Mistress to the Crown

‘Elizabeth, I hope you are not thinking that I put his grace up to this?’

‘No, of course not,’ I lied, resolving to sieve my feelings later. ‘He—’ I cleared my throat. ‘His highness explained you were at Ashleigh.’

‘Ashby,’ he corrected. ‘My castle at Ashby-de-la-Zouch.’ His hand rose in a flourish as to how I should find it. ‘West of Leicester.’

‘Oh, west,’ I echoed dryly.

‘We were celebrating my stepdaughter’s name day. I bought the jewelled girdle for her, remember?’

‘Yes.’ I was not a jealous person but I felt it now. Unreasonable of me. I desired his affection. But I had no right. I did not own him. What else had I expected?

‘Cecily was introduced to her future husband.’ With a scowl, he took a sweet wafer from the platter and carried his goblet to the window, where he stood, his back turned. With King Edward active on the board, perhaps, like me, he was uncertain of the next move in this game of seduction. If there was a next move? At the moment, trust lay between us like a bleeding corpse.

His fidelity was a matter of geography. I must accept that. And did Lady Katherine up at Ashby accept that? By Heaven, if his marriage vows could be bent, what rules did he play by? His loyalty to his king? Was that the only standard in his world? If King Edward said, ‘Give me that bread you are eating, that ring from your finger, that woman you are escrewing!’ Did he ever refuse? If his royal master wanted to sample Lady Cecily, his stepdaughter, what then?

‘Was she pleased, my lord?’

He turned. ‘Your pardon, she?’

‘Your stepdaughter. Was she pleased by her future husband?’

A sneer spoilt his face. ‘Yes, for now. That’s one hedge that won’t need jumping. His horns and the forked tail will only come out after they’re married.’ He took an angry swig of wine.

‘Who is he?’ I probed gently, seating myself on the footstool.

‘Queen’s eldest boy by her first marriage. Tom Grey, Marquis of Dorset. Cecily is a great heiress – vast estates in Devonshire. Fly in the web, poor child. If lightning strikes Tom Grey dead, there’s still his brother to snaffle her up.’

‘Can you not withhold your consent?’

Hastings shook his head. ‘I might as well piss in the wind.’ He downed the wine and slammed the goblet on the small table. ‘And what is so ironic, sweetheart, is that before Ned married Elizabeth Grey – Baroness Ferrers of Groby, as she called herself – she and I had a neighbours’ agreement that if Kate and I had a daughter, Tom would marry her.’

God’s mercy, before the poor mite was even born!

I refilled his wine cup, flattered he felt free to speak his mind or was this a means to lull me back to trusting him?

‘So Grey was not considered for Lady Cecily back then?’ I asked.

‘Hell, no. A landless nobody, son of an attainted traitor? No, Cecily was far too wealthy for the likes of him. It was sheer charity on my part to have any dealings with “the Widow Grey”.’ He took a gulp of wine. ‘Of course, once Elizabeth became queen, she set her sights on Cecily’s inheritance.’

‘But you could delay the marriage, my lord. If Cecily is only fifteen, I beg of you, don’t let her go to him yet.’ I should not have spoken so but Hastings did not take offence.

With a fond look, he reached out a hand and caressed my cheek. ‘You speak from the heart, do you not, sweetheart?’

I nodded and felt the tears pricking behind my lashes at the kindness of the gesture. I kissed his palm. ‘My lord …’ I began but his mind had moved on.

‘So have you’ve begun rattling the bars of Holy Church yet for your divorce?’

‘Rattling, yes. I’ve made a start.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. These matters take a millennium. If you don’t start proceedings straight away, you’ll still be waiting at the Second Coming.’ Then he realised his improper choice of words.

I pleated my lips trying not to giggle and then we both laughed. He rose to his feet and slid his arms about my thighs and drew me to him. ‘Let’s go and sup at Gerrard’s Hall. Time for another lesson, my beauteous scholar.’

Such cunning I learned from the tryst that evening: the act of love does not have to be with the woman underneath; a woman may straddle a man and, what’s more, a man and woman may lie busy tip to tail.

‘It is about power as well as passion, Elizabeth, conquest and surrender. A game of subtlety and strategy until you bring the protagonist to their knees, so to speak.’ That disarming smile. He encouraged me to use my imagination and to play out one of my fantasies. I had thought that the reality would spoil it, but with Hastings, I was wrong.

‘Soon there will be nothing left to teach you, mercer’s daughter.’ He whacked my behind playfully as I lay on my front after we had sported, and kissed the hollow of my back. ‘And now I desire to ask a favour. Remember I told you one of my duties was to organise revels for the court.’

‘Yes, my lord. You were considering The Siege of Troy.’

‘Well, the damned siege ladders are going up the walls tomorrow after supper if I haven’t fallen on my sword by then.’

Ah, if only he would give me a pass to witness such a spectacle. ‘I’m sure it will be a marvel, my lord.’

He gave a humpf. ‘Not with the citadel unfinished and Helen of Troy breaking his ankle in the palace yard last night.’ His gaze swerved to meet mine. ‘I don’t suppose you’d like to take the part?’

‘Me? You’d be better with a duck from the Thames. The last time I was in a pageant I had lost my two front teeth and was warned not to smile or the Devil would carry me off. No, I lie. I did dance once before Queen Margaret. Goodness, you are serious.’

‘You can be a damnably acute mimic when it pleases you.’

‘Yes, but that’s just between us. Shore’s hair would stand on end if I said yes.’

‘I’m glad we would get a rise out of him somehow.’

I clapped my hand to my lips. ‘That was unkind, my lord.’ I spluttered, battling my guilt anew and ignoring his beseeching expression. ‘Absolutely no. It would be like taking hemlock. Why, Shore and I could be struck off the guest list for next year’s mayor-making.’ I tried to keep a straight face but dissolved into laughter.

‘Worse than death, eh? But seriously, Elizabeth Lambard, you’ll enjoy yourself, I promise. It’s very simple. Prince Paris watches you dance, scoops you off to Troy and the rest of the time you are on the Troy battlements watching the duels until Menelaus, your husband, carries you back to Greece. Not much to it.’

‘If she’s “carried off” most of the time, I shouldn’t think the broken ankle matters.’ I turned away from him. ‘And it doesn’t have a happy ending if she has to go back to her husband.’ I cradled my body, wondering how long these snatched moments with Hastings could last. ‘I’m a real Helen and tonight I have to go back and there’s no happy ending.’

‘There will be if Catesby keeps your proctor’s nose to the grindstone.’ He kissed my shoulder. ‘Humour me, play Helen. You said you would like to see the court.’

‘See them, not hop around in front of them like a demented rabbit.’

‘You can dance, my dear. I saw you in the shop and it was most charming.’

‘I’m a mercer’s wife, my lord, not a handmaiden from the court of Solomon.’

‘Hmmm,’ he put a hand on my backside again and shook me playfully. ‘We could disguise you and it’s a very pretty costume. I took your advice and got rid of the breast cones. Except.’

‘No!’

How many times can a woman say no? Clearly, denial was not a word in Hastings’ vocabulum. Next day at three o’clock, the shop had two visitors. The first was a servant of Sir Edward Brampton’s requesting Shore to bring sample cloths to his house without delay. The second was one dainty Master Matthew Talwood, who carried an urgent letter from the Lord Chamberlain asking me how he could put on The Siege of Troy without the Lady Helen? What’s more, Hastings pledged he would buy me a wagon of lawyers and a score of girdles if I saved his reputation as Master of the King’s Revels.

Ha, I did not believe a word but Talwood was insistent: my lord’s barge was awaiting me at Puddle Wharf beside Beaumont’s Inn. His barge! He’d sent an entire barge?

‘A word for the wise, Mistress Shore,’ said my visitor, flicking back his long grey locks. ‘Save for his grace the King and his royal brothers, Lord Hastings is the most powerful nobleman in England. That letter is not a request, it’s a command. There are plenty like you, Mistress Shore, but only one of him.’

VIII

The rebellious wench inside me was prancing with gleeful excitement as we boarded the barge, but behind my veil my lips were tense, and my knuckles gleamed white in my lap as I seated myself beneath the awning. Talwood started to tell me about the play and what was expected – just one dance, he said. Did he realise it could destroy my reputation forever if word reached the city? Just one dance! Be brave, I chided myself, if you stumble and they laugh at you, it doesn’t matter. At least you may glimpse King Edward in all his magnificence. Yes, I admit I had been thinking much about King Edward.

Talwood had passes that saw us through a succession of courtyards and sentries until we reached the postern of a half-timbered building adjoining the Great Hall. The players’ chamber proved a chaotic hell of spangles and peevish hubbub. At one end, men in wigs and leather kilts were in mock combat; at the other a large man with faux breasts and a wig that Medusa would have envied, was having red powder rubbed below his cheekbones. My destination was a side chamber where a baker’s dozen of minstrels were practising.

Talwood introduced me to Walter Haliday, the hoary-headed Marshall of the King’s Minstrels, and delivered a warning to the rest: ‘Be diligent with our dancer, my masters. This is her only chance to practise and then she needs to get into costume with great haste. The disports begin in an hour.’

An hour! I could have encircled Hastings’ neck with a cord and tugged it tight.

I was supposed to rattle a timbrel as I danced but I asked Haliday if the tabor player could provide the rhythm instead.

‘Pretend you have a mirror, dear. Gives you something to do with your hands,’ suggested Talwood, and he kept directing me until he was satisfied.

The sound of clapping coming from the doorway made me turn. Hastings was standing behind me in his full court dress.

‘As always, you underestimated your ability, mistress.’

I stared speechless at his splendour – the high-crowned, black hat with a jewelled band; the silver collar of Yorkist sunnes-and-roses straddling his shoulders; and the Order of the Garter encircling his thigh. Such tailoring, too; the way his slashed, damson sleeves were stitched in – pouched to give breadth at the shoulders.

He thanked the musicians and ushered me from the room. As no one was in sight in the passageway, he kissed me on the mouth. I imagine he tasted my nervousness.

‘You are doing well, sweetheart.’

‘My lord, in all honesty I am fearful.’

‘Elizabeth, you will outshine the rest, believe me.’

I tried to smile. ‘It’s just that in your magnificence, you are like a stranger. Is every noble lord like to be dressed so? It dazzles me. I feel like a country mouse.’

‘But I know you are a proud little city mouse.’ He pinched my cheek. ‘You will surpass us all, believe me. And Talwood will look after you throughout. Do exactly as he says and all will go smoothly. Now, we must make haste. There’s a tailor standing by to make adjustments to your costume.’

I followed him back to the confusion of the greater chamber. The instant he entered, the room hushed. I swiftly curtsied to him with the rest.

‘Friends,’ Hastings began, addressing the players, ‘Remember the purpose of the disguising is to provide joy and laughter. If aught goes wrong, do not put on a grim visage but bluff it out. Are the battlements and wooden horse at the ready, Master Curthoyse?’

An officer straightened and stepped forward. ‘They are, my lord.’

‘Excellent. As you were, good friends. I leave you in the Master of the Wardrobe’s capable hands.’

No one moved.

‘Your pardon, my good lord,’ called out one of the actors, ‘but we ‘ave no Helen.’

Hastings gave a nod to Talwood to deal with the matter and left the chamber.

Talwood gestured me to my feet. ‘This is Helen.’

‘But she’s a woman.’

O Blessed Christ, I thought, I’m the only woman here. This is wrong, very wrong.

Beside me, Talwood bristled, ‘And your point, sirrah?’

‘Our point,’ yelled someone else, ‘is that only men can be players.’

Talwood was primed. ‘This woman is a dancer. She has no lines. Pirouette, darling, pirouette!’ he hissed. Scarlet-faced, I turned, swirling my skirt as gracefully as I might.

A dancer! I blew the actors a kiss and sank in a deep curtsy. Christ’s mercy, what if this reached the Guild? Shore would turn me out of doors. I could find myself begging on the streets tomorrow. I must be lunatic.

Appeased, the players returned to their preparations.

‘Thank Heaven for that,’ Talwood said, fanning himself. ‘Oh, they are so precious. Now, let’s get you dressed.’

There was no privacy and I had to swallow my sense of niceties. I had imagined a gorgeous robe with purfiled hem; the tailor presented me with two lengths of thin blue silk. Secured at the shoulders and cinched with a narrow cloth-of-gold belt, this was Helen’s costume. That unravelled my excitement. The fabric scarcely covered my knees; the side slits – ‘devils’ windows’–would expose me to the thigh; and the flesh-coloured hose and garters had gone missing. I refused to dance without a petticote.

‘You’re a beautiful ancient Greek, remember, dearie,’ clucked the tailor from his knees as I insisted he close up the side seams. ‘Them maidens went bare-legged because of the heat, and bare-arsed too in case they met any of those lovely pagan gods. There, I’m not sewing the windows any lower.’

I refused the uncomfortable saffron wig. At least the pretty half-mask of white satin, edged with silver braid, was perfect, but as I began to tie it on, Master Talwood twittered in protest. Frantic gestures on his part summoned a man with several tubby facebrushes poking out of his waistcloth. Along with him came a boy with a peddler’s tray – a minute woodland of charcoal sticks, kohl and pastes of all colours.

They smudged blushes across my cheekbones, puffed a fulsome shimmer of gold dust wherever my skin was uncovered and added red to my lips. Fine dark lines were gently drawn around my eyes and my hair was unbraided, draped over my right shoulder and tethered with a golden clasp.

Finally, Talwood took out a wrapper from his doublet and drew back its folds to reveal a necklace of gilded leaves. ‘It’s only lent to you by my lord, you understand,’ he warned.

The boy offered me a silver mirror. Mistress Shore had vanished behind the pagan artifice. Caparisoned in mask and silks, I felt as skittish as an inexperienced tournament horse, and these last moments of waiting while the trestles of the great hall were stacked away could have been torture save some of the players joked with me in friendly fashion and smoothed away my fears.

Hastings came back to make a final inspection of us. ‘Is Lord Paris not here yet?’ he exclaimed wearily. ‘Curthoyse, fetch him hither NOW!’ He moved along the line and halted before me. ‘Where in Hell is Helen’s coronet?’

‘Lordy!’ The tailor scuttled out and returned with a circlet of tinsel threaded with artifice cornflowers, poppies and laurel.

‘Princess.’ Hastings clicked his fingers for the diadem. With the smile of a sinful archbishop, he crowned me.

Westminster Palace Hall was in shadow save for the bright ring of candles in the centre where we were to strut. We were herded behind a screen and there we huddled awaiting the return of the royal retinue. I was not the only player who gasped at the massive dimensions of the hall. Huge oaken beams, carved with angels’ heads, thrust out from the walls above our heads and higher still was a great row of embrasured windows, set in jowls of stone, and in each stood a stern, crowned statue.

I knew from Father that a huge stone table ran along the dais. Peering between my companions’ shoulders, I made out the glimmering stretch of white cloth. No one was seated there; the two thrones and benches were empty.

Below the dais at the sides of the hall stood massive cupboards with shelves of glinting platters and flagons. Every other inch of wall was lined with trestle tables propped lengthways. In front of these were the benches and here sat the rest of the court using the trestle supports as backrests.

A trumpet sounded. I heard the assembly rise in a rustle of apparel to make obeisance. Crammed as I was amongst the sweaty bodies jostling for a view, my mouth went dry and my heart panicked, but then the small pipes began and the Greek kings stepped forward leaving me space to breathe. I forced my lungs to calm and crossed myself against evil. Vigilant Talwood patted my arm; I had no choice but to screw up my courage.

Our disport began with poetry but no one in the court was listening. Only when several gentlemen began to call out ribald comments to the players, did the fine lords hush to listen to the jests.

As each Greek king was introduced, I had the chance to distinguish the chief players. The man portraying my husband, King Menelaus of Sparta, was a scrag end of a creature. His brother and blustering overlord, King Agamemnon, looked fit to run a tavern. Achilles had such a magnificent body, all bronzed with metallic paint, that he had me wondering if the King, England’s own ‘Achilles’, had stooped to play a part. No, as the warrior drew back, I heard a shrewish whine: ‘‘Ere, why ‘as ‘ector been given betta armour than me?’

Prince Paris, thank Heaven, was sufficiently manly to be Helen’s lover. He drew great applause as he swaggered forth. Except for a glittering baldric, his chest was bare. I was shocked by his immodest kilt. The leather straps scarcely covered his breech clout.

‘Be ready!’ Talwood whispered as the Greek kings returned behind the screen.

The flute’s voice sounded sensuously.

And now Prince Paris, blessed by moonless sky,

Like a night thief hides among the shadows

To see this beauteous lady—

‘Now!’ Talwood shoved me forth and there were whoops and cheers as I curtsied.

Hill, the tabor player, began a sensual beat and the beguiling notes of the small pipes softly slid into the rhythm.

Snared in the circle of light, I lifted my invisible hand mirror at arm’s length and danced with my reflection. Hidden behind my mask, Elizabeth Lambard was unshackled, free to become Helen of Troy, a princess who knew she could make men kill to possess her. As I stilled, sensing Paris’ presence, like a doe hearing her hunter, it was no longer Hastings’ face in my make-believe mirror but a lover I’d always dreamed of.

When the music ended and the applause took over, my practical self dashed out from her temporary prison beneath my heart, trying to seize back control and dampen down her twin’s sinful exuberance. I held her back a few moments longer, acknowledging the huzzahs like I imagined a real princess might with a gracious lowering of the head. Oh, this was heady, wonderful. I should not sleep tonight.

Paris grew impatient. He strode over and embraced me from behind, his prick hard beneath his kilt. Bastard! While the narrator tediously droned out the story for anyone thick as a London piecrust, this cursed Trojan was rubbing his groin against me. Sloppy kisses gushed up my arm from wrist to neck. Worse, he turned me in his embrace and went for my mouth. I resisted; his breath stank of wine but the fellow kept firm hold of my thighs.

‘Don’t overdo the virtue,’ he muttered against my lips. ‘Be craaaazed with love.’ He held me tight against his belly. When he adventured his hand down my throat to my breast, I was doing the stiffening.

‘Lovely,’ he murmured, leering down the gap. ‘Fancy a bit of ravishing afterwards?’

‘Squeeze either an’ you’ll be a coun’er tenor by tonight,’ I hissed back sweetly.

The verses ended. Paris neatly scooped me up with an arm beneath my knees. I pretended to look up at him lovingly. It was a shame he could not have kept my draperies secure. I think the whistles were for a side view of my thigh.

There was no time to chide. While the Greek princes were whining that Helen had been snatched by a Trojan and resolving to go to war to fetch her home, Talwood hauled me through the side door and we raced through passageways until we reached the mock barbican of Troy, where it stood outside the far end of the great hall. An icing of players already clung to its battlements.

Talwood pointed to the ladder. ‘Up! Be quick!’

Before I could get both feet on the plank that served as rampart, the ardent assistants whipped the ladder away. Queen Hecuba’s brawny arm saved me.

‘A squeeze, ain’t it?’ He evidently liked garlic in his stew.

‘God’s Blood,’ I muttered in an alley voice. ‘I feel like one of them jars too broad for a pantry shelf.’

‘An’ I’m a barrel. Move, you lardcakes! ‘Elen should be in the middle.’

The ‘lardcakes’ obeyed. Cassandra, a youth in a long black wig, deftly swung around Hecuba, and we performed an intricate, perilous reversal so that I ended up midway next to Prince Hector’s wife and son.

‘Have to get it right, dearie,’ Hecuba whispered. ‘You bein’ the last to leave.’ He straightened his false bosom and then nudged me: ‘Did Paris feel you up?’

‘Aye, ‘e did.’

The others laughed. ‘Oooh, lucky you.’

‘Tell me,’ I whispered. ‘‘Ow’s the player who was to be ‘elen? Is ‘is ankle mending?’

‘He ain’t done nothing to his ankle, luv. His lordship didn’t want ‘im to do it no more.’

Aha, I was beginning to suspect as much.

‘So wot’s your name, precious?’ asked Hector’s wife, but before I could answer, the edifice shook as the attendants grabbed hold.

‘‘Ere we go, ladies,’ chortled Hecuba, as the doors opened. ‘Wave graciously. We’re royalty, remember.’

The damnable barbican wobbled perilously as it was pushed forwards. Would the timber brackets break, spew us out across the flagstone plain of Troy in a tangle of gauze and wigs? The courtiers were laughing.

‘Oh, I adore playing a queen to a queen,’ Hecuba gushed, waving airily towards the heart of the dais. ‘Ready to blub, Mistress Hector? Got your onion, darlin’?’

With nothing to do save pose like a princess at a tournament, I began to enjoy myself. Although Hector and Achilles’ wooden swords could not strike sparks, there was sufficient force in their combat to have the courtiers cheering. When Hector received the death blow, he pierced the bag hidden beneath his waist, and enacted copious spluttering and staggering as the blood oozed between his fingers.

The onion smell was strong but I wasn’t prepared for the horrific scream right next to me. A shrieking Mistress Hector and son scrambled down to do a ‘woe is me’ over the corpse.

’employed for ‘is screeches,’ Hecuba informed me.

Then came the death of Achilles. He grabbed an arrow to his heel and died with a great deal of twitching. Finally, the Wooden Horse rumbled in. I was disappointed. It was just scaffolding with a painted great horse head sticking out on a pole. Its body was made up of warriors, each holding a curved, dun-coloured shield to resemble a horse’s flanks.

‘Doom, doom!’ Cassandra, who had already climbed down, rushed at the horse waving his arms like a housewife chasing the pigeons from a pea crop. He was carried off in the mêlée as the Greek soldiers sprang down and some thirty men waged battle.

When the swords and verse came to a standstill, Hecuba descended to wring his huge hands over dead Paris. I tried to look bereft as ‘she’ was led away sobbing. Once all the corpses were dragged into the shadows, the fields of Troy lay deserted and I realised with a jolt that I was the only player left on the battlements