Mistress to the Crown. Isolde Martyn

rather! I’m stitched in a cered cloth shroud on my way to the grave if I don’t struggle out while I have the life force still in me.’

      ‘The path to Hell, sweetheart,’ he repeated firmly.

      I rose and held my hands out to him. ‘Then lead me down it.’

      We stared at each other not like friends or lovers but like two knights agreed to a tournament. I was waiting for an invisible marshal to give us leave to gallop at each other, but Hastings stepped back, laughing, hands raised

      ‘Christ save me! Not now, you hungry puss, we’ve insufficient time.’

      ‘Ohhh,’ I protested. ‘How long do you need? Shore only took a heave and a groan when he managed it at all. Do you want me to undress, is that the reason?’

      He smiled, reached out to draw my face towards him, and kissed my brow. ‘My poor innocent Elizabeth. Tomorrow, then. Tomorrow at two.’ A finger under my chin to make me listen. ‘Put on a veil so no one will recognise you and come to Gerrard’s Hall in Basing Lane. Ask for the chamber for Master Ashby.’ I must have looked shocked for he added, ‘See, I sound heartless and you are offended.’ He turned away, dragging his fingers down his face as if he was disgusted with himself.

      ‘No,’ I lied, picking up his book. ‘But should I not come here? I could creep through the postern like a thief before curfew.’

      ‘No, Gerrard’s will preserve your reputation and my privacy. And now, I’m afraid, I must ask you to leave.’ Oh, he was all instructions and purpose now, other business tugging at his thoughts, but how could I resent that?

      My fingers stroked the leather cover.

      ‘My lord?’

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘The others? Are they always married women?’

      He nodded, glad, I daresay, not to look into my face as he took the book from me and pressed the clasp closed. ‘Elizabeth, if you change your mind – and you well might – send word here. Tell your servant to say, “Master Shore seeks an audience”.’

      ‘And if you change yours, my lord?’

      He drew a deep breath. Clearly, the prospect of lying with me still bothered him, but as he kissed my hand, he smiled down at me.

      ‘I promise you I won’t.’

       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