Mistress to the Crown. Isolde Martyn

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       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.

      A rustle disturbed me. Turning, I saw the hem of the recess curtain billow subtly. I smiled. Ah, so his servants had dissembled; my lover was already here.

      Mischievously I tiptoed across to make a gleeful pounce, but it was the breeze from the window light that teased the curtain. The alcove was pristine. Fresh napkins were folded on the wooden rail above the washstand. I lifted the jug beside the ewer and took a deep breath. Today the water was perfumed with sandalwood; last time it had been rosemary. But I could still smell rosemary; yes, a ribboned spray of silvery spikes and tiny mauve flowers lay upon the cloth that disguised the stool of ease.

      Lord Hastings’ blue robe was hanging on a wall hook with a bronze hued wrap beneath it. I dreamily lifted a silken fold of the blue to my cheek, trying not to think about how many other women had worn the bronze. No worse than a communion cup at Easter, I consoled my conscience, but I would not put it on.

      He was late. The bell struck the quarter before swift, heavy footsteps stopped outside. The latch rose. But it was not Hastings. It was the stranger who had disturbed us last time. He was wearing the same black hat tugged forward over his face and I remembered the broadness of him.

      I glared at him with dislike, sure now that he was not a courtier. The corner of his earth brown cloak was thrust up over the opposite shoulder like a night thief’s, but the huge gloves and creaking leather doublet trumpeted soldier – soldier with a message from Hastings that would render this evening’s subterfuge a waste of time.

      No, I was wrong. He was removing his gloves with the air of a man who was staying. If only I had not sent Hastings’ servants away!

      ‘Mistress Shore, I believe.’ He touched his hat brim with a slight bow.

      I did not curtsy. I was so angry, so hurt. This was betrayal.

      ‘Ah you must not blame Will,’ he said cheerfully, unwinding his cloak. ‘We hauled him down into the Tower dungeons, thrust him upon the Duke of Exeter’s daughter and turned the screws.’

      I had not one iota what he was talking about. ‘Pray do not make yourself at home,’ I said, with contempt underscoring every syllable.

      ‘It could be a threesome if you insist.’

      I must have looked shocked, for he quickly added, ‘Except Will doesn’t know I am here. Listen, I do apologise for tricking you but he’s up at Ashby-de-la-Zouch and I thought you might lack for decent company.’

      ‘Please leave, sirrah.’

      ‘Oh,’ he lamented, cocking his head like a crestfallen rooster. ‘I beg you give me a fighting chance.’

      I remembered my father’s lectures. ‘Three things,’ I growled, restraining the urge to stick my fists on my hips. ‘Firstly, I am not a harlot; secondly, if I have any arrangement with Lord Hastings, it is none of your business; and thirdly, I am leaving. Now remove yourself from between me and the door or I shall kick you so hard in the ballocks you will have difficulty walking, let alone procreating with your wife or anyone else.’

      ‘What!’ He was laughing but in ridicule. ‘Firstly,’ he spluttered, ‘whether you are no harlot does not matter; secondly, I do not think you are giving us a fair chance to be acquainted; and thirdly, although you may be tall for a woman, I am six foot-three inches tall and long in the arm, so I think your chance of getting anywhere near my ballocks – with your clothes on, that is – will be highly unlikely.’

      A scratch at the door. He opened it and the two retainers carried in trays, set them upon the bed, bowed and departed. I cursed inwardly. Why had I not noticed earlier that neither of the fellows had worn Hastings’ livery?

      ‘Hungry?’ My unwelcome host uncovered the platter, crossed himself with his right hand and a mutter of grace, then spiked a twirl of beef and held it out to me.

      ‘I hope you choke,’ I said coldly.

      ‘No!’ He ate the meat himself, followed it with a sliver of fruit, and then drew a fastidious finger across his lips. ‘No, you can’t wish that. It’s against the law.’

      ‘Not in my book, it’s not.’ This was ridiculous. I grabbed my basket and swept to the door. ‘Good day to you, sir.’ I inclined my head with a dignity he did not deserve.

      ‘In my book, it’s treason, Mistress Shore.’ His voice had changed.

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