Royal Mistress (59 page)

Jane was so pleased with herself, she forgot Tom’s admonishment to stay away until sext and ran up the stairs and into the attic room waving the box and crying: “Tom, Tom, look what I—”

Three pairs of eyes swiveled to rest on her, two in wonder and the other in irritation. She recognized the two courtiers from Edward’s household, and her heart sank as they recognized her with flourishing bows.

“Mistress Shore, what a pleasant surprise,” the younger man said, raising an eyebrow at Tom. “I see you are not quite alone in your discomfort, my lord.” The other man grinned.

“I . . . I am sorry for the intrusion, sirs,” Jane faltered, backing up to the open door. “I . . . must go . . .” And she flew down the stairs and hid in a shed in the yard until the men disappeared around the corner of the building and into Bosse Alley.

A pox on them, she thought, climbing back to the garrett. Expecting a rebuke, she was pleased to see Tom seated calmly on the three-legged stool deep in thought. She pretended nothing had happened, knelt at his feet, and took his hand to her cheek.

“A groat for your musing, my love. Do you have good news?”

Tom bent and kissed her lips, his eyes merry. “Aye, Jane, I do. I cannot tell you what it is, and ’tis best you do not know, but ’tis good news indeed.” He pulled her to her feet and into his arms.

Jane was relieved. “Then you do not mind those men saw me,” she said. “I am truly sorry for coming home early but I could not wait to tell you what I accomplished today.”

She fetched the basket and pulled out the exquisitely carved box. Pressing a concealed button underneath it, the lid clicked open, revealing the contents. “We can buy some good food now, Tom,” she said proudly, knowing some of Tom’s dark moods were attributable to the unaccustomed penury in which he found himself. He had begun to despair that his mother would never leave sanctuary or have a plan for him, and until today, he had thought about slinking home to his wife in Warwickshire. He might have had an uncomfortable moment or two if Cicely had been informed of his liaison with Jane, but at least he would dine off silver again, be able to bathe, and enjoy a change of clothes.

But, as always with Tom, his mother’s bidding took priority.

Jane found and slipped on her favorite emerald ring, and she closed her eyes, remembering happy times with Edward.

Tom was busy counting the gold nobles, and when he replaced them, he laughed. “You never cease to astonish me, Jane. Aye, food, and then send Ankarette to fetch the best wine the master at the Pope’s Head can find for us.” He paused and cupping her breast in one hand and pulling off her ugly widow’s hood with the other, he added meaningfully, “Only, later.”

Whether it was the lifting of Tom’s black humor or the knowledge they could enjoy some luxury for a while, she did not care, for their lovemaking was long and tender that afternoon, and Jane thought she was finally happy.

H
er euphoria did not last a day. Arriving back the following morning from Sophie’s with a basketful of succulent pies, roasted
meats, and even a custard, Jane took the stairs two at a time and entered the darkened room.

It was empty.

Jane dropped the basket on the floor, flung open the small door to the yard below, and called her lover’s name. She stared at the pegs where Tom’s second shirt, his jacket, and his cloak should have been, and then she rummaged under the pile of straw where he kept a bag with a comb, his velvet bonnet, extra hose, and quill pen. All gone. Only then did she notice the yellowed piece of parchment, torn from his prayer book no doubt, that had fallen to the floor. She snatched it up and took it to the light.

Dearest Jane, forgive me. My mother wills that I join her brother, the bishop of Salisbury. There is much at stake and I believe you will be glad to know it is all in an effort to restore Ned to the throne. We will be together again when the goal is reached. Your company has been sweet and I will always think on you kindly.

Go with God,

Tom

Jane could hardly read the postscript for her angry tears.

Destroy this when you have read it. T

She flung herself down on the bed, the earthy smell of straw mingling with the unmistakable scent of their lovemaking, and beat the scratchy mattress with her fists.

“Damn you, Tom! I hate you!” she cried. He could have waited to explain in person, waited to say farewell. “What a coward!” Then the awful gnawing feeling in her belly returned in full force when she realized she was alone once more. “Sweet Mother of God, what shall I do now?”

She lay facedown on the coarse sheet for several minutes, her mind a morass of thoughts. Had she not expected him to leave, if she had been honest with herself? She was not such a fool as to think their time together would last forever. Was he not always at his mother’s beck and call? She grimaced. Not to mention his wife’s, she thought ruefully. Aye, foolish Jane, she had no hold on the marquess of Dorset, son of the former queen, husband to the richest woman in England. What had she expected? She knew he was not hers to keep, and she should have listened to Sophie. He had used her, she admitted angrily, despising herself for her romantic weakness. How blinded by love she had been once again. “Nay,” she said to herself, “be honest, Jane. ’Twas lust, not love, that bound you.” He was not a good man. She saw that now, and she had known better men. Much better, as she thought of good-natured, honest Edward and loyal Will.

As she calmed herself with her reasonings, she gained strength. “You will get over him,” she said sternly, “eventually.”

Despite her anger and disillusionment, she was comforted in the knowledge she was not destitute. Did she now not have a small fortune in nobles and jewelry that would buy her a room at a respectable inn until she could find work? She had not lost her skills as a silkwoman. Aye, she reassured herself, the money would help, and she had friends in the merchant community. She sat up, tucked her disheveled hair under her hood, and reached under her side of the straw bed for her insurance—her precious box of coins and gems.

“Sweet Jesu, no!” she screamed. It was gone.

She leaped up and began frantically to pull apart the straw. “God damn you to hell, Tom Grey!” she raged in a panic. He had taken everything. He had not been satisfied to take her body and her love, he had taken everything she owned as well. She picked up the stool and flung it at the wall; the pies, meats, and custard followed soon after. She overturned the table, and then slammed and reslammed the door, enjoying the satisfying bangs that reverberated
in the empty warehouse. “Take that, and that, and that,” she cried with every slam.

She had never felt so betrayed in her whole life—not even by her father or by William Shore, and she wished Tom Grey were there so she could kick him where a man hurts most. But her hurt went deeper; the man she risked everything for had not given a thought to her safety or her survival. He had left her destitute, and she would be reduced to beggary.

What was she to do now?

“B
ut, my lord bishop, my claim to the throne is almost as good as Richard’s,” Buckingham reminded John Morton, bishop of Ely, as they talked in the tower chamber of Brecon Castle, where the bishop was still a prisoner. Below them, the end-of-summer shallow River Usk babbled its way past the plum-colored walls of the motte and bailey castle that had been built by the Normans three centuries earlier to keep out the hostile Welsh. In a few months, the water would become a torrent and an added barrier protecting the lords of Brecon.

Morton steepled his pudgy fingers, the ruby of his episcopal ring catching the light, and watched the more volatile Harry pace around the room. His instructions from Margaret Beaufort had been clear: persuade the angry duke of Buckingham to turn against the king and join her, the queen, and Morton himself in a rebellion to remove Richard from the throne and place Henry Tudor there, with Edward the Fourth’s eldest daughter, Bess, as his queen. To that end, Morton had worked tirelessly to convince Buckingham that his way lay with the plotters, now that he and Richard were seemingly at odds.

He recalled clearly the state of high dudgeon in which the belligerent young duke had arrived at Brecon that day more than a month ago. Why Harry had wanted to come directly to him in his quarters, the bishop had not known then. Whatever had happened
at Gloucester, Morton deduced it must have been a serious breach of loyalty for Richard to have turned his only royal cousin and councilor away so abruptly. That first meeting had been the first of many where Morton had little by little poisoned his prey against his king, and finally, today, he had wheedled the truth about the meeting in Gloucester from him.

“If it had not been you, it would have been someone else looking for the king’s favor,” Morton said, dismissing the crime. “The boys were of no account anymore.” He then proceeded to reel in the dejected duke with as much nonchalance as a fisherman baiting his hook. “Besides, everyone knows Richard wanted the crown. Who will believe it was not he who ordered their deaths? We can even start the rumors,” he said, trying to keep the glee from his voice. “Think no more of it, my dear Buckingham. If the disappearance becomes public, it will give our cause even more weight. Trust me, your tale is safe with me. Now are you with us or not?”

Buckingham eyed the persuasive prelate with a pout and grudging respect.

“You told me bluntly that I should fight for my claim when I first came from Gloucester,” Buckingham whined. “Tudor has but a hairsbreadth of a claim to the throne. He is of Beaufort bastard descent, and my line is unsullied. Do not forget the special edict of the fourth Henry when he legitimized his half-siblings at the turn of the century: no one of the Beaufort line may inherit the throne.”

“Aye, my lord, but do not forget right by conquest. Also, the Beaufort barring can easily be reversed and then Henry Tudor has a better claim than you. I do not believe the people will support you, even though, my lord duke,” Morton purred, flicking a speck of lint from his black robe, “you are a most capable man, and we could not consider this plan without your support. Think, your grace, if you succeed in putting Henry upon the throne—just as you did the usurper Richard, they will begin to call you Kingmaker.” He knew he had chosen his words well when he saw the look of
self-importance on his victim’s face. How transparent the duke was! Today, he was getting somewhere with his persuasive powers, he decided, enjoying himself, and he had the duke’s confession with which to force the issue, if needed. “For her part, the countess of Richmond, Lady Stanley, has all the connections to assemble a Lancastrian force, which I do not believe you can do. Am I right?”

Morton smiled benignly at Harry, who acquiesced with a reluctant nod. “And then there is the proposed joining of Lancaster and York by the marriage of Tudor and young Elizabeth of York. The people will welcome the end of this civil strife that has eaten at the kingdom for so long. Unfortunately, your grace, you are already married.” He watched the curly-haired Buckingham digest all this, his already meager respect for the fickle duke slipping by the second. “Can you now not see that Tudor is our only chance for success? Especially now that you have taken care of the possibility of an anti-Richard faction using young Ned to lead a rebellion.”

Buckingham did indeed see. And so, with more flattery and promise of power in the new regime, Harry of Buckingham agreed to turn his coat and rebel against his cousin, conveniently forgetting that, in four short months, that same cousin had showered him with great rewards and the promise of power for his loyalty.