Royal Mistress (29 page)

She had gathered campion, yellow flag iris, heady meadowsweet, and ragged robin and was bending over a clump of blue forget-me-nots when a small dog bounded up to her and began to lick her hand.

“Good day to you, sweet pup,” Jane said, delighted by the intrusion, and petted the fluffy white bundle of energy. “What is your name, pray?”

“Ficelle! Ficelle,
viens ici,
you bad dog,” a woman’s voice came from over the bank. “Katherine, where did she go, did you see?”

The French immediately alerted Jane to the presence of a gently born lady, and picking up the wiggling Ficelle in her arms, she called, “I have the dog, madam. I will bring her to you.”

She climbed back up the riverbank and came face-to-face with Queen Elizabeth and her lady-in-waiting, Katherine Hastings. “Oh!” was all Jane could think to say before sinking into a deep reverence. “She is not hurt, your grace. See.” And keeping her head bent, she thrust the dog up at Elizabeth.

“I thank you, mistress,” Elizabeth said pleasantly, cuddling Ficelle to her, but then Jane raised her face and the queen saw who she was. “You!” she snapped. “Katherine, do you see who it is. My husband’s latest harlot.”

Jane was miserable with confusion. Should she fall on her knees? Should she stand still, run away, or should she defend herself? Such an encounter had been her worst nightmare, and it was almost as bad as she had imagined it could be. “Aye, I . . . I am Mis . . . stress Shore,” she stammered, but before she could stop herself she added the customary, “if it please you.”

A high-pitched laugh like the shattering of fine glass made Jane cringe. It was not a kind nor a merry laugh but one intended to discomfit and insult. “If it please me? If it please me?” Elizabeth shrilled. “Nay, madam, it does not please me. And yet my husband
chooses to flaunt you in front of me. Beware, Jane Shore, for the day will come when he will tire of you, and you will be discarded, believe me.” She bent down to hiss in Jane’s face: “He will forget you as he has all the others.”

Jane sank back on her heels as Elizabeth put down the dog, turned around, and stalked away.

“I knew you were trouble the first time I set eyes on you, Jane Shore,” Katherine Hastings added, sneering. “You have broken my dear lady’s heart, and I hope one day you will pay for your wantonness. You should not have looked above my husband, my girl, for the queen is a far more formidable foe than I could ever be.” Then she hurried after the queen, calling to Ficelle to follow them.

Jane’s flowers discarded around her, she fell onto the mossy bank and, feeling humiliated and ashamed, she wept.

L
ater, after Ankarette had pampered Jane in a cooling bath perfumed with rose petals, Jane lay for an hour on the lumpy mattress, which was the best the castle could provide for a person not of noble blood, and relived the nightmare. Now, feeling brave, she conjured all manner of cleverly worded retorts that she might have parried with the queen. One of the scenarios even had her slapping Elizabeth and throwing the flowers at her. She had to laugh then, and her good humor restored, it was not long before she could look forward to the festivities that would last well into the summer’s eve. The court was used to seeing Edward dancing with her and even fondling her now, although he was mindful not to when the queen was present. Jane wondered if Edward would ask for her to come to him tonight. She hoped so, because now that she had discarded her flowers, she did not want to risk dreaming about Tom Grey without them under her pillow.

Tom Grey. What was wrong with her that she could not forget him? It had not helped that he had reawakened her yearning with his unexpected presence at her house those weeks ago. Why had he
come? Had he wanted to humiliate her? Or was it . . . nay, she did not dare to think he truly loved her. She frowned. He had not been among the retainers Edward had brought with him to Windsor, but Ankarette had discovered that he had gone to his residence in Devon, where his wife was in confinement. He was to be a father, she thought sadly, wishing it were she who was carrying his child and not the young, wealthy Cicely Bonvile.

Thinking of children, Jane wondered why, after being with Edward for well over a year, she had not yet quickened. True, she had learned the court ladies’ trick of inserting a sponge soaked in vinegar to avoid conception, but she had also heard it was not foolproof. Perhaps her barrenness was just as well, she mused, as Edward had warned her that Elizabeth would not tolerate another bastard.

Ankarette began dressing Jane’s hair an hour later, threading the thick braids that coiled around her head with pearls and tiny white sprigs of meadowsweet, creating a veritable crown. She stepped back to admire her handiwork, never missing a syllable of gossip that she could impart to her mistress. The two women were wont to discuss the happenings in the city during the ritual of dressing, but Jane had learned from Margaret Howard to listen more and talk less to a servant. Ankarette was keenly aware of her mistress’s moods, but she was not often privy to the reasons for them.

Today Jane heard about an affair one of the queen’s ladies was having with a handsome young squire in Edward’s household, how a wise woman had helped another young girl rid herself of an unwanted babe, and that Ankarette herself had indignantly denied having been involved in the mystery of a missing ring.

“But mistress,” Ankarette ran on eagerly, “all the talk today is of your meeting with the queen. I have been peppered with questions, but I never said a word, I swear.”

Jane groaned. “And now I must face the court and their gossip. Perhaps I should feign a headache,” she mused. But then,
her curiosity aroused, she asked, “What are the clatterers saying, Ankarette?”

“That the queen will not leave her chambers until you are gone from Windsor,” Ankarette blurted out. “She will not appear at the feast until you are on the road back to London.”

“God’s teeth!” Jane cried, turning on her servant. “Why did you not tell me this first.” She began tearing the decorations from her head, making Ankarette chase the pearls all across the room, and ordered the poor woman to pack up their belongings. “I will not be made a fool of, and I will not have the king humiliated by my presence. Now find me Master Norrys at once, so I can make arrangements for a horse and an escort.”

Ankarette stopped what she was doing, and putting her hands on her hips, she eyed her mistress. “Which would you like me to do first, mistress? Fetch the squire or pack? I cannot do both at the same time.”

Jane raised her arm, as if to slap the insolent servant, but as quickly let it drop, realizing it was not Ankarette’s fault. It was hers. She took a deep breath and spoke more gently: “I will gather our things if you would fetch John Norrys. But do not try my patience today, Ankarette Tyler, or I shall have to look for someone new to serve me.”

Ankarette did not need a second bidding.

W
ith Ankarette riding pillion on their sturdy but slow rouncy, and two men at arms to guard her, Jane found the journey back to London interminably slow. She had written Edward a hasty, apologetic note that John Norrys assured her he would put into the king’s hands as soon as her party was away from Windsor. John had heard of the earlier encounter on the riverbank and thought Jane had every reason to disappear; he had seen the queen lose her temper with Edward once before and had wished himself a league hence.

On the third day, as Jane and her escort were passing the road
to the hunting lodge where, on the outward journey, Edward had entertained his mistress in merry fashion, they heard horses galloping from behind. The escort drew their short swords and herded the rouncy off the road and out of harm’s way as the party of more than a dozen riders came around the bend. The noise and speed of the riders made Jane’s horse whinny and caper, but Jane kept the reins tight.

“The king!” one of her men shouted to the other, and both put up their swords.

Jane’s heart leaped in her breast. As in the romances of old, she imagined Edward had come to claim her and carry her back to Windsor. She pushed a wayward strand of hair back under her traveling bonnet and sat serenely on the quieted horse.

Reclaiming Jane was the furthest thing from Edward’s mind, and he brought his mount up sharply when he saw her, his face grim. “Why, Mistress Shore, I am happy to see you but fear I cannot linger. A matter of urgency takes me back to Westminster. However, I will walk on with you apace and explain,” he said, taking her rein and pulling her mount closer. Ankarette dismounted respectfully and walked behind while the king spoke to his mistress.

“What is it, my lord? Is there ill news from France?”

“Nay, Jane, France is not the problem. But my brother Clarence is,” he told her, a sadness mixed with the anger in his expression. “There is no end to his folly. I wanted to believe ’tis all simply foolishness, but this time he has really gone too far. Unheeding my warning in the execution of his familiars, he has once again overreached and now barged into a council meeting without my permission.”

Jane quietly observed him, his powerful jaw set, his brow lowered over his eyes, and she shivered. This was not the Edward who laughed and made sweet love to her. She was in the presence of an angry sovereign.

“It was bad enough he chose to invade my council, bad enough
that he railed at my councilors for executing ‘innocent men,’ but he chose that scurrilous preacher, Goddard, to read Burdett’s statement from the scaffold to the council, the same scoundrel who had denounced me as king at Paul’s Cross in ’70 in favor of Henry.”

Jane nodded. “Aye, I was there,” she remembered. Then she was moved to ask: “But what makes your brother’s latest actions worse than the previous ones, your grace?”

“My dear Jane, he has acted as though he is king. He has undermined me by accusing my council of hanging innocent men. And what did he think he was doing when he hanged the Twynho woman? He had no right to drag her across the country, try her, and execute her on trumped-up charges. He is behaving for all he wears the crown.” His voice was rising and Jane could see he was wanting to gallop off. “By Christ’s nails, he has gone too far. I shall have to deal with him once and for all. I have recalled Will from Calais; I have need of his counsel.” He reached over and patted her hand. “Farewell, mistress, and”—his mouth twisted into a wry grin—“for what ’tis worth, I cannot blame you for leaving as you did.” He had been sorry to hear of Jane’s unfortunate encounter with the queen, but Jane’s rapid departure had relieved him of an unpleasant scene with Elizabeth. He had not relished possibly having to mediate between his wife and his mistress. He blamed his wife’s spiteful nature, never recognizing that he was the cause of the conflict. “I shall not stay away from Thames Street long, I promise, for I shall need you to restore my humor.”

He raised his hand to his retainers and motioned them to follow him at a gallop. They left Ankarette rubbing dust out of her eyes and mouth and Jane wondering what would become of Clarence.

B
y the time she made her weary way to Thames Street, George of Clarence was imprisoned in the Tower and Edward was entertaining the French ambassadors with the help of Will Hastings, who had returned from Calais in haste. It seemed the hapless duke had
been doomed to his incarceration for a very long time. Edward had learned from King Louis’s mouthpieces that a story was circulating in Europe, said to have originated from George, that Edward was a bastard and that if he, George, had married Mary of Burgundy, he would have overthrown his brother. This mounting treason was all too much for Edward to forgive, and by the beginning of 1478, Parliament was pressing Edward for a death sentence.