Mistress to the Crown (42 page)

‘Your house is quite delightful, Mistress Shore.’

I bit back a tirade on arse-licking lawyers who accept other people’s houses without a qualm of conscience, but something needed saying. ‘Oh, I am so pleased,’ I retorted witheringly. ‘Perhaps you’d like to purchase it honestly?’

‘I do admit to feeling guilty. Lying between your sheets, learning the perfume of your clothes, reading the pages where your books fall open, I feel as though I already know you.’

Lord, this was becoming far too intimate.

‘You are a fascinating woman, Mistress Shore. Thank you so much for your treason. I cannot think of anywhere else in London where I would rather live.’

The stinking son of a pox-ridden pimp! Why didn’t he grind his boot heel in my face as well!

‘My pleasure, sir,’ I replied loftily. ‘If you will now allow me to go on my way …’ I indicated the ladder.

‘Without what you came for? That would be churlish of me.’ He tossed the sword on to the bed and folded his arms. Free of the
weapon, the fingers of his right hand tapped consideringly against his sleeve. I recognised a bargaining look and braced myself. ‘I’m prepared to compromise, Mistress Shore,’ he said at last. ‘You can have either the letters or the sapphire collar.’

Either!
I hope the Devil fried his nether parts.

‘They
both
belong to me, sir, and I consider you a knave and a thief to withhold them.’

‘On the contrary, madame, everything you own now belongs to me with the exception of your own person, of course. As I said, I offer you a compromise.’

It was some sort of test. Selling the necklace would make my life easier. I would no longer have to wear a borrowed gown, I could buy gifts for Eleanor and the children, and go about. But the letters – all I had left of the happiest times of my life.

‘The letters, if you please, then,’ I said gravely.

Taking the keys from his belt, he opened his travelling chest and lifted out a strongbox that seemed to lack a lock until he slid back a piece of the carving and inserted a smaller key. Inside were several bundles of papers. He held out mine. I had never tied the bow of the green ribbon that way. He must have read them or someone else had.

‘Thank you,’ I said coldly and cradled the packet to my breast like a precious infant. Then I curtsied with a glare. ‘Good day to you, sir.’

‘You may use the stairs,’ he exclaimed, concerned to see me make for the window.

The perverse demon in me needed to prove something. ‘But they are
your
stairs.’

‘And it’s
my
plaguey ladder.’ He grabbed my wrist and thrust me towards the door. ‘Don’t be so stubborn.’

‘Stubbornness is all that your king has left me.’

‘Really? It sounds like wounded pride to me.’

I felt like giving him two fingers but that would show how much he’d riled me.

‘Good day to you, sir,’ I snarled and flounced out.

‘Mistress Shore!’ I halted on the stair but I did not look round. ‘My name is Thomas Lynom, Mistress Shore.’

‘And mine is Elizabeth Lambard, Master Lynom,’ I said haughtily to the ceiling above me. ‘It is only my enemies who call me Mistress Shore.’

Do not suppose I did not curse Master Lynom thoroughly on the way home but, as Isabel pointed out, I was fortunate that he had not marched me to the sheriff. Why had he not? What kind of cat-and-mouse game was he playing?

As we reached Silver Street, my world was rocked again; a filthy beggar grabbed my arm.

‘Alms,’ he pleaded, his eyes wild.

I shook him off as though his touch was scalding. Although I did not mind being charitable, I disliked being touched by strangers, especially when it was almost the pestilence season. Isabel took him to task but he pursued us right to Jack’s door and we had to shut it in his face, a face that haunted me. I could not think why, but I had other matters on my mind.

While Jack and his wife were gone to Clerkenwell Fields that evening, I read through each of Ned’s letters. There were twenty-four in all, mostly written in the first year that we had been lovers. Ardent letters from Calais, St Christ-sur-Somme, Amiens, Picquigny that still brought a blush to my cheeks. No wonder Thomas Lynom had eyed me with speculation.

It was the endearments that concerned me, garlands of words like: ‘Beloved witch of my heart who hath me in your thrall’ and ‘utterly under yr spell, my sweet sorceress, Yrs, N’, Edwardus Quartus written
beneath with a magnificent flourish. These letters I placed in one pile
.

The later ones that began, ‘
Most Dear Elizabeth’
and ended with ‘
Please can you ask Myddelton to have especial care to my hound, Smoky, that was ailing Tuesday last and see whether he still be off his food’
, I stacked separately, then I carried the first pile down to the kitchen and burned them one by one, with tears pouring down my cheeks. Far better I burned Ned’s letters than his words burned me.

II

The beggar! In the middle of the night it dawned on me who he was.

Next morning, when I went out with Eleanor and the children, he was huddling from the drizzle beneath the jut of our upper storey, waiting to ambush me. He had cast dust into the birds’ nest of mussed hair to hide his ash blond colouring, and I suppose that was why his unkempt beard was filthy too. His grimy, tattered tunic was as ancient as any beggar’s and his fingernails were clogged and torn.

‘Largesse,’ Dorset pleaded, as he tottered after us. ‘Charity for the love of God.’

‘Pray go on,’ I said to Eleanor. Jack had allowed me some pin money so I made great play of fumbling in my purse.

‘I thought you in Brittany with Tudor,’ I whispered, pretending to count out my coins.

‘With Gloucester’s men watching every wharf, hunting me like a wild beast? That’s why I’ve come back in.’ His bony fingers snared my wrist. ‘I’ve been eating the crumbs of horse bread from the gutter. Horse bread! Help me for the love of God!’

I narrowed my eyes in warning, for Eleanor was waiting at the corner. ‘Here.’ I tipped the little money I had into his dirt-rimmed
palm. ‘Meet me outside St Leonard’s Church in Foster Lane at noon. I’ll bring you food.’

It was dangerous to help him, but he was like a life rope to the past, and even if I despised him, to see any man brought so low was pitiful.

At noon, I set out for Will’s church. It had a small yard about it and Dorset was already there, warming in a patch of sunlight. By the way he tore into the bread and cheese, I knew he had not lied, and now I had time to observe him, I could see how his bones threatened to pierce his skin.

‘Eat slowly,’ I pleaded, ‘else you’ll throw the whole lot up again. Here!’ I passed across a leather bottle of ale.

He took a swig, closing his eyes and savouring it as though it was some heavenly elixir. Only when he had eaten every crumb did he speak again. ‘Pity about the old man. Just when he was ripe to come to terms.’ I must have looked slow, for he swiped his knuckle across the hairs on his upper lip and added, ‘Father Hastings, Elizabeth!’

My wounds were too raw to tolerate a dissection.

‘Buckingham wanted him out the way,’ I declared firmly. ‘There was no treason.’ It had become my creed, but reading the scorn in Dorset’s face, I knew I faced a heretic.

‘Sweet Christ!’ I snapped. ‘Does it matter?’ I wanted to scream:
if you had gone to Stony Stratford instead of thieving Ned’s treasure, your stepbrother would be wearing the crown and Hastings might still be alive
. But I was guilty as well: if I had stayed away from the sanctuary … If, if, if! The detritus of ‘ifs’ would clog the Thames.

He took another swig and shook the bottle to see how much was left. ‘We are going to get my brothers out.’ Disbelief must have flared in my face, for he added, ‘In Christ’s name, Jane, at least give me a bed for the night! You don’t have to share but …’ The leer vanished. His gaze flicked like a hunted animal’s to
something over my shoulder. ‘God’s sake! There’s some turd watching us.’

I swallowed fearfully and slowly turned my head. Of all people, it was the lawyer, Thomas Lynom, leaning upon the churchyard wall.

Quick-wittedly I smiled, waved, and said through my teeth, ‘He’s Gloucester’s man. Get-out-of-here!’

Dorset had the sense not to panic. He slithered back, saluting me so his face was half-hidden, snatched up the leather flask and loped off, round-shouldered, in the other direction, out to Pope Lane. I stood up, shaking the crumbs from my skirt, and walked towards my enemy as though I had promised him a dance. How much had those keen eyes observed?

‘You seem to have a soft heart for beggars, Mistress Lambard.’

‘But no alms to give them, alas.’ I beamed up at him with a confidence that was only skin deep. He looked very fine in his red mantle and matching hat with its turned back brim, but in the hedgerows scarlet is a warning of poison within. ‘My brother is the priest here. I sometimes help him with his charity. Were you passing by?’

His grin was disarming if you did not note how his eyes were still observing the far side of the churchyard. ‘No, I came to seek out your brother and ask where I might find you.’

‘And now you have.’

‘Perhaps if you are finished with … your
charity
, I may escort you to your house?’

‘You are living
in my house
.’

He held up his hands. ‘A poor choice of words. I apologise. Then may I escort you … somewhere?’

‘I purpose to visit a friend in Silver Street,’ I lied. He opened the gate for me to join him. ‘So you haven’t gone north, sir?’ I remarked dryly as we walked together.
North with your bloody-handed master
.

‘No, too much work here, Mistress Lambard. I’m employed by the new chancellor.’

‘Ah, Bishop Russell,’ I said knowledgeably. ‘Yes, I’ve met him. He is … a most learned and diligent man.’
Godly, too, until Gloucester bribed him with the chancellorship!

‘I think so, too. England is in good hands.’

Pah!

The conversation hobbled, with me trying to avoid its hidden holes and puddled furrows. I would have sworn on saint’s bones that either Lynom planned to solicit me – tup me for each sapphire – or else he was hoping I’d lead him to Dorset. This morning had been a close shave. Not one I wanted to repeat.

We reached Silver Street. ‘Here is my destination.’ I murmured politely. ‘Thank you for your company.’ I curtsied shallowly and turned away, only to have an afterthought. ‘By the way, Master Lynom, you will need to eat the colewort before it goes to seed and the walnuts need picking for pickling and compote.’

‘How very wifely of you. I’ll tell my servants.’ He put a swift, possessive hand upon my arm and grabbed me aside from the oncoming cart of horse dung. Oh, very husbandly! But his next words chilled me to my heart:

‘Now, tell me, before we part! Did you burn your letters?’

I flinched in shock, my cosmetic cheerfulness gone in an instant.

‘Well, did you?’ he asked sternly, with a glance around to ensure no one was close. ‘Did you?’

It was not his business!

‘Yes,’ I mouthed reluctantly, blinking hard. The pain of destroying them still hurt.

‘Good, I am relieved to hear it. You are a sensible woman, Mistress Lambard. Here’s your reward.’ I watched in a daze as he tugged something from the breast of his doublet. He dropped
a leather drawstring bag, still warm, into my astonished hand, closed my fingers over it and walked away.

‘Elizabeth?’ A woman’s voice made me turn. ‘Ah, it is you!’ I was clasped to the maternal bosom of Margery’s mother, Juliana Shaa. Then she stepped back, observing me with amusement. ‘Well, well, it gladdens me to see you with roses in your cheeks but I should have thought you’d had enough of lawyers. Especially that one!’ Thomas Lynom was still in sight, striding along with an easy gait and the confidence of a man who has the best in life.

‘Because he has my house?’ I asked distractedly, my mind beginning to whirl faster than a cutler’s grindstone. God help me! Had the dissembling cur made copies of my letters? When would he wind me in?

‘Yes, he has your house.’ Old Juliana observed the man’s fine calves with an appreciative eye. ‘But didn’t you know about his new appointment, Elizabeth?’

‘What appointment?’ I asked with a horrid, sinking feeling.

‘Oh, my dear, have a care!’ Her eyes were no longer smiling. ‘Master Lynom is now King Richard’s Crown Solicitor.’

Alone in my tiny bedchamber I opened the drawstring bag. The new Crown Solicitor had given me back my sapphire necklace. I could not believe it! Later that day two menservants arrived bearing three of my gowns, two pairs of shoes, several bosom kerchiefs and two sets of silken chemises. Blushing, I sent a concise but gracious letter back. Thanks were all I offered. He wanted me in the palm of his hand. He knew too much. His testimony could destroy me. What other game was there?

When Jack announced at supper that since the plague month was almost upon us, he desired Eleanor, the children and I to leave
within the week for Hinxworth, I almost threw my arms about him with relief. Dorset and Lynom would be left behind.

At Hinxworth we celebrated Lammasday and I made little star and dragon loaves for my nieces and nephews. Whitewashing out the ugly bits of the past weeks, I confessed to Father and Mama that Bishop Kemp had made me do a penance. I did not say it had been in front of the entire city nor, thank God, did they question me further.

The remainder of summer sped by. Jack fetched Eleanor the week before Michaelmas. He had missed her, even though he complained about a wife whose cheeks were brown as a milkmaid’s, purple-fingered children and a half-dozen panniers of blackberries.

I tarried another month. Mama, bless her, wanted me to stay forever. Heaven forbid! I considered myself too young to be put out to rural pasture like some old mare, and by October I was fretting for the city. So was Father. Although the roads were muddy with the rain, he announced he would escort me back to Silver Street. He missed the excitement of rushing to the quay to bargain when a cargo vessel was sighted, or chewing on market matters with his friends.