Mistress to the Crown (28 page)

I despised Dorset and the Woodville men more than ever. Whoresons! Fools! They were continually challenging Ned to prove his stamina – yes, until his true friend Hastings could bear it no more.

‘It’s as if Ned’s trying to regain his lost youth,’ he complained to me over hyppocras and wafers in his chambers. ‘If he doesn’t
take heed, he’ll end up with the pox and a rotting shaft. We need to keep him hale, Elizabeth. Imagine England without him!’

‘He’s trying to fight his age,’ I said sadly. ‘His physicians have convinced him that if he breathes the same air as those that are fresh and vital, it will invigorate him.’

‘What nonsense! Intelligent company will do more for him than giggling numbskulls. I’m out of temper with him, truly. I’m getting too old to play watchdog.’

‘No, you’re not,’ I said fondly. Since he had dismissed his servants so he might speak freely, I played the page and took the flagon across to refill his goblet. ‘In fact, compared to Ned, my lord, you have hardly aged one bit.’

‘Stop honey-tonguing me, wench. I’m getting thin up here.’ He tapped the crown of his head. His silvery fringe hid some of the care lines in his brow but, yes, he was right.

‘If you keep a hat on….’ I teased.

‘Fifty-two,’ he groaned. ‘Poxy Dorset would like to see me put out to grass.’

‘I daresay ‘Poxy Dorset’ would like to see Ned put out to grass.’ There, I had voiced my blasphemous thoughts and Hastings did not argue. Encouraged, I added, ‘Don’t you think it is time Prince Edward spent time with Ned and saw more of the world than Ludlow Castle? Forgive my frankness, my lord, but when the boy was here last summer, I could see how he had modelled himself too much upon Lord Rivers.’

Hastings pulled a face. ‘All very well, Elizabeth, but the court is not a healthy place. What if the boy apes Dorset instead? At least at Ludlow, it’s all books and learning.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘By Christ, I’d like to put my boot up Dorset’s backside. If he calls me “Old Father Hastings” one more time …’

The Queen’s kinsmen were trying afresh to disgrace Hastings with allegations that he was lining his own pockets in Calais and
having secret truck with King Louis. They even buzzed it round the palace that we were once more lovers.

Every time I witnessed their foulness affecting Ned’s thinking, I sought to deliver a draught of common sense. The King was no fool; he knew their mischief, but it sapped his energy when he should have had his mind on breaking Scotland and crashing through the sticky web that King Louis was spinning around him.

Indeed, it was the beginning of a cruel winter; the harvest had been the worst in years. As the trees became skeletons and the dank November weather seeped in at the cracks of the casements, I became concerned by the gradual changes I espied in Ned. He should have been preparing to join his army against King James in the coming spring, but there was an unhealthy lethargy slowly eating into his soul. He was no longer the energetic, carefree man with whom I had fallen in love.

He still could cut a splendid figure in his blue cloth of gold, with the order of the garter adorning his hose and the white rose diamond brooch upon his breast. Yet, when he wore his white damask furred with sable or his scarlet mantle with the purple lining, the colours aged him. Besides, there were other betrayals; his waist belt had only one hole left in the tongue, many of his rings were newly enlarged, dewlaps cowled his chin and there was a morose slump to his shoulders as though his great skeleton was weighed down by all that extra flesh.

I resolved that when the weather warmed, I would devise plentiful sports to tempt him into exercise. Perhaps he could invite the London aldermen to a hunt and feast at Waltham (the blessing of the oak tree might bring me a harvest) or ride again to Sandwich with Prince Edward to see his fleet of trading ships.

My other decision was to end the lease on the Aldersgate house and set up a household there with my servant, Young, in charge so I might increase my presence in the city. I also acquired
more silkwomen and, like the wise bridesmaids in the parable, I increased my purchase of fine ornaments that might be sold easily if adversity struck.

At least Ned’s health improved as the last snows melted, but then in May, when the petals of blackthorn were falling from the hedgerows, fifteen-year-old Princess Mary died and he grieved much for her.

Unwilling to give up his French pension, he stood guiltily aside while France made war on Burgundy. More and more he drank late o’night with Dorset, and in the mornings he would be like an ill-tempered bear snapping at the hounds that tried to rouse him. Rich foods no longer sat well in his belly, and sometimes during a banquet he would hasten to the latrines to be sick.

My temper finally boiled over. It happened one night after supper when Ned was clearly not feeling well. Myddelton was escorting me out through the servants’ passageway when we encountered Dorset and Edward Woodville herding three young women towards the bath chamber door. The girls looked respectable. Clean enough, I suppose, but hardly more than fifteen or sixteen years old.

‘You disgust me!’ I snarled at Dorset and Woodville, blocking their way. ‘You are ruining his highness’s health and threatening the good of the kingdom.’

‘Whoa,’ sneered Dorset, swaggering in close and forcing me to one side the passage. ‘If it isn’t jealous Mistress Shore,
ageing
Mistress Shore!’

‘If I am such a crone, why do you keep trying to bed me, Dorset? Go home, demoiselles!’

Of course, the wenches only tittered as Edward Woodville hurried them past. Myddelton – and I don’t blame him – disappeared. Only over-confident addlepates like me dared run foul of the Queen’s kinsmen.

‘I despise you!’ I snarled loudly at Dorset. ‘You treat those girls like dumb beasts.’

‘But they are strumpets, Mistress Shore, just strumpets.’ Like you, his eyes told me.

‘Then what does that make you, my lord?’

He struck me across the face for my insolence.

‘Such a
gentleman
,’ I sneered, raging that I had not the strength to ruin his grinning teeth. I must have raised my arm for suddenly a familiar voice said, ‘If you must, Jane, don’t draw your thumb in.’

‘Ned!
Ned?
’ I gasped in amazement. He had come round from the Painted Chamber with Myddelton.

‘She’s a damned fishwife,’ complained Dorset, showing ruffled dignity.

‘Never in my life have I hit a woman, Thomas,’ said Ned in a dangerous voice. ‘Apologise to her!’

‘Apologise to an upstart mercer’s spawn?’ Despite his bluster, fear glittered in Dorset’s eyes. Brandished before him was the calm, deadly will of a king who had never lost a battle.

‘On one knee, sirrah.
Do it!
’

Slowly the Queen’s son sulkily lowered himself to the floor. ‘Your pardon, Mistress Shore.’

‘Louder! As if you mean it.’ Ned grabbed his hair and forced his head fiercely forwards. The marquis obeyed, grimacing in pain, and still the King did not let go. ‘This
lady
has done more good than you will achieve in your entire, useless life and if I ever hear further report of you scorning her, I’ll have you in the Tower faster than you can spit.’

‘B-but you said you wanted girls.’

‘No, lad,
you
said I wanted girls. I’m not in the humour tonight so take your arse hence. Jane, I still require your company! No argument, Dorset! Go and whine to your mother! Myddelton,
find Lord Hastings and my lord of Ely. I am in the mood for
intelligent
discourse.’

When we reached his bedchamber, Ned almost collapsed in my arms and I bade his gentlemen help him to bed and bring hot bricks to ease his discomfort. By the time Hastings and Bishop Morton arrived, our king had fallen asleep.

XII

Something dark was definitely cankering within Ned’s belly. By day he put on a stoical face but by night he was almost crying with the pain.

‘What is the matter with these physicians?’ I exclaimed testily to Hastings later that week as I paced in frustration that I could do nothing to help the poor man.

Hastings shook his head wearily. ‘Dr Fryse examined Ned’s belly again this morning and he still thinks it might be an ulcer. He’s given him more horehound and moneywort, and he’s hoping whatever is at the root of this may heal itself. But if there is a clogging before the waste enters Ned’s bowels, he may have to try a stronger purge – wormwood, bitter almonds and so forth. Hobbys is coming in to leech Ned this afternoon.’

Pah, this evil ailment was beyond a jar of leeches.

‘God willing, it’ll bring him ease.’ I murmured. ‘I’ve been trying to see a pattern. Eating briefly alleviates his discomfort but then the pain returns and only vomiting relieves it.’

Hastings sighed. ‘It makes no sense to me either. Last night he left the board several times and came back and ate again.’

‘If only he might eat in his chamber.’

‘Appearances, Elizabeth. A king must show no weakness.’

‘Why not?’ I challenged. ‘Oh, I suppose, the French might attack?’

He ignored my tantrum. ‘Richard is coming down for Christmas. I’ll ask him if he can take over some of the public duties so that Ned can have some rest.’

‘Alleluia,’ I muttered.

As if bodily pain were not sufficient, God had torment for Ned’s mind as well. A week before Yuletide, Duchess Meg wrote to say France was forcing surrender upon Burgundy and the diplomats were already on the road to Arras to draw up a treaty. Worse, King Louis was demanding that the Burgundian heiress should wed his son the Dauphin and cede half her duchy to France as a dowry. The news shattered Ned. It meant that Princess Bess’s betrothal to the Dauphin was finished and there was no need for King Louis to continue the fat pension to the English crown.

Ned was so angry with himself for doing nothing to save Burgundy that he barred his door and no one dared go near him. Next evening, however, Dorset and the Queen’s brothers persuaded him that a good carousing might help him gain oblivion. If Hastings had known, he would have stopped them.

Before daylight next morning, Myddelton was banging on my door in King Street with a message from Hastings bidding me attend Ned straight away. I hastily pulled on some clothes, not bothering with a cap and veil.

‘What’s happened?’ I asked Myddelton, hurrying to keep up with him as we crossed the frosty cobbles.

‘I don’t know, Mistress Shore, but the matter is urgent. Pray you, say nothing to the guards. My lord is trying to keep a lid on this.’

My imagination was crazed with possibilities as we ran up the stairs. The men guarding the royal apartments had orders to let
us through. The Painted Chamber was deserted and ominously silent as we crossed to the other door.

Ned’s room was strewn with bodies. For an instant I almost screamed and then I realised that three of them were snoring. Sir Edward Woodville lay belly up across the windowseat, Sir Richard Woodville decorated the daybed with a pisspot full of puke within hand’s reach. Through the inner doorway I could see Dorset outrageously sprawled across Ned’s bed, while my beloved lord lay like a beggar before the cold hearth. Beside him was an empty flagon rolled upon its side. Hastings was kneeling over him.

‘O sweet Christ,’ I exclaimed. ‘Has he choked on his tongue?’

Hastings shook his head and snapped an order to Myddelton. ‘Get back out and make sure no one comes in!’ He looked up at me. ‘I don’t like this. He always holds his drink.’

‘Ned, my love,’ I whispered, falling to my knees. His face was cold beneath my fingertips so I grabbed his dressing robe and tucked it round him. ‘Have you sent for his physicians?’

‘Of course, and the Queen.’ Ned’s friend shook his head despairingly. ‘Damn it, the Breton ambassadors are due this morning.’

‘A murrain on them!’ I muttered. ‘Can you not say the King is indisposed?’

‘He can’t be.’

‘For the love of Christ!’ My temper was fraying. ‘Give him some slack, my lord.’

‘You don’t understand, Elizabeth. He’s England. If word he’s failing—’

‘Please!’ I flung a hand up to silence him. ‘Ned,’ I whispered. ‘Come, my love, wake up.
Ned!
’

My plea evoked a mumbled curse and my heart stopped lurching. Hastings whistled with relief and I realised just how much he had panicked. We all depended on Ned. He was the cornerstone.

‘You are worried about Calais, aren’t you?’ I whispered to Hastings.

‘I’m worried about every poxy thing. All that we’ve tried to do in Scotland. As for Brittany’s peril, that’s why they are here for his help. We need to— Oh, lad, we need you.’ Like a desperate father, he pushed the hair back from Ned’s forehead.

I glared at the soles of Dorset’s feet. ‘Tosspots!’ I muttered. ‘Have they no brains or do they pass one around between them?’

‘Their brains are in their cocks. You know that.’

‘Listen, voices!’ I exclaimed, sitting back. ‘The physicians are here, thank God!’

‘Good, let’s get him into his bed, if we can scrape that bastard off the coverlet.’

So it was that while Hastings had his hands full trying to haul an ill-tempered sot from the bed and I was kneeling on the floor with Ned cradled on my lap like a poor dead Christ, Richard of Gloucester forced his way in.

The last person we expected! Dusty-cheeked from the road, ebullient from his campaign against the Scots and clearly keen to spoon every detail into Ned, Gloucester halted in horror at the sight of his incoherent brother

‘What in God’s name goes on here?’ The words hissed like water on red-hot irons.

‘The King is ill, your grace.’

‘Ill, woman?’ His eagle eye took in the upturned goblets and his overturned in-laws. He dropped on one knee beside Ned and bent his head to smell his brother’s breath. ‘The King of England’s stinking drunk.’ He raised his head and looked daggers at Hastings and back at me. ‘You bawd! You gormless, stupid bawd.’

I gasped, outraged by the calumny, but he was already on his feet yelling, ‘How in Hell can you let him get like this, Will? Is this your loyalty, letting him run with swine and strumpets.’