Mistress to the Crown. Isolde Martyn

drawn back. It is quite commonplace for parents to permit prospective husbands to view a daughter naked, but how demeaning.

      The bargaining was done swiftly after that. Both Shore and my father were in haste to shake hands on the contract. Shore saw himself acquiring a useful patron, because, besides being a wealthy merchant and influential in the Mercers’ Guild, my father, John Lambard, is Alderman for Farringdon, which contains St Paul’s Cathedral and the rich abbeys of the Franciscan and Dominican Friars. What’s more, Father was also Sheriff of London that year, second only to the Lord Mayor. Anne, my mother, is the daughter of Robert Marshall, a reputable merchant of the Grocers’ Guild.

      What Shore did not know when he offered for me was that Father had loaned a huge sum to the Duke of York for the war against Queen Margaret, and when the news reached us that her grace had just nailed the duke’s head up on a gatehouse at York, and her army was marching south to enter London, my father was in terror of his life. If the Queen found out which aldermen had lent money to the duke’s cause, it was good odds she would execute them for high treason – hanging, drawing and quartering – or, at the least, exact huge fines.

      Father was in haste to provide for us children before all his possessions were seized. He arranged apprenticeships for my two older brothers, Robert and Jack. My younger brother, Will, was promised to the church. I was the only daughter and Father feared if he did not find me a husband straight away, he never would.

      Do not think I did not protest. I wanted to be apprenticed like my brothers. I wanted to be the first woman to sit on the Council of Aldermen, to have my name in the Great Chronicle of London, maybe become the first woman Lord Mayor, but no one would listen and the rod across my shoulders was a painful argument.

      Well, my father has not had his innards ripped out on Tower Hill. The Duke of York’s son, handsome Edward, has seized the throne, driven Queen Margaret into exile and locked up old, mad King Henry in the Tower of London. (He has even outraged everyone by marrying a steward’s daughter.) Father’s business is prospering, although he is disappointed not to have received a knighthood, but he carries on his life as a highly renowned alderman, while I am stuck in this loveless marriage.

      I believe there is a way to unlock the chains of wedlock, even for a woman. I won’t give up. I won’t. I won’t.

Lover

       I Bow Lane, London, 1475

      How easily Life can flick us. Like an idle boy’s fingernail against a tiny fly. We are so fragile, our destinies changed so easily by a marriage, a death, a quarrel or a smile. I have been waiting a long time for Life to edge his finger close again.

      You see, I am twenty-five now and still tied to William Shore despite all my efforts to break free. At times I have considered murder and adultery, but I have resisted both, despite immense temptation to do the former and insufficient enticement to enjoy the latter.

      My mind aches for challenge. When my father was sheriff of London, our family house was ever full of esteemed and knowledgeable men, and their talk at table was of kings and dukes, of battles and parliaments, of laws and verdicts, trade and strategy. I learned what went on at the Council of Aldermen, the quarrels between the guilds, the jostling for advancement, the give and take between the city fathers and the King. I miss that rich discourse. When Shore bids fellow liverymen to dine with us, such matters are only for the men; we wives are banished to the parlour. I mean no disrespect, but much of the women’s talk is about their children. And I am childless. Oh, you might look at me and notice no discontent. I am like some tree with ring upon ring of thick armour around my heart, waiting for the woodcutter.

      But there is a rainbow promise in the sky. Shore has become impotent, and at last he has agreed that we should no longer share a bed. I also have a little money of my own coming in because he has grudgingly allowed me to set up a workshop of silkwomen, and I am going to save up until I can find an honest lawyer to present my case to his Holiness in Rome. Yes, there is hope.

      That was my thinking as I climbed onto a set of steps behind the counter in Shore’s shop. So thankful to be alone, I was looking forward to making a display of the jewelled girdles that my silkwomen had finished the day before. Outside, a fierce April shower was cleansing the street so there would be no customers until the sun showed her countenance again, and I could take my time.

      Behind the counter, I draped four falls of fabric from the uppermost shelf. The ruby velvet and the blue-black brocade, wefted with silver thread, were borrowed from my family’s shop in Silver Street. The other two were brunette and russet, the humdrum fabrics that my husband sold.

      I had already arranged the most expensive girdle around the brocade in semblance of a noblewoman’s waist. It was so beautiful – a sliver of silver samite stitched with tiny seed pearls and completed with a trio of teardrop pearls set at either end. By contrast, the belt that I took up next was a plain, silk cord, but its shining blue would enhance the brown cloth behind it like the flash of azure on a mallard’s wings.

      I was concentrating so diligently with the pinning that the sudden sound of someone’s cough nearly toppled me. On the other side of the counter stood a man in expensive apparel and he looked to be enjoying a view of my ankles. Can ankles blush?

      ‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ I exclaimed with a gasp of surprise. ‘I did not hear the bell.’

      ‘I did not ring it.’ His voice was utterly beautiful. What’s more, he had a smile to make my toes curl. Not lascivious, but as though we shared a jest and the rest of the world could go and be hanged.

      I descended as gracefully as I could and smoothed my tawny skirts, trying to glance up at him with modesty when I so longed to stare. I knew Shore supplied several noblemen with livery cloth for their households, but such men never came to the shop.

      A brooch of pearls and peridot lit the black velvet of this stranger’s cap and he wore a fine murrey riding cloak loosely cordled at his throat. Raindrops showered to the floor as he shrugged the cloak off and laid it across the end of the counter against the wall. I was intrigued to notice that the velvet of his slate-blue cote was flattened across each shoulder. This was a man who usually wore a heavy collar of great office.

      I curtsied low. ‘How may I help you, my lord?’

      He did not correct my address of him. That smile again. ‘Sir Edward Brampton has recommended your silken belts,’ he murmured, looking up at the samite and pearls. ‘I desire to buy one for my stepdaughter. She is almost sixteen and soon to be married.’

      Well, I wished her happiness in her marriage, but more than that, I wished myself in her shoes, able to feast in this man’s company.

      ‘May I show you some that may be more appealing to her youth, my lord?’ I fetched out half a dozen belts and laid them in a row for his consideration.

      He did not inquire the prices like most would. Instead, he seemed genuinely interested in the craft and beauty. Drawing off his gloves, he set them at the end of the counter beside his cloak. I was curious to observe his hands.

      Look behind the outward show, my father always advises every new apprentice. Observe a man’s fingernails when he takes off his gloves to feel the quality of the cloth you are selling. See if his nails be clean beneath and filed smooth. A rogue may dress like a lord but his hands will show the truth.

      This man’s nails were clean, buffed crescents, and his hands would have thrilled a sculptor for they were robust yet slender, unblemished by the sun. A flat diamond adorned his third finger. It was one of the largest gemstones I had ever glimpsed.

      Together we peered over the merchandise, our foreheads almost touching. I could smell the imber-gres and chypre essence this man was wearing and, oh, it stirred my senses, and I prayed that no other customers would venture in.

      ‘You do not sell expensive cloth, mistress,’ he observed, glancing round at the bales leaning against the walls. ‘Who supplies the jewels, then, for these belts?’

      ‘The goldsmith, Alderman Edmund Shaa.