Mistress to the Crown. Isolde Martyn

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      ‘What, none?’ He thumbed the crumbs from his lips. ‘No … no …’ A languid flourish of fingers sufficed as though the word for stillbirth was only for a woman’s use.

      ‘No, your highness, I believe I was wed too soon.’

      He frowned, his eyes sympathetic. ‘Happened to Lady Margaret Beaufort, the Countess of Richmond. Not even fourteen when she birthed her son, Henry Tudor. Tudor, heard of him, yes? Lives on crumbs from the Count of Brittany’s trenchers. She never had any more progeny, thank the Lord.’ He had a most heartrending smile, I discovered, and he was using it on me now. ‘Does it sadden you, Mistress Shore?’

      It? Being barren?

      ‘Not any more, your highness. I am happy to go down on all fours and play bears with my friends’ children, but at the end of the day I am content to hand them back.’

      ‘All fours?’ he echoed wickedly, laughter breeding with speculation in his expression and I could see he was imagining – O Jesu!

      ‘I growl very fiercely,’ I said quickly, hoping that he could not see my blushes. He really was sinfully attractive.

      ‘Oh, do you?’

      The neighbourhood bells tolled six and I was still in the lion’s den. Children would have been a useful excuse to leave.

      The King of England read my mind. ‘Curfew is three hours hence.’ Wriggle out of that, his expression told me.

      ‘Yes, your highness, but it is later than when I met Lord Hastings before and my husband—’

      ‘Is of no consequence, Will tells me.’

      ‘I am sorry,’ I murmured, rising to my feet, and again shaking the crumbs from my skirts. ‘I have the cakes to deliver … to the poor, otherwise …’

      His highness stood up as if out of courtesy but his lower lip betrayed displeasure. Then he twisted, retrieved the bolster and, holding it against his body with one arm, sensuously slid his other hand down it. ‘I thought we might …’ A jerk of his head towards the bed finished the question. At least it was a question.

      I shook my head treasonously and Lord knows what else of me shook. Oh yes, my senses were stirred. Not just his handsome looks but the aura of power had me wondrously thrilled.

      The bolster was flung aside with a deliberate menace. I briskly picked up my basket and hugged it to my waist. There was no way I could withstand him if he chose to stop me leaving so I stood there, my chin raised defiantly. It was his decision.

      Tight, calculating tucks appeared in his cheeks. King Edward was watching me as though I was his assailant in the combat yard; all I had was basketwork. I clasped it tighter to my waist and stared up at him defiantly, my heartbeat frantic.

      A woman shrieked playfully outside. The floorboards creaked lightly as she ran across them. Heavier footsteps chased her. A guffaw of laughter. A door opening. No one would care if I screamed, and what difference would it make? The hawks outside were probably royal servants on subtle sentry duty.

      At a loss in this impasse, I primly pulled the napkin back over the remaining cakes like a diligent housewife, without taking my eyes from my antagonist, and suddenly, mercifully, the swords between us were lowered. The King’s cheeks grew full again, a smile grew and grew and then he laughed.

      I took one step towards the door but his voice snapped out like a whip. ‘The King has not given you leave, Mistress Shore.’

      I looked around. ‘Does he need to?’ I chided gently.

      ‘By the Devil,’ he murmured, but it was amusement not arrogance that graced his face. ‘Yes he does. Before you utterly devastate me by leaving, let us just get matters straight.’

      I swallowed, glanced at the door, and then back at him, put down my basket and gave a shallow curtsy.

      ‘Thank you,’ he said sarcastically. The large gems on his pale hands flashed in the candlelight as he made a steeple of his fingers. ‘Now let me understand this aright. You will lie with Will but not with me?’ Even though I am your king, younger and better looking, the lift of eyebrows seemed to be saying.

      I nodded, more apprehensive than ever. Apparently the bell had sounded for the second bout.

      He swayed forward slightly but I did not dare recoil. I was not going to let him close me in with the bed at my back.

      ‘You do confound me, Mistress Shore,’ he murmured. ‘I understood that your liaison with my chamberlain is for the purpose of … education?’

      These two men had discussed me? Curse it! As what? A silly hen ripe for plucking?

      ‘Th–that is t-true, your highness. I wanted to find out …’ I bit my lip, horrified at what he must believe about me. ‘It is most … most generous of you to offer to … to further the tuition but thank you, no.’

      I curtsied, trying to hide my hurt. It was as if God had tipped burning oil upon my soul. Hastings had betrayed me. I was nothing but a jest.

      ‘Kings rarely make offers except to other royalty,’ he replied with hauteur. He strode from me and turned, his voice growing dryer with each syllable: ‘Kings tend to make commands.’

      How should I escape him? Sweet Mother of God! I could hardly argue that I was virtuous.

      ‘It shames me that Lord Hastings told you of my circumstances, your highness.’

      ‘But you have signed an indenture with him and must keep loyal. Poor Mistress Shore, alas, how terrifying the consequences if you disobey. No doubt Hastings will slap my face with his glove on his return and slit my throat in fury. You’ll probably be hanged in one of your pretty garters.’

      It was belittling.

      ‘I thank your grace most honestly for supper.’ I curtsied deeply.

      He inclined his head haughtily. ‘Go, then.’

      ‘Please,’ I said to the King of England, and proffered my basket. ‘Would you like to take these back to the palace for your children?’

      ‘Where have you been?’ growled Shore, as I came in through the yard door.

      ‘Taking cakes to the poor.’ To a man poor in humility! God have mercy! What a fool I’d proved. I must be the laughing stock of Westminster.

      ‘Without a basket?’

      ‘Oh bother, I left the cursed thing behind.’ Was my face scarlet?

      ‘Tell me where you left it and ah’ll send one of the boys.’ By his tone, he was determined to make a liar of me.

      ‘Lordy, I cannot remember.’ I turned away, tucking my waistcloth into my belt.

      ‘Like that, is it? ’

      I closed my eyes, knowing the lid was off the seething pot. Was truth the best way, slid in СКАЧАТЬ