Mistress to the Crown

V

Basing Lane was off Bread Street, near St Mildred’s, two streets south of West Cheap. I decided to go there now on my way home, inspect the battlefield, so to speak.

The respectability of the gates at Gerrard’s Hall was daunting. The house was not one of those timber and daub hostelries like those along Knightrider Street, but a turreted building discreetly tucked away behind a high wall and a beautifully carved archway of Caen stone. I had always assumed it was a nobleman’s dwelling.

The porter’s room was inside the gate. What if he did not let me in straight away? What if an acquaintance recognised me as I stood a-knocking? I should just have to keep my veil from blowing about and try not to look furtive.

And how long would be required? Shore always expected me to have a supper ready for him at four o’clock. If lying had to be done, it must be done well – in both senses. I laughed aloud. Lord Hastings was right. I still had too much respectability strapped to my spine. Well, a murrain on that! Tomorrow could not come soon enough.

I do not know how I managed to stay calm through the repast with Shore next day. He brought one of his friends up to dine with us. Ralph Josselyn the younger, who decided to show me his latest samples for striped bed hangings. I was not pleased; Ralph’s eagerness for showing me things in the past had not been confined to drapery and I was in no mood for the ‘I’ll give you a good price’ and nudge of foot beneath the table. His presence prolonged the meal and then Shore wanted to discuss cobblers. How can you sanely suggest who can repair your husband’s shoes when your soul is ripe for the Devil’s taking?

As soon as they had gone back down to the shop, I hastened upstairs and abandoned my house gown. Because it was one of those rare early summer’s days when you can wrap the warm air in your arms, I took off my chemise and drew on a petticote of soft fine cotton. I was going to wear my best damask because it was a butterfly blue that made me feel at my best. It had tight fitting sleeves with embroidered cuffs. For modesty, I’d loosely stitched a triangle of silvery silk into the ‘v’ of the collar to cover the lower part of my cleavage. I pulled on my best headdress and hoped the wires would not bend under the extra dark lawn veil I needed to hide my face. It seemed to hold up. Finally I tried on my light, tawny cloak, which tied snugly at the throat. There! I held up my small hand mirror and a mysterious veiled creature stared back at me. Most excellent!

If I was Salome, the lascivious dancer of King Herod’s Court, how would I lift my veil and remove my cloak? I practised taking my outer garments off. Then I looked into the mirror again and bit my lips to make them red. Should I have plucked my eyebrows and drawn high arches like noble women did? No, that was not for me. Friends would remark upon it. So would Shore.

Betrayal versus fulfilment. Treason versus seduction. My hands were a-tremble with wicked excitement as I trickled perfume between my breasts. Two hours! Must I wait two hours? Two hours to change my mind. And would I?

Suffice to say that when I stepped into Basing Lane for my sinful meeting, my misgivings were clamouring like a flock of starlings and the what-ifs were back in abundance. But mercifully the saint of the timid and adulterous took a hand. Not only were the gates of the inn already open but a large party of horsemen was leaving.

I slipped through without being noticed and sped across the cobbles to the front steps only to be loudly ‘ahemmed’ by a massive serving man.

The flying phallus badge in his green hat unnerved me. Was this some kind of expensive stewhouse? His tabard bore the curious picture of a giant holding a pine tree and his hose was pied – Lincoln green and tansy, the colours of a mocking demon. I controlled the urge to cross myself.

‘State your business, madame!’

‘Yes, yes, of course,’ I exclaimed, trying to be matter of fact, but it was hard with this fellow eyeing me with a mixture of officious sentinel and speculating pander. ‘Please give me direction to Master Ashby’s room.’

‘Ah.’ His massive shoulders seemed to heave a sigh of relief. ‘That’s all right then. Come this way, my lady. Can’t be too careful, see. Our customers value their privacy when they stay with us. We like them to know that they won’t have their belongings pilfered or pick up bedbugs or something more ‘orrible. Know what I mean? No rubbing shoulders with the vulgar, eh?’ Another checking stare. ‘Not been here before then, madame?’

‘No.’

‘Ah, this place is full of surprises.’

He led me along a flagstone passageway and we emerged in the centre of a round great hall. Centuries earlier it would have been spacious and seated many, but a more recent owner had built an upstairs gallery with chambers leading off. Surrounding us were several rooms divided by oaken panelling. However, it was the trunk of a massive fir tree that the fellow wanted me to admire.

It was indeed amazing. Cathedral dimensions! Two priests holding hands could have hugged its girth. Generations of visitors had gouged their initials, and gazing up through my veil, I made out plenty of scurrilous Latin doggerels about women that made me blush. The sauciness increased with altitude, and perhaps the ladder bolted onto the tree was entirely for that purpose. Good luck to the scribblers! It would have taken a whole firkin of wine to get me on the first rung let alone the fortieth.

‘Different, eh, madame?’

‘I suppose the tree holds up the roof?’

‘Aye, it does. Let me tell you, this hall belonged to one of the tallest creatures that ever walked God’s earth, Gerrard the Giant, and that there tree was the staff he used in battle. A wonder, eh?’

‘Gerrard the Giant?’ It would have been rude to show disbelief. I would have put my money on a monastery refectory.

One of the doors behind me opened and yet another serving man of huge stature emerged with a cloth in hand. My escort chuckled at my astonishment.

‘Aye, no one small is ever employed here. Take a look through!’

I was expecting something sordid like a daybed flung about with cushions and furs, not the silver goblets set out on the glossy buffed table. A carved chair fine enough for any nobleman stood at the end of the board between two great candleholders, and the cushioned benches would have seated a half dozen. White and red dragon heads with fiery tongues and lashing tails were painted on the walls.

‘These lower rooms are for guests who wish to dine privily with friends, et cetera. A lot of deals are done here, I can tell you. The Welsh like this room, because of the dragons, but we also have the unicorn, dolphin, peacock and lion chambers. The Scots always favour the unicorns. Now this way, if you please.’

And what did mercers choose? Did my father ever come here? Lord, I hoped not. I could have sworn it was he who first told me this was an earl’s dwelling.

‘Do I need to go back into Basing Lane when I leave, sirrah?’ I asked as I followed the huge fellow up the spiral stairwell adjoining the hall.

He grinned. ‘Like that, is it? There’s a postern into an alley that will take you out to Bread Street or there’s a stone staircase in the far wall that will deliver you further down Basing Lane. Yonder’s the chamber for Master Ashby. Third door along.’

I paid him a groat and ignored the lascivious gleam in his eyes as he bowed and wished me a pleasurable stay.

Left alone by the rail, I stood beguiled by the peace that surrounded me. Come the evening, the servants would light the four candelabra that hung around the tree and I imagined this gallery would look beautiful and mysterious with the flicker of candles dancing across the cavernous ceiling. But not for me. Not yet. And I was glad. There was something calming and reassuring about the light tumbling lazily through the grisailled glass of the high upper windows, a sleepy serenity about this place that was as false as its purpose. The murmur of men’s conversation reached me from one of the dining chambers below my feet, and through the open door of another came the sound of platters being cleared as quietly as possible.

Beyond the thick stone walls I heard the deep bell of St Paul’s and the tinnier chime of St Mildred’s striking the hour. This very moment I had the chance to flee, but my yearning other self held me fast like a determined sister. I walked along the gallery to the door of the bedchamber. No lover answered my knock. Biting my lip, I tried the latch and let myself into my future.

The chamber designated for ‘Master Ashby’ was the most spacious bedroom I had ever seen. Meadowsweet rushes were freshly strewn across the floor. Upon one wall hung a stained cloth of a huntsman and his hound, the wooden ceiling was spangled with a delicate profusion of white butterflies and crimson flowers, and scented candles flickered in the two tall wooden candelabra on either side of the bed.

Ah, the bed! The bed was vast, large enough to accommodate at least five. With a jolt, I recognised the striped satin bed hangings of lilady and primrose, and then I laughed. Oh, by the Saints, I was about to sacrifice the virtue of my entire life within inches of Ralph the Younger’s curtaining!

‘What is the jest?’

I squealed in shock as Lord Hastings stepped laughing from a recess that had escaped my notice. The warmth of his smile made me feel beautiful and welcome.

‘It is these,’ I laughed, giving the tethered drapery a playful tug before I curtsied.

‘Devil take it,’ he groaned, ‘you are not going to tell me their price?’

‘No, but I’ll have you know the man who imports this made me a very generous offer today,’ I boasted wickedly, setting back my veil. ‘A tester and coverlet of best brocade – providing I lay with him beneath it.’

‘This to him.’ He raised an insulting finger. His mouth was a narrow slit of determination as he studied me, and his blue gaze was deep enough to drown in. There was restraint in the way he stood, as though he fought against invisible chains to reach out and embrace me. ‘Still certain, Elizabeth?’

I swallowed, realising that he had already discarded his day clothes. A blue robe, loosely tied about the waist, was all that screened his naked body.

‘Satisfactory?’ he teased, mistaking my stare. ‘Bought from your father and stitched by the house of Claver.’

My silkwomen’s rivals! Never mind. I let my gaze climb from his bare calves up to the gold haze of hair across his chest. ‘I was thinking of what lay beneath, my lord.’

‘Well, so am I.’ He was eyeing my neckline, the only patch of skin showing beneath the cords of my cloak. ‘Am I to climb the ramparts or …?’ He gestured to the curtained recess. ‘There’s a wrap behind there.’

I imagined other women using it. ‘Ramparts, please.’ I half-turned to the window, like a good housewife. ‘Shall I snuff the candles?’

‘No.’ Male and a dash indignant. Surprise must have flashed across my face before realisation enlightened him. ‘Lord love us, Elizabeth, have you only done the deed in darkness?’

‘Yes,’ I hung my head and swallowed. Would this be a disaster? I was so miserably tutored, and a man like this, so experienced, so worldly.

‘I can blindfold you. It might be the right thing.’ And amusing too, his tone hinted.

‘As it pleases you.’ Uncertainty was beginning to undermine me and with it a tiresome trembling as though my body was as nervous as my mind.

‘Well, first let’s unpeel you. No, let me!’ He stepped behind me and his body touched mine as he unfastened the cords of my cloak from around my neck. It was sensuous having him so close, so intimate. With husbandly dexterity, he eased off the cap, wire and veiling that covered my hair and gave a whistle of admiration.

‘By the Lord, you certainly have an angel’s beauty.’ His breath was sweet upon my cheek and neck. He kissed me behind the ear.

‘Hmmm.’ I purred, letting my head fall back slightly. ‘I rather like that. Can you do it some more, please?’

‘My poor starved kitten.’ He kissed me on the other side and then in the little hollow between my neck and shoulders. Already his fingers were round my waist, unfastening the knot of my silken belt. My gown was eased up and tossed across the end of the bed. His adroit fingers tested the ties of my underskirt and then rose instead to sprawl across my breasts. His thumbs caressed my nipples, sending waves of delicious feeling to between my thighs. I sighed with delight as his right hand slid down over my belly into the shield of tiny curls.

‘Have you never done this by yourself, sweetheart?’

‘I have, my lord,’ I admitted.

Hastings laughed and turned me to face him. He was utterly naked, but before I could see him properly, he kissed me. I had never been kissed in such a way in my entire life. The fire and wildness in it melted me to my very soul. I wound my arms about his neck. He slid his hands down my back and held me hard against him. I could feel his prick hard against my lower belly, and when we paused to draw breath, I put my hand down to feel him. Compared to Shore, he was huge.

‘I thought you said you were a new apprentice, sweetheart.’

‘Book learning,’ I lied.

‘Which library?’ he teased. Our foreheads were touching. He was loosening my hair and combing his fingers through it so it shawled my back. Oh, if only marriage had been like this.

Then with a laugh he bent swiftly, and suddenly I was lifted in his arms like a rescued maiden and laid upon the coverlet of the bed. With a knee upon the bed, he sprang up beside me, turned me over and loosened the back laces of my chemise. Then with my breasts free, he began to tease the tips of my nipples with his tongue. I was able at last to bury my fingers in his hair, free to delight and gasp with pleasure, free to arch my body at the beautiful sensations thrilling through my entire being.

Then he swept his hand down to the badge of hair and eased his fingers into me, touching me where my body burned for his coming. He gave a satisfied growl.

‘I am on fire,’ I gasped. Was the Devil inside me, driving me so?

He laughed softly and, to my dismay, slid from the bed.

‘No, no,’ I protested. ‘You are not leaving me?’

He touched a finger to my lips and walked across to take something from the small table. Was he doing this to torment me? My body was crying out for him to enter.

‘We need to be careful, sweetheart. I’m going to push this inside you.’

Whatever it was – a tiny sponge I discovered later – it smelled of vinegar. I was not pleased – this was a strumpet’s device.

‘No, you need not concern yourself,’ I protested, writhing away from him. If I had not wanted him so much, I might have fled. ‘I cannot conceive, my lord!’

‘Maybe you can. Behave, and let me put this in.’ He kissed me on the mouth to silence my argument and his fingers parted my cleft and forced the sponge well into me. His greater strength, the sternness of his voice in demanding my obedience, enhanced my appetite for him even further, and within seconds of him entering me, my body convulsed about him and I shuddered with an ecstasy that was not holy and yet divine.

So divine that we did it again.

And again.

No wonder Holy Church called this a sin. With Lord Hastings the act was not faith, it was a visitation. The songs of the troubadours were true. Lust by consent with skill. Perhaps my lover was right, I might become addicted to this pleasure.

‘By the Saints!’ he exclaimed, collapsing beside me after our third coupling with a satisfied groan. ‘Not bad for an old lad. That was …’ But I never heard. I drifted into sleep in his arms, blissful and at peace, and I think he slept too.

A rude knocking roused us. Neither of us had thought to bar the door. I struggled to pull the coverlet across me, afraid it was Shore, but the stranger who barged in was too tall for my husband, thank God. For an instant I thought he was one of the serving men, but this man’s broad hat and riding cloak proclaimed ‘outsider’.

‘Ha! Master Ashby!’ He disappeared into the alcove as though he knew it well and the next instant, Lord Hastings’ clothes fell across us. Surely even a trusted servant would not behave so. This had to be some friend from the court.

‘The pretty fellows from Brittany,’ the stranger said cryptically. It was the closest he came to an apology.

‘Excellent!’ Hastings exclaimed gleefully, and grabbed for his shirt.

‘Caught me unawares too!’ the interloper replied. I could not see much of the man’s face beneath the deep brimmed hat but he was staring at me. I was like a helpless moth caught in a candle flame.

‘I must go, sweetheart,’ Hastings laughed, turning to kiss me. He seemed quite unaware of my predicament. I dared not move since my scant covering was precarious already. ‘Fare you well.’ He stroked a playful finger along my lips. ‘The tariff is paid, by the way, so take your time in leaving.’

‘Well, don’t take yours,’ admonished the stranger with extraordinary rudeness, pelting Lord Hastings’ hose at him. ‘Where’s your other boot.’ He disappeared again behind the curtain. ‘Not in here,’ he called out.

I instantly scrambled to hide myself within the sheets.

‘Hey, sweetheart, help me with my points!’ Hastings made it a plea not a command. I cursed inwardly but how could I refuse after his generosity to me? Then I espied his discarded robe upon the rushes and swiftly scurried from the bed and drew it on. The silken belt was missing but at least its folds bestowed some modesty and my loosened hair would hide my face as I stooped to tie my lover’s hose points to his gypon.

‘Who is this?’ the stranger asked, prowling as I performed a servant’s duty.

Hastings ignored him. ‘Find my other boot, sweetheart.’

It lay within the shadow of the bedsteps and he took it from me with thanks. ‘You can leave my robe here when you are finished.’ A command that mightily displeased me, but I smiled up at him in gratitude, my only act of defiance to his friend’s impatience. The strategy worked. Lord Hastings touched his lips to mine and then, as if to stoke the other man’s annoyance, he gave me a deep farewell kiss that told me we should couple again before long.

‘God keep you, my lord,’ I whispered huskily as he lifted his face back from mine, and still I kept my arms defiantly wrapped about his neck.

The stranger’s spurs jingled as he strode to the door and held it open. ‘Are you done, Will?’ he demanded impatiently. Then they were gone and I was left alone with Hastings’ kiss drying on my lips.

Fragrance in a vial of Venetian glass was discreetly delivered by a servant next day with a spoken message of thanks but no explanation of why my lover had left in such a hurry. My imagination had a fearful riot all by itself. Did the Lord Chamberlain and his swaggering friend have an appetite for ‘pretty fellows’ or had they been promised to some drinking orgy? Then a few days later I heard Shore talking about how the King had signed a military treaty with Duke Francis of Brittany. Oh dear, perhaps my lascivious sodomites had been the silver-haired Breton ambassadors desperate for a pledge of military aid against the King of France?

Had I shown too much ardour or not enough? Alas, I heard nothing more from Lord Hastings and I wanted nothing but more. Had Heloise burned so for Abelard? Ah, I burned night after night and waited day after day, my blood seething with anticipation, my tide of hope rising with the dawn and ebbing at nightfall.

Like some fantastical sea creature, my tendrils snared each morsel of gossip that eddied out from the court. Was my lord gone with the court to Eltham? Did he attend King Edward’s meeting with the Merchants of the Staple? Oh, I was tempted to loiter outside Beaumont’s Inn or take a wherry to Westminster and lurk like a stalking hunter. But what man wants a stinging gadfly pursuing his hide? Ah, I am amused now, remembering my impatience, but at the time, it was like having your tongue cut out when you have tasted the elixir of the angels.

I was returning from Mass at St Mary’s Aldermary when, at last, a retainer with Hastings’ badge stitched upon his cap waylaid me.

‘My lord begs that you will meet him at five o’clock on Monday evening for supper. The same chamber as before.’ The servant’s eyes slid over my person with approval. I made pretence of gravely considering the matter, before I nodded graciously.

VI

I took the same trouble as before in choosing my apparel. My rose madder gown had a splash upon the skirt, but ashes-in-lye took care of that.

Attempting to be inconspicuous on the street and alluring in the bedchamber was not easy. The day was windy and it was going to be a battle to keep my veil from fluttering up, but at least most passers-by would have their eyes down to avoid the dust. I resolved to wear my voluminous dark blue cloak, and instead of the silly affected headdress, all wires and stiffened gauze, which my lover no doubt had found a nuisance, I plaited my hair loosely and pinned on a simple cap that had a hood at the back to hide my hair.

What concerned me most was finding an excuse to leave our house after four o’clock supper. Earlier in the day it was easier because Shore would be down in the workshop or busy with customers, but at four he would leave Howe in charge and come up to supper and unless he was meeting with friends, he would linger at the board. In case he decided not to go out, I told our cook to make a batch of oatcakes that I might take to a poor family down off Cornhill. And so it was that I had to sneak out with my basket by the back postern, for Shore was still at home.

It was not just the fear of his questions later that had me anxious; I was very unhappy at being on the street at this hour for there were plenty of braggarts strolling between taverns and the watch did not start their rounds until nine o’clock. Safeguarding my good name from tittle-tattle bothered me as well. I was certain Hastings would arrange an escort to see me safely back to Cheapside before curfew but the less his people knew of me, the happier I should be. I resolved to bid his servants leave me at the nearest corner to my house and then scurry on alone.

Gerrard’s Hall was still serving supper as I arrived and this time I made my way alone past the tree. I could hear laughter and talk from all the lower chambers and to my dismay I espied several well-clothed men leaning upon the gallery rail as they conversed. A trio of hawks. I understood now why rabbits and voles dart so fast. Resolving that I would never agree to come at this time again, I affected the dignity of a noble married traveller and made my way upstairs.

Not only did the men at the rail watch me pass but I found two retainers sitting cross-legged outside ‘Ashby’s’ door playing at dice. Both scrambled to their feet at my arrival. One touched his cap to me with a wink.

‘Mas’er Ashby be ‘ere shortly, Mistress.’

‘Then go and buy yourselves some ale,’ I said sweetly finding them each a coin. I did not want any eavesdroppers. They seemed surprised at my largesse – or perhaps the paucity of it – but they politely accepted.

The small oil lamp hanging above the bed was lit and a potkin of sweet violets neighboured a bowl of blushing apples on the small table beside the bed.

I hung up my cloak and veil behind the door, set my basket down upon the bed and then I leaned against the bedpost to let my heartbeat settle.