. “You are a treasure, Jane Shore,” he announced later. “I shall not ask again where a bauble disappeared to, although I shall hope certain of my gifts too cherished to pawn.” Jane had promised and snuggled into him.

It seemed during these times, lingering behind the silk drapes on her tester bed, that Edward had not a care in the world. Clever Jane made it her business to let him believe it, telling him snippets of London gossip, sharing a joke, laughing with him like children, and loving freely as if they were mere Master and Mistress Smith of a modest house on Thames Street. It was why, Jane believed, Edward returned time and time again.