Mistress to the Crown (43 page)

On the surface, we found the city quiet. The great lords were still absent from Westminster, but there was a sinister rustling in the kingdom’s undergrowth. Lord Howard, now the Duke of Norfolk, was acting as the King’s Justiciar. Of late, his affinity included large numbers of armed men, and people were asking why. The very day after we arrived back, messengers in his grace’s insignia were riding hither and thither, and Lord Mayor Bilisdon was summoned urgently to attend the duke.

‘It won’t be about the price of gold, neither!’ declared my father and he high-tailed it round to the Shaas to find out which wind
was up my lord of Norfolk’s tail, for although Sir Edmund Shaa had finished his mayoral year, he was still at the heart of civic matters.

‘You’ll never believe it!’ Father exclaimed on his return, herding the family into the solar and closing the door. ‘There’s word of rebellion throughout the southern shires. The King’s in a pother and heading back as fast as he may. Would you believe, he sent for my lord of Buckingham and the duke refused to come! There’s tales coming in from all over that Buckingham’s allied himself with the Woodvilles and intends to restore Prince Edward to the throne.’

Oh yes, and the Sultan of Turkey’s become a Christian!

‘I don’t believe it, Father,’ I exclaimed. ‘Why on earth would he? King Richard’s made him wealthier than Croesus. It doesn’t make sense unless … Of course, he wants the crown. He is the last lawful heir of the House of Lancaster! Ned was right never to trust him.’

My menfolk ignored my logic; any mention of ‘Ned’ was an embarrassment.

‘Buckingham is married to a Woodville, Elizabeth,’ Eleanor pointed out.

Jack chewed his lower lip. ‘Can he do it, though? Has he sufficient men?’

Father sniffed. ‘He has to march from Brecknock – damned end of the earth, and he’s never fought a battle. As for the Woodvilles, unless Dorset has slunk back ashore, they haven’t any leaders. It’ll be naught but gentry and farmers unless there’s some great traitor who hasn’t shown his hand. I reckon, King Richard will swat ’em like fl—’

The knocking below halted him.

A knocking with a sinister urgency that made my blood run cold.

III

That night I was back in Ludgate Gaol on suspicion of treason. Who had I lain with this time? Buckingham?

Thanks be to God, the head gaoler was not on duty when Sheriff Mayhew delivered me there that night. Next day on the Crown Solicitor’s orders, I was taken from the yard and informed I was to be locked into an upstairs cell, where I was to await his interrogation.
Thomas Lynom’s
interrogation? The damned man was stalking me. Or
storing
me. A potted mistress to be knifed out onto his bread? Well, I was not playing that game! And this upstart whoreson’s foolish order to keep me solitary would render me vulnerable once the head-gaoler came back on duty.

The cell proved a dark little room, furnished with only a crudely joined stool and a necessity pail. An arrow-slit in the ancient wall let in a cross of meagre light. For some there might have been naught to do but listen to the mad girl, who thought she was me, singing tunelessly in the yard below, but I was so afraid that the head gaoler would come to rape me that I took up position in a corner with the stool in my grip. For the rest of the day and through the night, I tried to stay awake, tensing every time I heard footsteps approaching. By the time that Gloucester’s
familiar deigned to confront me the following afternoon, my nerves were a-jangle through lack of sleep and I was more than ready to scratch his eyes out. A brave man or else a fool, he bade his notary wait outside and entered my small cell alone. Water dripped from his heavy cloak, the leather of his boots was dark with wet and, despite a hood, his fringe of dark hair clung to his forehead like sculptured curls.

‘Good day to you, Mistress Shore. It’s raining hard out there,’ he remarked amiably as though I had invited him into my parlour for some mulled wine and tartlets. ‘Exercising with the stool, are you?’

Teeth clenched, I set it aside. I was determined not to let him provoke me, but he was looking me over with a grin. ‘I hope you are proud of yourself!’ I hissed, backing from him as far as I could. ‘You have my house, my goods. What more will please you? A pot of my ashes?’

‘I see you are in your usual fine fettle, Mistress Shore,’ he answered, shrugging off his cloak. There was nowhere to hang it and, with a grimace, he folded it carefully and dumped it by the wall before he turned his attention back to me. ‘You are being held at the King’s pleasure. I suggest you adopt a more conciliatory manner, throw yourself on his mercy and tell us all we need to know.’

Had the Crown Solicitor been a stranger to me, some eminent, solemn greybeard who had bothered to come clad in a lawyer’s gown, I might have conducted our discourse with greater care, but this was Lynom. His vitality, his cocky scarlet doublet, symbolic of his sudden rise to riches – not to mention the fact that he was sleeping in my bed, had read Ned’s letters and was eyeing me with much amusement – made me forget all courtesy.

‘His mercy!’ I sneered. ‘And the princes in the Tower? Do they live at his mercy, too, or are they to be murdered like poor King Harry so none can rescue them?’

Ha, that made Lynom as angry as a poked serpent. ‘Keep your cursed voice down or you will be for the bonfire!’ he warned. ‘And you have my word that the Lords Bastard are in good health.’

‘Your word?’ I enjoyed seeing him battle to bridle his temper.

‘Yes, Mistress Shore, I was at the Tower with the Lord Chancellor yesterday and saw them for myself. As for King Harry, since it was your royal lover had him murdered, do not talk to me of my king’s faults!’

‘Ha! And your precious Gloucester did the deed on my Ned’s orders.’

‘No, that is an evil nonsense, and such accusations do you no good at all. Now I suggest you take a few moments to calm yourself before you make your deposition.’ Confident I would comply, he leaned his shoulders back against the door and folded his arms; his entire stance a reminder to me that I was in his power. I glared at him and turned away, cradling my shoulders. Behind me the room was silent and growing colder. I bit my lip and shivered, close to tears. Why was I being so unwise? But what did it matter what I said? I knew how Ned would have acted now – ruthlessly! His brother would be no different. If Gloucester managed to keep the crown, there would be no more pardons. As though he read my thoughts, my inquisitor stirred. ‘By the way, Mistress Shore, you are not the only person to be arrested. Everyone known to openly sympathise with the Woodvilles has been detained.’

‘And there was I about to lead my army to meet up with Buckingham’s, Master Lynom,’ I answered dryly, turning to face him. ‘You must be so pleased to have captured me in the nick of time.’

The upstart sucked in his cheeks and with a lift of eyebrows that said on-your-head-be-it, he flung back his knuckles against the door, summoning his notary to enter.

The young man fussed about, setting candles upon the window
embrasure, arranging the stool so he might sit where the light was greatest, taking off the ink phial that he wore about his neck, and readying his writing board. All the while Lynom watched me with narrow eyes as though I was an unjarred spider, and I stared back haughtily, my chin raised.

‘Let’s get this over with, shall we, Mistress Shore?’

In reply I swished him a mock curtsy but he merely nodded. The lawyer rather than the retainer was back in charge. Behind the tightening of lip and the hardening of his gaze, I could see the Inn of Court discipline snapping into place.

‘Mistress Shore, have any of the Woodvilles or their henchmen been in communication with you?’

Hmm, so this could be more about catching Dorset than punishing me. It made sense. Snaring such a prize might earn Lynom a knighthood. Well, I took my time in considering my answer. It was a pleasure to ratchet up his impatience but, in truth, I was wondering
what
to answer. I could have negotiated; my freedom in return for a description of the new beggar on the streets of Farringdon, but I had some honour left. And trust Lynom? Pah to that!

‘Go jump in the Thames, Crown Solicitor!’

The notary started to write and I gave a gurgle of laughter at the lawyer’s furious expression.

‘Godssakes, man! Use your wits!’ he exclaimed, and then to my great amazement, his mouth twitched into better humour, and with a sigh and shake of head, he clasped his hands behind his back and we waited while the ink dried and the words were scuffed from the parchment. But it was not amusing. Lynom was at the top of the new king’s dungheap. I don’t suppose he had crawled there through treachery like Catesby but by winning cases to enrich his master. Two things I needed to keep in mind: never to underestimate this lawyer’s cunning and always to remember
that Gloucester wanted Dorset’s head on a pole on London Bridge for the crows to peck at! Next to my beloved Hastings’. Three things! O God, let me remember that most of all.

‘Let us continue, Mistress Shore.’

Perversity seemed the best ploy, but my eyes were gritty with weariness and my head ached.

‘Have you had any recent communication with Lady Cecily, Dorset’s wife?’

‘Ah.’ I smiled as I watched the quill-tip dip and hover. ‘I cuckolded Kate, her mother, and since then, of course, Cecily and I have been bosom friends. I’m standing godmother to her next babe.’ I sidled across to the notary and purred, ‘Aren’t you writing that down?’ Then I grabbed the inkpot and hurled its contents at Lynom’s middle. ‘Do you think me such a fool! Go to the Devil with your poxy questions, you son of an evil whore! I don’t care a damn in Hell who wears the accursed crown! Why do you bother with such foolish questions? Your king wants me burned as a traitor and he’ll see it done when he returns, so go and—O God!’

Lynom was staring down in dismay at the black stain wounding his scarlet stomacher. He looked so little-boy hurt, so astonished.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I exclaimed, my fingers shaking at my lips. ‘I didn’t mean—’

‘You are your own worst enemy, Mistress Shore.’ He grabbed the latch and flung the door open. ‘Get out!’ he snarled at the notary and the young man fled.

‘Please, please …’ I pleaded as Lynom reached for his cloak. My common sense was telling me I had misplayed this so badly. Catching his sleeve, I cried, ‘Please understand, I haven’t slept all night.’ He shook me off. ‘Please,’ I pleaded. Tears had begun to trickle down my cheeks. I fell to my knees and clutched at the skirt of his doublet. No doubt he thought me despicable, but I felt so empty, so vulnerable, and my pleas poured out unbidden. ‘Please,
I beg you, don’t leave me here. The head gaoler has vowed to rape me.’ He pulled away from me and I dropped my forehead to my knees in anguish. ‘Please, Master Lynom,’ I sobbed into my skirt. I do not know if he heard my muffled words, but I sensed him stare down at me for a long hard moment before he left the cell.

‘Lock her in!’ I heard him snarl at the under-gaoler. ‘No one – no one! – is to have truck with her without my permission.’

I should not have behaved like a fishwife or a waterpot, but everything had overwhelmed me.

Lynom made sure the head gaoler never troubled me again. I was taken to a larger cell but more closely kept. A guard was appointed to keep vigil outside the door and to accompany me when I was marched down to the yard for exercise. Exercise? A brief walk around once a day. Cruel, when all I longed for was to be in my own garden and feel the sunlight on my face.

Oh, I spent much of those lonely days in prayer.
I shall cease meddling
, I promised St Jude and Our Lady.
Small things shall suffice me from now on
, I assured God. And my despair grew like the mould upon the walls.

Will was given permission to make short visits providing he consented to be searched. The cheese and viands he brought me were delivered gouged with knife slits, and the laundered undergarments that Eleanor’s servant delivered at the gate arrived well fumbled.

Jack made no effort to see me. He was angry, fearful that any day he might be asked to pay a fine for my alleged misbehaviour. Nor would he make any pleas on my behalf, unlike Father and Alderman Shaa, now a knight, who each wrote a petition to the King.

It was too early for an answer or to know if King Richard would survive. He was in the Midlands – no doubt snarling this way and that like a wounded boar waiting to see from whence the dogs would spring. It was a week later, judging by the nicks I had made on the wall, when Lynom came to visit me again. I was resolved to be bad-tempered but he looked tired. I guessed Buckingham’s treachery was conjuring up sleepless nights for all of Gloucester’s bootlickers. There were dashes of silver glinting in the brown hair that showed beneath his low-crowned hat, his stubbled cheeks needed a shave and the grey fustian doublet did him no service. I smiled, wondering if he dared not wear good clothes to visit me.

‘I’m glad to see you in better humour, Mistress Shore. I thought you might be waiting with an artillery of inkpots.’ I shook my head, realising how much I had missed the challenge of his presence. ‘Here!’ He was shrugging off some sort of leather quiver from his shoulder. Curious, I watched him carefully upend it and shake out a slender sheath of rosemary and lavender. ‘From your garden. Best I could find. All the other flowers are spent now.’

Tears blurred my sight. ‘More precious than any imperial crown,’ I murmured, breathing in their fragrance. ‘Thank you.’

Perhaps this was to lull me into gentleness for his visit, and yet, beneath the shadow of stubble, his skin was flushed as he turned to hang the quiver on the doorlatch ‘It stopped raining at last. Today’s the first fine day we’ve had for three weeks.’

‘The weather doesn’t concern me, Master Lynom.’

‘It should,’ he answered. Jubilance was gleaming in his eyes. ‘Buckingham and Bishop Morton are holed up at one of Lord Ferrers’ manors beyond the Severn.’

I had no idea where the Severn was. ‘I don’t understand, sir.’

‘The river has flooded, you see, the worst for years. Buckingham can’t get his army across.’