Free Mistress to the Crown by Isolde Martyn

the curiosity of a lion that could crush a mouse with a swipe of his paw. ‘Stout heart and generous,your sire. Loaned my father money when he was at low ebb. Helped me out as well back in ‘61, convinced the city to let me in so I could be proclaimed king. Not forgotten, I assure you.’ Then his friendly tone weathervaned to a cool north again. ‘Now are you recovered enough to have some supper? Some poor beast has died to give us food and we should be grateful.’
    Refusal was impossible. ‘So please you, gracious lord.’
    He gestured me to sit on the bedsteps, filled a platter for me and passed it down. ‘Usually takes half an hour for it to pass,’ he told me as he selected some viands for himself.
    ‘To p-pass, your highness?’
    ‘The awe,’ he said dryly, licking the sauce from his fingers and then wiping them on a napkin. ‘Eat!’
    I was not sure I could, but I watched in fascination as he moved the tray bearing the jug and goblets to the floor and heaved out the nearest bolster from beneath the pillows. Doubled against the wall, it made a reasonable seat and he lowered himself down. With a wifely instinct that might have passed for repentance, I poured out the wine and that pleased him. He took up his mazer and held it out. I lifted mine, and the surface of the wine quivered as my hand shook. Metal kissed metal.
    I found my regular voice again, albeit humble and wary. ‘Good health, my lord.’
    He took a gulp and winced. ‘Too sweet, more my brother George’s taste. What do you think, Mistress Shore?’
    Me? My first thought was that he was gulling me; the second that he meant it.
    ‘I prefer a red, fuller-flavoured wine with beef, my lord.’
    The answer satisfied him. He settled back watching me still and at last I retrieved my appetite. It was part expedience. I could hardly sit opposite him idle. Later, I would laugh to myself that King Edward had sat on the floor to dine with me like some itineranttinker. In fact, I suppose it was in deference to my sensibility that we were not seated in comfort upon the bed and I was grateful.
    On the same level, without his great height towering over me, I found him less daunting. His complexion was pale with a sprinkling of freckles and he had a Cupid’s bow mouth, narrow but full-lipped. I reckon his worst feature was his chin – too dimpled – and his neck might thicken with age – but he had intelligent eyes, hazel with flecks of green gold, which reminded me of sunlight shining through a meadow pool. Hastings’ eyes were more handsome, possessing translucence like clean-sheared crystal, yet there was a playfulness in the King’s that was very charming.
    ‘Is he in good health, old John, your father?’
    ‘Yes, I thank your highness. A touch of stiffness in the knees but otherwise quite hale.’
    ‘And your mother, Anne … no, Amy, yes?’
    ‘Anne. Very well, I thank you. Father has bought some land in Hertfordshire and is gradually letting my brothers take over the business. Robert is in Calais and Jack runs the shop.’
    ‘Jack? Ah, John Lambard the younger. Doing well?’
    I nodded. ‘Yes, your highness.’
    ‘I’m not surprised. Robert Cousin, my Master of the Wardrobe, bought some Florentine sarsynett from your brother this week for seven shillings a yard.’
    ‘That’s ridiculously high,’ I exclaimed and then clapped my hand to my lips mortified.
    The King’s face hardened. ‘Are you saying my officer was fleeced?’ A glimmer of humour that did not quite flatten the corners of his mouth replenished my courage.
    ‘Shorn might be a better word,’ I replied demurely, shaking some crumbs from my skirts.
    My audacity amused him. ‘So what should he have paid?’
    ‘No more than five shillings and sixpence.’
    ‘Hmm.’ He swished his mouth sideways. ‘I’d better have a word with Rob.’
    ‘There are some really beautiful summer brocades due in any day now. I saw the samples a few months ago. The Queen has—’
    He grinned.