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Authors: Isolde Martyn
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laughing but in ridicule. ‘Firstly,’ he spluttered, ‘whether you are no harlot does not matter; secondly, I do not think you are giving us a fair chance to be acquainted; and thirdly, although you may be tall for a woman, I am six foot-three inches tall and long in the arm, so I think your chance of getting anywhere near my ballocks – with your clothes on, that is – will be highly unlikely.’
A scratch at the door. He opened it and the two retainers carriedin trays, set them upon the bed, bowed and departed. I cursed inwardly. Why had I not noticed earlier that neither of the fellows had worn Hastings’ livery?
‘Hungry?’ My unwelcome host uncovered the platter, crossed himself with his right hand and a mutter of grace, then spiked a twirl of beef and held it out to me.
‘I hope you choke,’ I said coldly.
‘No!’ He ate the meat himself, followed it with a sliver of fruit, and then drew a fastidious finger across his lips. ‘No, you can’t wish that. It’s against the law.’
‘Not in my book, it’s not.’ This was ridiculous. I grabbed my basket and swept to the door. ‘Good day to you, sir.’ I inclined my head with a dignity he did not deserve.
‘In my book, it’s treason, Mistress Shore.’ His voice had changed.
The threat in it brought me up short. My hand froze upon my cloak. I had no idea who this man was. If he was the same rank as Hastings, then he had the power to destroy my reputation. Malice is a cruel enemy. I had no intention of staying, but if he was going to set a torch to my honour, maybe I still had a chance to staunch the flame.
I turned. ‘I beg your pardon then, sir, but the jest is on Lord Hastings not me.’
‘Please do not go, Mistress Shore.’ His voice had grown kind again. ‘I realise we have not been introduced and you are at a disadvantage.’ He swept off his hat. The lion mane of bushy, brown hair tiptoeing on those broad, high shoulders seemed coarse and exuberant compared to Hastings’ sleek fairness. His face surprised me: not the fist-in-your-teeth features that usually went with a large body and stubborn nature but fine hazel eyes, a noble nose and delicate mouth. Now I could see him better, he reminded me of someone. He bowed, not deeply, more a teasingconcession, a curl of shoulder, his head remaining superior. ‘My name is Edward, I am the King of England.’
‘Oh yes, and I am the Holy Roman Em—’ The words jammed in my throat. Without his hat … O Blessed Christ defend me!
I had only ever seen King Edward from a distance in recent years – a playing card, cloth-of-gold figure watching the tournaments at Smithfield or else just a gloved hand, resting on velvet, half-hidden by purple curtains aboard the royal barge. But I knew the triumphant bow of this man’s lips, the victor of Mortimer’s Cross and bloody Towton, the nemesis of Warwick, Queen Margaret and King Henry; the upthrust fist that betokened the victorious conqueror.
Trembling, I sank in the lowest curtsy I had ever made, wishing the rushes and floor might swallow me out of sight. As if in punishment, I was left to wobble there in misery. Then he relented. A strong hand grasped my arm and helped me to my feet.
‘Now we have that out the way …’ He kept hold of me like a diligent groom until I was steady, before he stepped back.
I could not answer the look of inquiry. It would need a hue and cry to find my voice.
‘It will come back,’ he assured me affably. ‘Always does.’ Then, as if giving me time to regain my wits, he prowled across to inspect my basket and, like a curious child, flicked up its cover. ‘Mm-mmm, oatcakes! May I?’
I nodded, still in shock.
‘Ah, I’ve not had one of these for years,’ he exclaimed joyously, healthy white teeth taking a bite. ‘Hmm-mm, just the right hint of cinnamon. Good, very good.’ And then he astonished me even more. ‘Lambard’s girl, aren’t you?’ he said, savouring another mouthful and observing me with
A scratch at the door. He opened it and the two retainers carriedin trays, set them upon the bed, bowed and departed. I cursed inwardly. Why had I not noticed earlier that neither of the fellows had worn Hastings’ livery?
‘Hungry?’ My unwelcome host uncovered the platter, crossed himself with his right hand and a mutter of grace, then spiked a twirl of beef and held it out to me.
‘I hope you choke,’ I said coldly.
‘No!’ He ate the meat himself, followed it with a sliver of fruit, and then drew a fastidious finger across his lips. ‘No, you can’t wish that. It’s against the law.’
‘Not in my book, it’s not.’ This was ridiculous. I grabbed my basket and swept to the door. ‘Good day to you, sir.’ I inclined my head with a dignity he did not deserve.
‘In my book, it’s treason, Mistress Shore.’ His voice had changed.
The threat in it brought me up short. My hand froze upon my cloak. I had no idea who this man was. If he was the same rank as Hastings, then he had the power to destroy my reputation. Malice is a cruel enemy. I had no intention of staying, but if he was going to set a torch to my honour, maybe I still had a chance to staunch the flame.
I turned. ‘I beg your pardon then, sir, but the jest is on Lord Hastings not me.’
‘Please do not go, Mistress Shore.’ His voice had grown kind again. ‘I realise we have not been introduced and you are at a disadvantage.’ He swept off his hat. The lion mane of bushy, brown hair tiptoeing on those broad, high shoulders seemed coarse and exuberant compared to Hastings’ sleek fairness. His face surprised me: not the fist-in-your-teeth features that usually went with a large body and stubborn nature but fine hazel eyes, a noble nose and delicate mouth. Now I could see him better, he reminded me of someone. He bowed, not deeply, more a teasingconcession, a curl of shoulder, his head remaining superior. ‘My name is Edward, I am the King of England.’
‘Oh yes, and I am the Holy Roman Em—’ The words jammed in my throat. Without his hat … O Blessed Christ defend me!
I had only ever seen King Edward from a distance in recent years – a playing card, cloth-of-gold figure watching the tournaments at Smithfield or else just a gloved hand, resting on velvet, half-hidden by purple curtains aboard the royal barge. But I knew the triumphant bow of this man’s lips, the victor of Mortimer’s Cross and bloody Towton, the nemesis of Warwick, Queen Margaret and King Henry; the upthrust fist that betokened the victorious conqueror.
Trembling, I sank in the lowest curtsy I had ever made, wishing the rushes and floor might swallow me out of sight. As if in punishment, I was left to wobble there in misery. Then he relented. A strong hand grasped my arm and helped me to my feet.
‘Now we have that out the way …’ He kept hold of me like a diligent groom until I was steady, before he stepped back.
I could not answer the look of inquiry. It would need a hue and cry to find my voice.
‘It will come back,’ he assured me affably. ‘Always does.’ Then, as if giving me time to regain my wits, he prowled across to inspect my basket and, like a curious child, flicked up its cover. ‘Mm-mmm, oatcakes! May I?’
I nodded, still in shock.
‘Ah, I’ve not had one of these for years,’ he exclaimed joyously, healthy white teeth taking a bite. ‘Hmm-mm, just the right hint of cinnamon. Good, very good.’ And then he astonished me even more. ‘Lambard’s girl, aren’t you?’ he said, savouring another mouthful and observing me with
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