Mistress to the Crown (26 page)

‘Oh.’ My fingers tensed for an instant and then I fondled his hair again. ‘How so?’

The petulance eased. He took a deep breath. ‘Before the Battle of Tewkesbury, remember how Queen Margaret’s army landed at Weymouth and marched north? Because they were denied entrance into Gloucester, they couldn’t cross the River Severn there and they had to march on to Tewkesbury where we defeated them?’

‘Hm-m.’

‘The man who wouldn’t let them in at Gloucester was Richard Beauchamp, and a few years ago his wife had an affair with
Burdett. She demanded Burdett find an astronomer to see if her husband had long to live. Burdett went to Stacey. Anyway, to be brief, there was talk of witchcraft but insufficient evidence for poor old Beauchamp to make a charge.’

‘So Burdett is hot-blooded as well as hot-mouthed?’

‘Look at it this way, love, a shady lane breeds mud. I can forgive the bastard for wishing the buck’s horns were in my belly. Hell’s teeth, if you’ve been chasing a particular stag for months, you don’t want some other knave blundering in to shoot it.’ Another cherrystone flew across the chamber and pinged against the metal hearth screen.

‘Under the 1352 Act of Parliament on treason, we can’t convict Burdett for what he said about the buck unless there’s evidence of conspiracy as well. Now, there are plenty of witnesses to testify that Burdett was stirring up unrest. Again, that isn’t quite enough. Dogs that bark at a distance never bite. He wasn’t waging war or trying to start a rebellion on George’s behalf, see.’

I saw. For me, Burdett’s loyalty to the duke opened up the question of when a retainer had the right to refuse his lord’s commands, but Ned had not finished. ‘It was Stacey’s evidence that tipped the balance.’

‘The black arts?’

‘Yes.’

I tugged my hand free. ‘But that evidence was given
under torture
.’

It was dangerous to let my disapproval show. Ned could shift easily from lover to king, winching the portcullis down with a heavy slam if I stepped too close to his conscience. Tonight the drawbridge was still beneath my soles. So far …

‘Hang about, Jane, not on my direct orders, I can assure you. My officers obviously got over-zealous.’

‘Not the Duke of Exeter’s daughter?’

‘No, it’s barbaric. Not on my watch!’

I let silence be my ally. Ned’s fingers were playing distractedly with the braid edging my gown. He was staring pensively, not at the tapered toes of his shoes, but across at the fireplace. Was he observing the iron tongs, thinking about the torture his men had used? The branding irons, the pincers to pull out a man’s fingernails or crush his genitals? Had he
agreed
to that?

Mistrust was plucking at me, or else the Devil himself was whispering: Go on, ruin yourself, Elizabeth Lambard. Tell this king of yours that you don’t believe his word. Goad him until he yells at you and flings you out of his life.

Where do you draw the line between justice and compassion? I doubted there had been injustice in the Star Chamber, and what right did I have to interfere, to question that court’s authority? For the sake of Margaret Burdett and Marion Stacey? Yes, I sympathised, but many cutpurses and murderers have wives and children. Without punishment of transgressors, the realm would descend into lawlessness.

‘I’m not pardoning
any
of them, let’s be clear on that!’ Ned lifted an admonishing, inky finger. I caught his hand and drew his palm to my lips.

‘Could you promise me that from this day forth no torture will be used on any prisoners in the Tower? You are too great a Christian prince to permit such savagery, Ned.’

He turned his body to me and, thank God, there was love not anger in his eyes.

‘Please, Ned,’ I pleaded, with all my heart and soul. ‘Let justice always prevail, but not based on testimonies that have been wrung out of men’s limbs like blood.’

‘My sweet soft-hearted Jane.’ His hazel eyes searched my face, then he lifted loving fingers to stroke my cheek. ‘Yes, I can make such a promise.’

‘You have to make sure your officers obey you,’ I urged him. ‘Otherwise it’s …’

‘Farting in the wind?’

I smacked him. He laughed, heaved himself up and brought the flagon over. ‘I always know when you’re up to something,’ he muttered, refilling our cups and settling down again. ‘Jane, the people’s ungowned lawyer.’ One hand curled about my ankle and stroked upwards. ‘My warrior in skirts, brandishing her rolling pin for the humble and down-trod.’ His fingers suddenly tightened, cruelly. The teasing was gone from his voice. ‘Who put you up to it this time? Will Hastings?’

‘Let us be satisfied with compromise,’ I purred, clinking cup rims with him. If he was sincere, I had done more good than saving three guilty men. I must be content with that.

He shook his head. ‘Not good enough, my lovely. I want whys and wherefores. Royal command!’ He was quaffing his ale and watching my face.

‘Really?’ I challenged with good humour.

‘Yes, really.’ I heard the unpleasant edge of metal in his tone.

‘You’ll regret this.’

‘Not unless you will. Spill!’

‘It concerns someone’s mother.’

‘Ha, the biggest cannon to bombard a man? Were all three mothers grizzling on your doorstep?’

‘No, only one. Yours.’

Ned choked. ‘Mine? Mine out of Baynard’s? Hell! Next thing it will be the Holy Apostles rowing Christ across the Thames.’

‘Your stately mother brought Burdett’s wife to my house this morning.’

‘God’s truth, the conniving …’ He stumbled to his feet, cursing and slamming his fist into his palm and then, just like the waves that bruise the riverbank from the wake of a boat, his temper
subsided. ‘I’m sorry you have become involved, Jane. Mother should be talking sobriety into George, damn him, instead of plaguing you. He’s the one letting his friend die. If he had shown some remorse for hanging his wife’s servants, I might show these misguided traitors some mercy.’ His eyes bore grimly into mine. ‘Well, did Burdett’s woman grovel?’

I nodded.

An unpleasant smile dimpled. ‘But you haven’t asked me for his life? Don’t tread on quicksand, eh?’

I swallowed. ‘My brother, the rector of St Leonard’s, Foster Lane, also came to see me this morning, Ned. One of his parishioners is Stacey’s wife, Marion.’

‘Married! Poor old bastard, that’s him done for then. He can’t claim benefit of clergy now.’

I was aghast. ‘You mean he wouldn’t have been hanged?’

‘Well, he will be now. Drawn and quartered! A pity you told me.’

The food lurched in my stomach. I somehow got to my feet. ‘This makes me sick to my soul, Ned.’

‘You started it, Jehane d’Arc.’ He went to the board and pretended to sort the papers.

I did not know what to do. I didn’t want to become a moth in the cold of the night, seeing the light through the cracks in the shutter, unable to reach him, but I did believe in Christian forgiveness even if I sometimes fell short. I took a gulp of wine. The fierce rustle of parchment spoke behind me. The King did not want to be challenged. He presided; he never rode to the tilt.

My voice was husky as though the words could not be brought forth easily. ‘The week you became king, my lord, back in ‘61 when I was still a young girl.’ Behind me, the royal hands paused. ‘There … there was a London citizen called Walter Walker, whose son was to have the running of
The Crown Inn
at Newgate, and
that man, well, he made a jest and said his son would inherit “the crown”. Master Walker was put to death, Ned, because of you.’ I turned to face him. I wanted to ask:
Did you know that? Did you let it happen?

His expression was royal, unreadable, but his words … his words were tipped with steel. ‘And do you know who arrested him and had him hanged, Jane? Sheriff John Lambard!’

I didn’t know. My skin must have gone pale as ashes. I clutched at the table and missed. Ned rushed round and sat me down.

The tears came in such a tempest that I couldn’t stop them. I cried – for poor Master Walker and the traitors who might be guilty but must suffer such a horrible death.

‘No more!’ Ned commanded softly, flicking the last drops from my cheeks. ‘My dearest love, I promise you there shall be no more torture while I reign as king, but tomorrow morning justice shall be done.’

That Monday morrow in the darkness before cockcrow, Myddelton shook my shoulder as I lay in the King’s bed.

‘Mistress, his grace’s servants will be here shortly. Best you go.’

I kissed Ned’s forehead. ‘Enjoy the hunt,’ I murmured, ‘and may Christ and his angels protect the Queen in childbirth.’ Beneath my caress, Ned muttered but did not fully wake. ‘Please tell his grace what I said,’ I whispered.

Myddelton nodded. ‘I’ll see you back to King Street presently, Mistress Shore.’ I heard him tidying the outer chamber while I dressed.

Because it was early and the stairs that led from the Painted Chamber were better lit, he took me out through the double doors. The guards saluted me. It could have been otherwise. I sent a prayer of thanks to St Mary Magdalen for my own survival.

I cannot save the traitors, I told her, but maybe your saintliness could, soften Ned’s hea—

‘Jesu!’ I squealed as a dark question mark of a man straightened on the second landing.

‘What the …?’ Myddelton lifted the candlestick and we beheld the long, thin face of the royal councillor, James Goldwell, the Bishop of Norwich. ‘My lord, have you been here all night?’

‘Ye … N-no. That is, I …’ Episcopal fingers were tugging and smoothing as though he had been found
flagrante delicto
.

Myddelton’s candle was shaking but discretion was one of his polished virtues. He carried on past, but when I followed, Bishop Goldwell held up a delaying hand.

‘Mistress Shore, is … is that you?’

‘Yes, my lord,’ I said, making courtesy.

‘I … I hope … that is …’ The palace was still silent about us and, as though drawing courage from that, he drew breath again. ‘D-Did his grace the King sleep well?’

If it had been daylight, this cleric would have seen me blush.

‘He did, my lord.’ Two stairs down, I saw Myddelton’s candle wobble.

‘G-good,’ said my lord bishop. ‘That’s … good.’

And suddenly the hammer hit the anvil. ‘Master Myddelton,’ I called, ‘would you be so good as to wait for me downstairs, please?’ Once the candlelight reached the lower floor, I was able to ask, ‘Is this a mercy errand, my lord?’ A sharp gasp and then he confessed.

‘I’m here for Stacey. We were students together. The man’s a good scholar, Mistress Shore.’

‘Is he married?’

‘No.’ Surprise edged his voice. ‘Unless he’s broken his vows.’

‘So he is claiming “benefit of clergy”?’

‘Yes, but no one wants to listen. It’s like the rights of sanctuary these days, almost eroded. However, if the King’s grace would …’

‘I’m sure his grace will respect your compassion, my lord.’ But we were both thinking about Tyburn.

Downstairs, Myddelton coughed. I could hear the packhorses being brought into the yard, and voices upstairs; the body-servants on their way to clothe the King.

‘My lord, if you would be advised by me, you must tell the King that Stacey has a sister in London who lives in St Leonard’s parish. Not his wife but
a sister
. Her name is Marion.
Marion
. And, for the love of God, don’t tell him I said so, my lord, or your cause will fail.’

‘But, Mistress Shore, I don’t understand.’

‘Trust me.’

I heard the carts leave. Soon Edward, King of England, would be on his barge, and at the gallows, those who had slept overnight for the best view would be stirring. People would be waiting outside Newgate Gaol to jeer. The condemned would be carted through High Holborn to St Giles Hospital, where the holy brothers would give them each a great bowl of ale, their last drink upon earth and then … the rope, the whetted knives.

Close to eleven o’clock, I knelt at my prie-dieu and prayed for their souls. It was mid-afternoon when Lubbe reported back. I was sitting in the sun in the little courtyard when I heard his voice through the open door.

‘The press of people, I never saw the like,’ he muttered, collapsing onto a stool and propping his heels on the kitchen table. ‘Give us some ale, Belle, then I’ll front the mistress.’

‘You can front me now!’ I snapped, closing the door.

‘And get your plaguey boots off my clean table,’ grumbled Isabel.

Lubbe sprang to attention, his cap twitching in his hands.

‘I don’t want details, sirrah,’ I said firmly. ‘And no jesting! Was there a hanging?’

He held up two fingers but not in disrespect. ‘Burdett and Blake, mistress. The works.’

I tried not to imagine. ‘And Doctor Stacey?’

‘They was all up there wi’ nooses round their necks an’ all, an’ then Sheriff Colet rides forward with some bishop wot is waivin’ a sealed message from the king’s grace.’

I held my breath as he paused, grinning.

‘Reprieved – “Benefit of clergy”. Old fellow swooned when ‘e ‘eard an’ the others looked fit to piss, saving your pardon, mistress. The crowd didn’t like it. They wanted Burdett to be saved cos ‘e was only followin’ ‘is lord’s orders. ‘E kept protestin’ it weren’t ‘is fault, right to the last. Crowd got wot they wanted, though; a good showin’. Wouldn’t ‘ave done for the King to pardon all three. Very unwelcome that would’ve been, eh, mistress?’

I couldn’t answer nor did I have to for there was a knocking at the front door. Young went to deal with it and staggered back with a basket of grumpy chickens.

‘These squawkers are from the Bishop of Norwich, mistress.’ Resting on top was a nosegay of wild flowers and in a very unlettered hand, a strip of parchment with the words:

God blesse you and thanke you wyth alle my hert, MS

XI

The bells rang out that week to celebrate the birth of a third prince. Ned, offering his brother forgiveness, named the babe George. But the old proverb, ‘
Ale in, wit out’
, was proved true. When the duke heard about Burdett’s execution, he galloped down to Westminster and charged into the Star Chamber, bellowing for the King. Of course, Ned was at Windsor, and instead of taking the matter to him, the duke harangued the councillors and made them listen to the testimony of some Franciscan preacher, who claimed to have heard the condemned men’s confessions of innocence. The palace immediately sent a courier to Windsor.