Free Mistress to the Crown by Isolde Martyn Page A

‘Ah, gotten an order in already, has she?’ He took a gulp of wine and waved a hand while he swallowed. ‘Separate household, see. ‘Course being in business, you’d know how it all works. Can I have another of your cakes, if you please?’ I reached up for the basket and passed two across.
    He demolished one and took a bite of the other. ‘So how long have you been married?’
    ‘Since I was twelve.’
    ‘Any whelps?’
    ‘Whelps?’
    ‘Children. I have five princesses, two princes and at least two bastards.’ He thought about it. ‘No, more, I daresay.’
    ‘I haven’t any, your grace.’
    ‘What, none?’ He thumbed the crumbs from his lips. ‘No … no …’ A languid flourish of fingers sufficed as though the word for stillbirth was only for a woman’s use.
    ‘No, your highness, I believe I was wed too soon.’
    He frowned, his eyes sympathetic. ‘Happened to Lady Margaret Beaufort, the Countess of Richmond. Not even fourteen when she birthed her son, Henry Tudor. Tudor, heard of him, yes? Lives on crumbs from the Count of Brittany’s trenchers. She never had any more progeny, thank the Lord.’ He had a most heartrending smile, I discovered, and he was using it on me now. ‘Does it sadden you, Mistress Shore?’
    It? Being barren?
    ‘Not any more, your highness. I am happy to go down on all fours and play bears with my friends’ children, but at the end of the day I am content to hand them back.’
    ‘All fours?’ he echoed wickedly, laughter breeding with speculation in his expression and I could see he was imagining – O Jesu!
    ‘I growl very fiercely,’ I said quickly, hoping that he could not see my blushes. He really was sinfully attractive.
    ‘Oh, do you?’
    The neighbourhood bells tolled six and I was still in the lion’s den. Children would have been a useful excuse to leave.
    The King of England read my mind. ‘Curfew is three hours hence.’ Wriggle out of that , his expression told me.
    ‘Yes, your highness, but it is later than when I met Lord Hastings before and my husband—’
    ‘Is of no consequence, Will tells me.’
    ‘I am sorry,’ I murmured, rising to my feet, and again shaking the crumbs from my skirts. ‘I have the cakes to deliver … to the poor, otherwise …’
    His highness stood up as if out of courtesy but his lower lip betrayed displeasure. Then he twisted, retrieved the bolster and, holding it against his body with one arm, sensuously slid his other hand down it. ‘I thought we might …’ A jerk of his head towards the bed finished the question. At least it was a question.
    I shook my head treasonously and Lord knows what else of me shook. Oh yes, my senses were stirred. Not just his handsome looks but the aura of power had me wondrously thrilled.
    The bolster was flung aside with a deliberate menace. I briskly picked up my basket and hugged it to my waist. There was no way I could withstand him if he chose to stop me leaving so I stood there, my chin raised defiantly. It was his decision.
    Tight, calculating tucks appeared in his cheeks. King Edward was watching me as though I was his assailant in the combat yard; all I had was basketwork. I clasped it tighter to my waist and stared up at him defiantly, my heartbeat frantic.
    A woman shrieked playfully outside. The floorboards creaked lightly as she ran across them. Heavier footsteps chased her. A guffaw of laughter. A door opening. No one would care if I screamed, and what difference would it make? The hawks outside were probably royal servants on subtle sentry duty.
    At a loss in this impasse, I primly pulled the napkin back over the remaining cakes like a diligent housewife, without taking my eyes from my antagonist, and suddenly, mercifully, the swords between us were lowered. The King’s cheeks grew full again, a smile grew and grew and then he laughed.
    I took one step towards the door but his voice snapped out like a whip. ‘The King has not given you leave, Mistress Shore.’
    I looked