Royal Mistress (57 page)

“Safe from what, from whom if not himself?” Elizabeth snapped. “I am the only one who wants them back, bastards or not. They would be safe here with me,” she said, and finally, after having stoically borne her tribulations in the cramped confines of sanctuary for so many weeks, her face betrayed her genuine anguish. Kindhearted Bess gathered Elizabeth into her arms and rocked the frail woman as a mother might a child.

“
A
re you mad! Did the devil himself spawn you?” Richard shouted at his cousin, Buckingham, as the duke stared aghast at his enraged king. Richard grasped Harry’s arm and almost dragged him to the garderobe, where they might not be overheard.

Harry threw off Richard’s hand and felt for his dagger. He was afraid for his life. Had he not been so self-centered, he might have empathized with Hastings’s fear on the day of the chamberlain’s arrest and execution. He was now experiencing the full force of Richard’s wrath, and it was formidable. All he knew now was that he had made a terrible mistake in believing Richard would be glad he had rid the king of his bastard nephews. He had galloped hard to Gloucester from London, asked for a private interview, and had been welcomed gladly by his king, who had clapped him on the shoulder and called him his “dear cousin.” In the spirit of such a warm reception, he had simply blurted out his news. “Your grace, cousin, you need never again worry for your crown. I have taken care of the boys in the Tower. They cannot threaten you anymore. They are with God.” Sweet Jesu, he had never seen a man’s face
change so quickly. Should he now deny it? Say he had been joking? Should he blame Brackenbury?

“Take your hand off your weapon, my lord,” Richard’s icy voice broke into Harry’s jumbled thoughts. “Sit down,” he commanded, pushing his larger cousin onto the wooden garderobe seat, “and tell me exactly what you have done.”

Harry put his head in his hands and began to mumble his terrible tale. Several times Richard prodded him to speak up, confess his sin, and omit nothing. As he listened in horror, Richard’s stomach contracted little by little with every odious detail, and a deep sorrow gradually fell upon him. What was he to do? He had raised his cousin up to heights that nearly touched his own. Everyone knew the two were hand-in-glove from the moment they arrived in London from Stony Stratford with young Ned. He had consulted with Harry on everything and embraced his only royal cousin as councilor.

So who would believe that Harry had acted on his own? Who would believe Richard himself had not ordered the deaths of the princes? If he accused Harry, who among those nobles who had only halfheartedly supported his taking of the crown would believe the two of them had not planned this scheme together? And then ’twould be his word against Harry’s, for surely Harry would swear Richard had been complicit. He forced himself to listen to this man for whom all respect was now cascading down the garderobe chute with its customary effluence.

“The boatman rowed us out of sight of the lights at Westminster, and once on land among the trees, I promised the boys fresh horses sent from you would be waiting.” Buckingham was all but sobbing now.

Richard stiffened. “So not satisfied with lying to them about the ‘adventure’ you were secretly taking them on, you let them believe ’twas
I
who planned it. They died believing their Uncle Richard would take them to safety in the morning. Dear God, Harry, you
have consigned both our souls to hell!” he hissed. “Continue! I would hear you confess your crime, make you relive it, and for my sins—because I see you believed I would condone this heinous act—so imprint it on my mind that I shall never rest again. Now, tell me!”

“They felt no pain, I swear to you. They were sleeping peacefully and I bundled up my mantle and smothered . . .” He could not finish as the memory of first one and then the other young prince wriggling and struggling for breath overcame him, and he blubbered like a child. Richard was so sickened by this monstrous crime that he threw his cousin from the privy seat and vomited down the chute. Harry was crouched on the floor, wiping his nose on his sleeve when Richard dragged him up against the wall and rasped in his face: “What did you do with them? Did you at least give them a decent burial?”

Harry had had enough. He pushed the smaller Richard off him roughly. “I said a prayer, covered them with branches and ferns, and left them where they lay.” He walked out of the confined space and pulled himself together. Why should he feel remorse for a sacrifice he believed he had made for Richard? Certes, his cousin had never voiced such a wish, but Harry was sure Richard had secretly desired it. And besides, he was a Stafford with Plantagenet blood in his veins and should not be mistreated like a lackey. His resentment mounted.

“And what reward were you hoping from the king for this little favor, my lord Buckingham?” Richard demanded, following hard on Harry’s heels. “Were you not satisfied with becoming constable of England? Or with my promise of the rest of the Bohun inheritance that would make you, next to me, the wealthiest and most powerful man in the kingdom?” His voice rose with each question until his fury exploded, and hurling a goblet across the room, he shouted, “Christ’s nails, I trusted you! Get out of my sight!”

Harry glowered at him for a moment, then turned on his heel and strode to the door. “Their blood is as much on your hands,
coz, as mine,” he hissed. “Do not deny you wished it. I was merely your instrument.”

“Get out!” Richard bellowed, and Harry went, slamming the door behind him. Within a few minutes, he was galloping out of Gloucester, over the little channel to Alney Island, through the handsome gate guarding the bridge that spanned the Severn, and onto the road to Wales.

Alone, Richard slumped into a chair and stared despondently at the black and red tiles that checkered the floor. In the space of a short half hour, he had succeeded in making an enemy of his closest advisor, and more important, he was sure he had consigned his own soul to hell.

“Edward,” he addressed his dead brother aloud, “your sins have come back to haunt me.”

My great mischance, my fall and heavy state,

Is such a mark, whereat each tongue doth shoot,

That my good name is pluck’d up by the root.

This wandering world bewitched me with wiles,

And won my wits, with wanton sugared joys,

In Fortune’s frekes,
^I
who trusts her when she smiles,

Shall find her false and full of fickle toys.

Thomas Churchyard, “Shore’s Wife,” 1562

I
. whims

J
ane ran her hands down the smooth skin of her belly to her thighs, still tingling from the sensation of Tom’s body upon her, and hoped she had more than pleased her lover. She wondered he had still desired her; after all, she was now, at thirty-one, past her prime. She turned on her side and watched the sleeping Tom, marveling at his handsome profile, broad chest boasting curling chestnut hair, and strong, capable hands. Their new hiding place, to which Tom had had to move after the dismal failure of the Tower rescue had alerted the authorities to the fact he was still in the city, was a small room in the attic of a warehouse in Billingsgate.

“I am afraid I stink of fish, Jane,” Tom had apologized when he had eventually made his way to St. Sithe’s Lane a week ago, and Jane had not disagreed with him. She had begun to believe Tom had forgotten about her when he came knocking on the door that day and slipped inside the house wearing Lincoln green, the garb of an archer. He had taken her breath away with his bold kiss, and she almost forgave him the unexplained delay in seeking her out.

“Why have you taken so long to come?” she had asked when they were seated in the shade of the Vandersands’ apple tree in the hot mid-August sun. “Jehan informed you I was here, did he not?”

Tom had avoided her eyes. “It was too dangerous,” he excused himself.

Jane hoped he would ask her about her ordeal in prison and her penance, but he appeared preoccupied with winding his finger round an escaped lock of her hair. In Jane’s care while Sophie was
spinning inside, little Pieter was playing with a ball nearby. Jane finally could not wait. “Did you hear about my penance, Tom?”

“Hear about it? I was there, Jane. I saw you.”

Jane gasped. “I did not see you. But you came?” She hung her head. “ ’Twas the worst day of my life,” she admitted, mortified anew now she knew that Tom had seen her.

Tom leaned over and kissed her cheek. “I pray it has not spoiled you for becoming my leman after we have waited for so long, mistress?” he teased. “You will, won’t you?”

Jane had been surprised by her own reaction then. She had removed his hand from her shoulder and stood up. “Come, Pieter,” she called to the child. “ ’Tis time for your dinner.”

She turned to Tom, who was scrambling to his feet. “I must think about that, Tom, if you please. You forget I confessed my sins that day and swore to reform.”

Tom’s face had darkened. “Are you playing with me, Jane? I do not enjoy being made a fool of. With every meeting, you have led me to believe you wanted me, and I tasted your desire in today’s kiss. Do not dissemble. Not now.”

If she had trusted her first instinct to turn away, Jane might not have hesitated. She could not lie; she wanted him, but her horrific penance had had its effect. Did she want to be branded a harlot again? Risk her immortal soul? “What about your wife? Does she know where you are?” she asked feebly. The marchioness was rarely at court and seemed content to stay on her country estates giving birth to Tom’s children. Tom seemed to care not a jot about her.

“No one will know while I am in hiding,” he had persuaded her. “And my wife does not care, as long as she can cleave to her estates. So, let us not waste the time we have.”

The scene from last week faded as Jane now contemplated Tom’s profile in the candlelight. It had not taken her long to succumb to his advances, and last night she had agreed to lie with him. All those years of yearning for him had led her to expect that
something mystical would happen between them, that because their love was true, God would be kind. But if she were honest, it had been nothing more—or less—than lusty passion. She blamed her disappointment on the foul-smelling attic, the lack of a feather bed, and her usual grumpiness before her courses came, but Tom had groaned in ecstasy several times during the night, and so she knew she had not lost her gift for pleasing men. Then why did she feel unfulfilled? Had she changed? She closed her eyes and, to her dismay, instead of pleasurable thoughts of the night of lovemaking, the shame of her walk filled her mind, and she opened them again quickly. Was that it? she wondered. Had her penance truly changed her?

“What is it, Jane?” Tom asked, sensing movement beside him. “I beg of you, seduce me no more tonight, my lovely siren. I am spent!” He reached out and pulled her to him, and she snuggled gratefully into his embrace. Things would look rosier in the morning, she thought, blowing out the candle and finally closing her eyes.