Royal Mistress (7 page)

Sensing his parishioner was becoming discouraged, the priest said more kindly: “Mistress, take heart. You should know it is a wife’s right to expect affection from her husband and to enjoy the . . . the . . . ahem . . . bedding together. You do also have the right to be a mother, so the law says.”

“Thank you, Father,” Jane had said, shuddering at the thought of William touching her.

She pondered this all now as she leaned toward the mirror to remove a wayward hair from her fashionably plucked forehead, and not for the first time did she tell herself that the world had been made for the benefit of men. Did it matter what women wanted? And even if a woman could express what she wanted, could she ever achieve it?

“What is it that you want of life, Jane?” she asked herself aloud. “Do you know what you want, Elizabeth Jane Lambert?” Aye, a small but clear voice inside her said: I want to find real love.

When she was a child all she remembered wanting was the love of her father, and when she did not get it, she turned to her older brother, William. He was happy to be adored by the pretty, merry little girl, so he spoiled her with ribbons and candied treats, and she learned that making a man laugh and call her his “sweet Jane” got her gifts that made up for the indifference of her parent. But then William went into the church and moved away, leaving her bereft, hurt, and no longer a child.

When she had discovered her ability to win the admiration of the equally young apprentices who passed her on the streets or stood near at mass or winked at her in The King’s Head on Chepeside, she had had hopes of finding true love among them, but she had waited in vain for the much touted, blinding white flame of passion to engulf her.

But then she had kissed Tom Grey.

She stamped her foot and glowered at herself in the mirror. May he burn in eternal hellfire. He has spoiled me for all others, and certainly for cheerless, staid William Shore.

T
he rain held off long enough for the wedding to take place at St. Mary’s and not spoil Jane’s elegant gown during the short walk from the Lambert house. The contract and vows were exchanged at the church door before the couple and their witnesses entered the sanctuary for the mass. Jane’s thick, yellow hair fell to her waist, and Sophie’s lovingly made blue- and white-ribboned chaplet, festooned with daisies and mayflowers, encircled her head. She was a beautiful bride, her mother told her, and even her father nodded and smiled when his eldest daughter emerged from her chamber.

Neighbors hung banners and ribbons from windows, and several children cheered and flung flowers over the couple as they processed back to the house for the feast. Everyone knew and liked Jane for her warm smile, her ability to make them laugh, and her kindness to the children, especially when they were sickly. She brought back snippets of ribbon and lace from the shop for the girls, and made the boys balls from scrap pieces of fabric and horsehair that she sewed inside whatever material was left at the end of a bolt.

John beamed at everyone lining the street and invited them to join him and Amy at the house for wafers and wine. Jane met William’s eyes as they neared the front door, and she smiled shyly. Caught off guard, William smiled back.

“Mistress Shore, may I escort you in for dinner,” he said, formally. Then he added quietly, “It pleases me that I have taken you to wife, Jane. I trust you, too, are content.”

William had recited his vows with as much feeling as he might have discussed the weather, but Jane had been glad that he did look at her when he said them, and she took heart that he meant to keep them. He had put a fine band of gold upon her finger, intricately ornamented with carved roses, and had put his lips on hers to seal the bargain with good grace, she thought.

“Quite content, William,” she answered him, hoping that this unusual unbending might lead to an easier union as husband and wife than there had been in their courtship. She went into the house happier than when she had left it an hour earlier and sought out Sophie and her Jehan, who had been invited to share the feast. Jehan openly ogled her, infuriating Jane, and she managed to steal Sophie away from him by saying she needed her friend’s help up in her chamber. Unperturbed, Jehan went in search of food.

Despite her pregnancy, Sophie was able to negotiate the narrow staircase to the top floor and followed Jane into the wide loft bedchamber.

“What now?” Jane asked in desperation, turning and grasping Sophie’s hands. She could feel the calluses on the silkwoman’s thumb and index finger, and Jane was glad she was a weaver and not a spinner.

“Oh, Jane,” Sophie said, amused, her plain face lightened by a smile. “You vill vait in bed for Villiam to come to you and if you can, make certain you blow out all the candles.” Jane was used to Sophie’s endearing use of a
v
for a
w
in her speech. It was the only vestige left of her Flemish parents’ heavily accented English. “ ’Tis not so bad in the dark.”

Jane was not comforted by this, and she pulled off the chaplet, its blossoms wilting, and flung it on her dower chest. “But will he
know what to do? Why, he only kissed me for the first time at the church door.” Sophie picked up the chaplet and, uncomfortable with idle fingers, began to rework the garland. Jane watched her friend as she imagined her in bed with Jehan. It cannot only be a duty, she concluded, there must be something more to it or poets would not write about it nor singers sing their ballads. Once, when she had felt a youth’s hardness pressing through her skirts, a surge of desire had enveloped her that had made her moan. She also knew from a young age that touching herself in her private place would send pleasurable waves through her whole body. Perhaps her friend had obeyed the church teachings about such activity and Sophie did not know.

She propped herself up on her elbow. “I suppose I cannot refuse to take him to my bed, can I?” she groused. And then she smiled. “Forgive me, Sophie, but I keep wondering how someone as tall as William will manage with someone as small as me.”

Sophie laughed. “Take courage, Jane. It means you need only look at his feeble chest and you do not need to look him in the eye.”

That amused Jane all the more, and the two friends fell into each other’s arms laughing.

N
othing could have prepared Jane for what happened on her wedding night. Try as he might, and Jane was kind and gentle with him, William Shore was unable to fulfill his duty to her as a husband on that occasion nor in the weeks that followed. Even more puzzling to the new bride was his nonchalance about his impotence. At first she was quiet and understanding as he fumbled with her breasts and tried to become aroused. After many failed attempts, she had taken matters into her own hands and attempted to seduce him, using her natural instincts to try, in vain, to bring him to climax. She was astonished at her own talent, having had no teacher, and she found herself so ready to be taken—even by William—that she would have to pleasure herself after he fell asleep exhausted by his efforts.

It was not long before Jane’s initial frustration turned into anger, for it became apparent that she had been cheated even of her right to be a mother, let alone the pleasuring the priest had promised was also her due. Her mood was not helped by the weather that summer.

July was one of the worst for rain anyone could remember, and the London streets became awash in mud, muck, and rubbish that even the highest pattens could not navigate safely. The Moor Field outside the city wall at the end of Coleman Street was flooded so badly there was no harvest of vegetables, and cows stood knee-deep in water, looking as miserable as the gloomy skies above them.
Jane was thankful her husband’s lodging was above his shop, thus she did not have to step out into the mire on most days to tend to customers as she had at her father’s.

And then the summer heat arrived, making Londoners irritable, and babes, young children, and old people susceptible to outbreaks of disease.

“When did the July rain start?” she asked Sophie one hot August day when the flies buzzed around the rubbish left behind after the muddy streets had dried, and the two friends sat in the shade of the only tree in the Vandersands’ tiny garden. William had allowed her a rare afternoon to herself, and she had made her way to Sophie’s humble house, where she found her friend using her old hand spindle so she could tend to her children with her free hand when needed. Spinning silk was tedious work, and Sophie was fortunate Jehan had obtained a wheel for his wife for her indoor work, as the distaff and spindle she had learned to use at her mother’s knee was slow and awkward. While Jane amused the new baby with a length of colored ribbon and watched the two older children play with a ball, Sophie worked diligently at spinning the raw silk into thread. “I was trying to remember if it had rained on St. Swithin’s Day?”

“
Ja,
it rained on the saint’s day but only a gentle pit-pat,” Sophie replied. “How does the saying go? You taught it to me once:

St. Swithin’s Day, if it doth rain,

For forty days it will remain.

St. Swithin’s Day, if thou be fair,

For forty days ’twill rain no more.”

“We should set no store by it, Sophie, for it has not been forty days yet, and look at the sky now. ’Tis so hot, the blue in it has all dried up.”

Sophie eyed her friend, who seemed somewhat serious this afternoon. She noted the gown Jane was wearing was very handsome for everyday wear, but she had long since given up chiding Jane for her extravagance. “You seem far away,
lieveling,
” she said. “Is there something the matter?”

Jane rocked the now sleeping baby in her arms, brushing the flies away. “I knew I could not hide from you, dear Sophie. Aye, there is something wrong. There is a reason why William has not wed these forty years; he is impotent.” The new word in her vocabulary fell heavily from her lips. It was the first time she had actually brought herself to say it.

Sophie gasped and stopped her spinning. “That is bad, Jane. Are you sure? Mayhap he is ill. Sometimes the men are unable to . . . you know . . . ven they are ill. Jehan had a stone inside his kidney and he left me alone for a month until it came out.”

“Nay, he is not ill. He is simply not interested in me—or any woman, I would guess.”

“Vat vill you do?”

Jane did not know what she would do. On the one hand, she did not have to put up with William mounting her night after night, as Sophie said Jehan was wont to do, but it did not seem right to her that he did not keep his side of the marriage bargain. “He swore before God that he agreed to love and honor me in heart, body, and mind and that our solemn union was intended among other things for the procreation of children,” she said, shooing a fly off little Pieter’s face. “And I swore to honor those vows, too. I want to have my own babes, Sophie, otherwise why would I have agreed to marry such a dull man as William Shore.”

Sophie did not like to mention that living under her father’s roof, Jane had had no choice but to do her father’s bidding. She clucked her tongue instead and offered, “You are right to be sure, Jane, but you have fine clothes and a household of your own at least, vich you have always vanted.”

Jane nodded sulkily. “But I wanted children, too, Sophie.” And she hugged the baby to her breast.

“It has been three months only, dear friend. I have no doubt you vill interest him yet. You seem to have had no trouble attracting men to you ever since ve vere young. I used to be jealous, but now I know what it is they vant, I must say I am happy they avoided me.” She made a face to express her disgust of men’s lusts.

Jane had to laugh. “Certes, Sophie, it cannot be so bad or there would be no more than one child born to a couple. And”—she lowered her voice for the children’s sake—“why would there be so many whores?”

“Godallemachtig!”
Sophie exclaimed, raising her eyes to heaven. “Is it not clear? They get paid to bed a man. Mayhap if Jehan paid me, I vould be more villing.”