Mistress to the Crown. Isolde Martyn

      Then he swept his hand down to the badge of hair and eased his fingers into me, touching me where my body burned for his coming. He gave a satisfied growl.

      ‘I am on fire,’ I gasped. Was the Devil inside me, driving me so?

      He laughed softly and, to my dismay, slid from the bed.

      ‘No, no,’ I protested. ‘You are not leaving me?’

      He touched a finger to my lips and walked across to take something from the small table. Was he doing this to torment me? My body was crying out for him to enter.

      ‘We need to be careful, sweetheart. I’m going to push this inside you.’

      Whatever it was – a tiny sponge I discovered later – it smelled of vinegar. I was not pleased – this was a strumpet’s device.

      ‘No, you need not concern yourself,’ I protested, writhing away from him. If I had not wanted him so much, I might have fled. ‘I cannot conceive, my lord!’

      ‘Maybe you can. Behave, and let me put this in.’ He kissed me on the mouth to silence my argument and his fingers parted my cleft and forced the sponge well into me. His greater strength, the sternness of his voice in demanding my obedience, enhanced my appetite for him even further, and within seconds of him entering me, my body convulsed about him and I shuddered with an ecstasy that was not holy and yet divine.

      So divine that we did it again.

      And again.

      No wonder Holy Church called this a sin. With Lord Hastings the act was not faith, it was a visitation. The songs of the troubadours were true. Lust by consent with skill. Perhaps my lover was right, I might become addicted to this pleasure.

      ‘By the Saints!’ he exclaimed, collapsing beside me after our third coupling with a satisfied groan. ‘Not bad for an old lad. That was …’ But I never heard. I drifted into sleep in his arms, blissful and at peace, and I think he slept too.

      A rude knocking roused us. Neither of us had thought to bar the door. I struggled to pull the coverlet across me, afraid it was Shore, but the stranger who barged in was too tall for my husband, thank God. For an instant I thought he was one of the serving men, but this man’s broad hat and riding cloak proclaimed ‘outsider’.

      ‘Ha! Master Ashby!’ He disappeared into the alcove as though he knew it well and the next instant, Lord Hastings’ clothes fell across us. Surely even a trusted servant would not behave so. This had to be some friend from the court.

      ‘The pretty fellows from Brittany,’ the stranger said cryptically. It was the closest he came to an apology.

      ‘Excellent!’ Hastings exclaimed gleefully, and grabbed for his shirt.

      ‘Caught me unawares too!’ the interloper replied. I could not see much of the man’s face beneath the deep brimmed hat but he was staring at me. I was like a helpless moth caught in a candle flame.

      ‘I must go, sweetheart,’ Hastings laughed, turning to kiss me. He seemed quite unaware of my predicament. I dared not move since my scant covering was precarious already. ‘Fare you well.’ He stroked a playful finger along my lips. ‘The tariff is paid, by the way, so take your time in leaving.’

      ‘Well, don’t take yours,’ admonished the stranger with extraordinary rudeness, pelting Lord Hastings’ hose at him. ‘Where’s your other boot.’ He disappeared again behind the curtain. ‘Not in here,’ he called out.

      I instantly scrambled to hide myself within the sheets.

      ‘Hey, sweetheart, help me with my points!’ Hastings made it a plea not a command. I cursed inwardly but how could I refuse after his generosity to me? Then I espied his discarded robe upon the rushes and swiftly scurried from the bed and drew it on. The silken belt was missing but at least its folds bestowed some modesty and my loosened hair would hide my face as I stooped to tie my lover’s hose points to his gypon.

      ‘Who is this?’ the stranger asked, prowling as I performed a servant’s duty.

      Hastings ignored him. ‘Find my other boot, sweetheart.’

      It lay within the shadow of the bedsteps and he took it from me with thanks. ‘You can leave my robe here when you are finished.’ A command that mightily displeased me, but I smiled up at him in gratitude, my only act of defiance to his friend’s impatience. The strategy worked. Lord Hastings touched his lips to mine and then, as if to stoke the other man’s annoyance, he gave me a deep farewell kiss that told me we should couple again before long.

      ‘God keep you, my lord,’ I whispered huskily as he lifted his face back from mine, and still I kept my arms defiantly wrapped about his neck.

      The stranger’s spurs jingled as he strode to the door and held it open. ‘Are you done, Will?’ he demanded impatiently. Then they were gone and I was left alone with Hastings’ kiss drying on my lips.

      Fragrance in a vial of Venetian glass was discreetly delivered by a servant next day with a spoken message of thanks but no explanation of why my lover had left in such a hurry. My imagination had a fearful riot all by itself. Did the Lord Chamberlain and his swaggering friend have an appetite for ‘pretty fellows’ or had they been promised to some drinking orgy? Then a few days later I heard Shore talking about how the King had signed a military treaty with Duke Francis of Brittany. Oh dear, perhaps my lascivious sodomites had been the silver-haired Breton ambassadors desperate for a pledge of military aid against the King of France?

      Had I shown too much ardour or not enough? Alas, I heard nothing more from Lord Hastings and I wanted nothing but more. Had Heloise burned so for Abelard? Ah, I burned night after night and waited day after day, my blood seething with anticipation, my tide of hope rising with the dawn and ebbing at nightfall.

      Like some fantastical sea creature, my tendrils snared each morsel of gossip that eddied out from the court. Was my lord gone with the court to Eltham? Did he attend King Edward’s meeting with the Merchants of the Staple? Oh, I was tempted to loiter outside Beaumont’s Inn or take a wherry to Westminster and lurk like a stalking hunter. But what man wants a stinging gadfly pursuing his hide? Ah, I am amused now, remembering my impatience, but at the time, it was like having your tongue cut out when you have tasted the elixir of the angels.

      I was returning from Mass at St Mary’s Aldermary when, at last, a retainer with Hastings’ badge stitched upon his cap waylaid me.

      ‘My lord begs that you will meet him at five o’clock on Monday evening for supper. The same chamber as before.’ The servant’s eyes slid over my person with approval. I made pretence of gravely considering the matter, before I nodded graciously.

       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