Mistress to the Crown. Isolde Martyn

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