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Authors: Isolde Martyn
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would never agree to come at this time again, I affected the dignity of a noble married traveller and made my way upstairs.
Not only did the men at the rail watch me pass but I found two retainers sitting cross-legged outside ‘Ashby’s’ door playing at dice. Both scrambled to their feet at my arrival. One touched his cap to me with a wink.
‘Mas’er Ashby be ‘ere shortly, Mistress.’
‘Then go and buy yourselves some ale,’ I said sweetly finding them each a coin. I did not want any eavesdroppers. They seemed surprised at my largesse – or perhaps the paucity of it – but they politely accepted.
The small oil lamp hanging above the bed was lit and a potkin of sweet violets neighboured a bowl of blushing apples on the small table beside the bed.
I hung up my cloak and veil behind the door, set my basketdown upon the bed and then I leaned against the bedpost to let my heartbeat settle.
A rustle disturbed me. Turning, I saw the hem of the recess curtain billow subtly. I smiled. Ah, so his servants had dissembled; my lover was already here.
Mischievously I tiptoed across to make a gleeful pounce, but it was the breeze from the window light that teased the curtain. The alcove was pristine. Fresh napkins were folded on the wooden rail above the washstand. I lifted the jug beside the ewer and took a deep breath. Today the water was perfumed with sandalwood; last time it had been rosemary. But I could still smell rosemary; yes, a ribboned spray of silvery spikes and tiny mauve flowers lay upon the cloth that disguised the stool of ease.
Lord Hastings’ blue robe was hanging on a wall hook with a bronze hued wrap beneath it. I dreamily lifted a silken fold of the blue to my cheek, trying not to think about how many other women had worn the bronze. No worse than a communion cup at Easter, I consoled my conscience, but I would not put it on.
He was late. The bell struck the quarter before swift, heavy footsteps stopped outside. The latch rose. But it was not Hastings. It was the stranger who had disturbed us last time. He was wearing the same black hat tugged forward over his face and I remembered the broadness of him.
I glared at him with dislike, sure now that he was not a courtier. The corner of his earth brown cloak was thrust up over the opposite shoulder like a night thief’s, but the huge gloves and creaking leather doublet trumpeted soldier – soldier with a message from Hastings that would render this evening’s subterfuge a waste of time.
No, I was wrong. He was removing his gloves with the air of a man who was staying. If only I had not sent Hastings’ servants away!
‘Mistress Shore, I believe.’ He touched his hat brim with a slight bow.
I did not curtsy. I was so angry, so hurt. This was betrayal.
‘Ah you must not blame Will,’ he said cheerfully, unwinding his cloak. ‘We hauled him down into the Tower dungeons, thrust him upon the Duke of Exeter’s daughter and turned the screws.’
I had not one iota what he was talking about. ‘Pray do not make yourself at home,’ I said, with contempt underscoring every syllable.
‘It could be a threesome if you insist.’
I must have looked shocked, for he quickly added, ‘Except Will doesn’t know I am here. Listen, I do apologise for tricking you but he’s up at Ashby-de-la-Zouch and I thought you might lack for decent company.’
‘Please leave, sirrah.’
‘Oh,’ he lamented, cocking his head like a crestfallen rooster. ‘I beg you give me a fighting chance.’
I remembered my father’s lectures. ‘Three things,’ I growled, restraining the urge to stick my fists on my hips. ‘Firstly, I am not a harlot; secondly, if I have any arrangement with Lord Hastings, it is none of your business; and thirdly, I am leaving. Now remove yourself from between me and the door or I shall kick you so hard in the ballocks you will have difficulty walking, let alone procreating with your wife or anyone else.’
‘ What !’ He was
Not only did the men at the rail watch me pass but I found two retainers sitting cross-legged outside ‘Ashby’s’ door playing at dice. Both scrambled to their feet at my arrival. One touched his cap to me with a wink.
‘Mas’er Ashby be ‘ere shortly, Mistress.’
‘Then go and buy yourselves some ale,’ I said sweetly finding them each a coin. I did not want any eavesdroppers. They seemed surprised at my largesse – or perhaps the paucity of it – but they politely accepted.
The small oil lamp hanging above the bed was lit and a potkin of sweet violets neighboured a bowl of blushing apples on the small table beside the bed.
I hung up my cloak and veil behind the door, set my basketdown upon the bed and then I leaned against the bedpost to let my heartbeat settle.
A rustle disturbed me. Turning, I saw the hem of the recess curtain billow subtly. I smiled. Ah, so his servants had dissembled; my lover was already here.
Mischievously I tiptoed across to make a gleeful pounce, but it was the breeze from the window light that teased the curtain. The alcove was pristine. Fresh napkins were folded on the wooden rail above the washstand. I lifted the jug beside the ewer and took a deep breath. Today the water was perfumed with sandalwood; last time it had been rosemary. But I could still smell rosemary; yes, a ribboned spray of silvery spikes and tiny mauve flowers lay upon the cloth that disguised the stool of ease.
Lord Hastings’ blue robe was hanging on a wall hook with a bronze hued wrap beneath it. I dreamily lifted a silken fold of the blue to my cheek, trying not to think about how many other women had worn the bronze. No worse than a communion cup at Easter, I consoled my conscience, but I would not put it on.
He was late. The bell struck the quarter before swift, heavy footsteps stopped outside. The latch rose. But it was not Hastings. It was the stranger who had disturbed us last time. He was wearing the same black hat tugged forward over his face and I remembered the broadness of him.
I glared at him with dislike, sure now that he was not a courtier. The corner of his earth brown cloak was thrust up over the opposite shoulder like a night thief’s, but the huge gloves and creaking leather doublet trumpeted soldier – soldier with a message from Hastings that would render this evening’s subterfuge a waste of time.
No, I was wrong. He was removing his gloves with the air of a man who was staying. If only I had not sent Hastings’ servants away!
‘Mistress Shore, I believe.’ He touched his hat brim with a slight bow.
I did not curtsy. I was so angry, so hurt. This was betrayal.
‘Ah you must not blame Will,’ he said cheerfully, unwinding his cloak. ‘We hauled him down into the Tower dungeons, thrust him upon the Duke of Exeter’s daughter and turned the screws.’
I had not one iota what he was talking about. ‘Pray do not make yourself at home,’ I said, with contempt underscoring every syllable.
‘It could be a threesome if you insist.’
I must have looked shocked, for he quickly added, ‘Except Will doesn’t know I am here. Listen, I do apologise for tricking you but he’s up at Ashby-de-la-Zouch and I thought you might lack for decent company.’
‘Please leave, sirrah.’
‘Oh,’ he lamented, cocking his head like a crestfallen rooster. ‘I beg you give me a fighting chance.’
I remembered my father’s lectures. ‘Three things,’ I growled, restraining the urge to stick my fists on my hips. ‘Firstly, I am not a harlot; secondly, if I have any arrangement with Lord Hastings, it is none of your business; and thirdly, I am leaving. Now remove yourself from between me and the door or I shall kick you so hard in the ballocks you will have difficulty walking, let alone procreating with your wife or anyone else.’
‘ What !’ He was
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