Royal Mistress (27 page)

F
ar from carefree, Edward’s world had begun to spin out of control. He had been right to worry about George of Clarence’s threat in February, for word reached Westminster that George had been making mischief that month of April in his castle at Warwick.

After surprising Jane by bustling into her solar and taking stock
of her elegant surroundings, Margaret Howard sank onto a chair and launched into her tale.

“If you have seen George of Clarence, Mistress Shore, you would not believe ’tis possible for him to behave in any way uncharming or cruel, unless he has been drinking. He is handsome, intelligent, with a great love of books, and he remained faithful to his duchess until her death. ’Tis said, he is generous to his servants. But there is one servant who can now never praise or vilify him again, because she is dead by his hand these five days.”

Jane raised an eyebrow but remained silent to encourage the friendly Lady Howard to continue. Under the burgundy gown, Margaret’s feet attempted to reach the floor, but as the chair had been specially made for six-foot-three-inch Edward, Margaret was left with legs dangling and feeling like a child. Jane swiftly fetched a footstool, and Margaret smiled her thanks.

“It seems the Duchess Isabel had a lingering death after birthing her babe, and, without warning, Clarence sent two of his minions with eighty armed men into Somerset a fortnight ago to seek out Isabel’s former servant, Dame Twynho. They broke into her house and dragged her back to Warwick with no proper authority, where Clarence accused her of poisoning his wife.”

Jane drew in a breath, afraid for the victim. “Did he have proof, my lady? The Duchess Isabel died half a year ago. What happened?”

“Ankarette Twynho was imprisoned, brought before the justices, and found guilty.” Margaret clicked her tongue with disdain. “Not before Clarence, I would dare to wager, had the jury in his pocket. Not satisfied with condemning the Twynho woman, the duke found another servant to accuse of murdering the newborn babe as well, and both of them were hanged, as I say, five days ago.” She leaned forward. “He behaved for all he was the king. ’Tis said his grace King Edward is seething.”

Jane was shocked by the story, crossed herself, and sent up a prayer
for Dame Twynho’s soul. She was grateful to Margaret for the news, as Edward had not been to Thames Street for a sennight. “What came over the duke?” she wondered. “I can understand the man must have grieved for his wife and babe, but to wait so long to accuse and then exact such swift and terrible justice? ’Tis strange indeed.”

“My lord husband believes George is a little unbalanced, Jane,” Margaret said, and it warmed Jane to hear this noblewoman call her by her Christian name. It seemed Jane’s assessment of Margaret had been correct, and Jack Howard’s wife had gladly spent time teaching Jane the intricacies of court life. “He is so often in his cups, most ignore his complaining. He is less and less at court, and he eats and drinks there but little, putting it about he is afraid he will be poisoned by someone close to the king. Ridiculous! However, I told Jack that I believe the duke simply wants to get his big brother’s attention. He is still a spoiled little boy, I fear, and pouting because he was denied marriage with Mary of Burgundy. He is convinced Edward deprived him out of spite, although there is not a man on the council who cannot see what a danger George would be as duke of Burgundy. He is blinded by hate. ’Tis a sorry state of affairs.”

Jane shook her head. “I must admit, Lady Margaret, that men’s minds are hard to fathom sometimes. But it would seem to me that my lord of Clarence should not test the king’s patience much more. The word in the city is that his grace has been too magnanimous with this troublesome brother.” She wanted to confide that Edward did not often talk about affairs of state but refrained. “I have heard also that Richard of Gloucester is in good standing with the king, but he is wise and stays away from court.”

“You have the measure of Edward’s goodness toward his brothers. Those Yorks will stick together like limpets on a rock when they are pressed. But it does the Crown no good to see brother warring against brother. In truth, Edward’s other brother is well acquainted with my husband and me,” Margaret said, smiling wistfully. “We miss him in Suffolk.”

“How so, my lady?”

Margaret twinkled. “Richard was often at Stoke, our residence in Suffolk, when he and Kate Haute were . . . were, um, close,” she said. “Kate was brokenhearted to have to give up her five-year-old John when Richard claimed him last summer. She is a spirited woman and swears she will never love again and thus took the widow’s wimple when her wastrel husband met his end.” She smiled. “Another George, and as willful and childish as Clarence.”

For the next half an hour, Jane plied Margaret with questions about Kate and her liaison with Gloucester, and by the end, she had an even more burning wish to meet the woman who had so softened the heart of the dark young duke.

“If you want to know what Kate looks like, you have only to see her daughter, Katherine, who for now resides with the king’s sister, Elizabeth of Suffolk. Next time you are at court, you must ask to have her pointed out to you.” Margaret watched curiously as Jane rose to pour her guest another cup of ale and was struck by Jane’s daintiness. She herself was perhaps only an inch higher, but there was nothing dainty about Margaret in her middle age. She liked what she saw in Jane and would report to her husband, her dear Jack, that if Edward had to have a mistress, he had chosen well. Margaret felt a kindred common sense in Jane, and as she had never particularly warmed to the queen after all these years, it would be pleasant to spend time with the king’s favorite when she was in London and on duty at the palace.

For her part, Jane was elated to have finally been accepted by a another woman at Edward’s court.

J
ane and Margaret would have been pleased by their prediction of Edward’s intolerance for mutinous behavior from George of Clarence. They were surprised, however, by the puzzling manner in which Edward counterattacked.

Not a month after Dame Twynho was hanged, Edward chose
to pursue an old case of necromancy with connections to George.

The new trial was held in London and widely talked about, unlike the provincial Twynho case. It seemed that three years before, one John Stacy, an Oxford clerk and self-proclaimed astronomer, was thought to have used his magic art to predict the death of the king and his son. In his recent confession, Stacy implicated two others, Thomas Burdett and Thomas Blake.

“You recall Burdett, my dear? He was the maggot who invited me hunting and then wished me dead for killing his precious white buck,” Edward reminded Elizabeth on an evening when they were dining privately. As he demolished half a haunch of venison, Elizabeth picked delicately at a small sliver of the meat, nodding absently from time to time and shuddering at her husband’s primitive table manners. Sweet Mother of God, but he ate too much, she thought again. Despite giving birth two months before to her eighth child, she had kept her trim figure and was disgusted by Edward’s gluttony and obesity, although she cherished these private times with him.

“By Christ, I should have hanged him there and then,” Edward said, showering venison fragments into the air with every word and causing Elizabeth to move her cup of wine to safety. “I forgave him because he was one of George’s intimates.”

“And what, pray, does this Burdett person have to do with the Twynho . . . murder?” Elizabeth asked silkily. She hoped her tone would remind Edward that Clarence should pay for his outrageous act. Her dislike of her brother-in-law grew daily, and she was not above passing insidious remarks to help push Clarence over the precipice. “Wishing your death and carrying it out are very different,” she said. “God knows how many times I have wished you in hell, my dear husband, especially when you come to me from that whore Shore’s bed.” She smiled sweetly at him, and Edward scowled at her. He had no defense when it came to his infidelity,
and Elizabeth knew it. “But do go on. I am agog to know how Burdett can hurt George.”

Edward knew he should tell his queen that had her tongue been less spiteful, he might not have spent so much time with Jane, but it would require far too much effort on his part this late in their married life. Besides he never intentionally wished to hurt Elizabeth’s feelings. So instead he wiped his mouth with his sleeve and continued Burdett’s story.

“There is evidence the man and his conspirators used sorcery to predict my death, but even more damning was that Burdett was found to have spread about treasonable poems and ballads.” Edward had risen and was rinsing his fingers in the marble bowl held out to him by the gentleman usher of the chamber. “Burdett is obviously attempting to rouse the people to rebellion, and the man is not intelligent or influential enough to do this alone.”

Elizabeth arched a finely plucked brow. “Clarence?”

“Who else?” Edward growled, allowing his usher to remove the heavy gold collar from his neck and pull the tunic over his head. “ ’Tis certain Burdett is in league with Stacy and Blake, and ’twas enough to try all three. I have no doubt they will hang.”

“And what of your brother?”

Edward scowled, sitting down again to have his hose-shoes removed. “I have no proof George is involved, but I hope it serves to warn him to beware of his actions, for he can no longer count on my tolerance.” How he longed for the old days when he and his brothers and sisters were a closely knit family.

When the usher bowed himself from the room, Elizabeth motioned to her lady-in-waiting to begin her undressing process. “I am so thankful those of us left in
my
family all rub along well,” she said. “Our mother and father were so enamored of each other, we could not help but learn about love and loyalty from a young age.”

Edward picked up his goblet. He was tired of the queen’s
self-righteousness. “My dear Bess, you know very well ’twas the same with my family,” he said, testily. “I know not what worm crawled into George’s head to make him different. He was the best loved, I used to think. Now, I pray you, let us change the subject.”

Elizabeth ignored him. “I have never liked him,” she continued. “He is vain, he is never sober, and his charm is false.”

Edward’s patience came to an ugly end. “Enough of George, I said!” he cried, making Elizabeth’s woman drop the ivory comb in her hand. “And speaking of best loved children, your description of him might fit your Tom.”

Elizabeth snapped her fingers at the lady-in-waiting, who, rescuing the comb, gratefully hurried out.

“How dare you criticize Tom,” she spat back, retreating to her side of the bed. “I would venture to say he is what you and Hastings have made him.” She was scornful then. “Who knows what sort of legacy we are leaving our children through your bad example, my lord. At least I keep my body to myself. Unlike you and that Shore whore!”

The king’s goblet landed, dented, on the floor by the opposite wall while Elizabeth took cover behind the bedpost. Edward strode to the door.

“Page! Wake up, boy, and fetch Sir Walter immediately.” He began snatching up his clothes and jammed his hat on his head. “I shall not stay where I am insulted,” he barked at his wife. “Look to yourself if you wish to understand why I seek the solace of another woman’s bed. You have driven me to it.”

Elizabeth’s expression hardened, but she said nothing; she knew when she had pushed Edward too far. When Sir Walter Hungerford entered to serve his king, the queen and her tears were safely hidden behind the damask curtains of her lonely tester bed.

J
ane found herself strangely drawn to the hanging at Tyburn.

The night before, Edward had arrived unannounced and in a
black humor. He had taken her more roughly than he had ever done before, and Jane had been fearful he might be angry with her or, even worse, he might be tiring of her. After he had had his fill and the candle was guttering, he suddenly gave a loud groan and turned into her arms.

“What is it, Edward?” Jane asked. “Is it something I have done?”

Edward had squeezed her tight and kissed her neck. “Nay, little love, it is not you.” The use of his Christian name moved something in him, and for the first time he spoke to her of his troubles. He told her all about George and the unlawful way his brother had treated Dame Twynho. Jane already knew but did not interrupt, as she could see Edward had much on his mind that night. She lay still in his arms and learned of Edward’s counterattack on Clarence.