Mistress to the Crown by Isolde Martyn Page B

diminish their right to tributes.
    We all made obeisance again and then – thank God – proud hands clasped my shoulders. I knew Hastings was standing behind me.
    ‘Excellent, Will!’ exclaimed King Edward, but his eyes were on me. ‘Heard you helped out at the final moment, Mistress Shore. Our thanks to you and our compliments on your dancing.’
    I could scarce whisper a thank you as I was high on the huzzahs. Sweet Heaven, name a woman who wouldn’t be!
    ‘I’m Dorset, by the way,’ said Paris in my ear, as if the revelation would ensure I melted. He kissed my hand.
    ‘Ignore him,’ said King Edward. ‘Paris has been defeated. Let us leave it that way.’
    Hastings’ fingers tightened. ‘“Helen” needs to change.’
    ‘Only her mind,’ murmured the King, ‘or is that now done?’
    Too dazed to follow the footwork of this conversation, I did not dare stare above the diamond clasps of his highness’ doublet. ‘Later, then,’ he was saying to somebody.
    ‘Can we all come?’ quipped Dorset, his lascivious gaze upon my breasts.
    And then the atmosphere chilled.
    ‘Elizabeth,’ purred King Edward.
    I thought for a foolish instant that he spoke to me and then she appeared from the shadows, a woman in her late thirties, her belly high with child. His queen, Elizabeth Woodville, with emeralds glittering around her throat and golden threads crisscrossing her headdress. Behind the transparent demi-veil, a frown marred her perfect forehead and her full lower lip betrayed her to be somewhat out of temper. I was overwhelmed, not by her ill-humour, but because she was wearing one of Tabby’s girdles over her magnificent brocade gown. I gasped in delight and sank in a deep curtsy, far too euphoric to shiver at the malevolence flowing off her.
    ‘Ah, the Trojan horse,’ she remarked cryptically, setting her hand upon the King’s proffered wrist. ‘They say, “Beware the Greeks when they bring gifts”.’ Her moon-cool radiance beamed straight across my head at her husband’s friend.
    ‘Indeed, madame,’ agreed Hastings dryly. ‘Indeed.’
    I expected no less than the promise of an escort home as soon as I had cleansed the colours from my face and wriggled back into my own apparel, but when Lord Hastings sent a page requesting me to join him in his chambers, I agreed with delight. Even though the bells of St Martin-le-Grand would soon be soundingcurfew in the city, I cheerfully followed Talwood through the coney warren of servants’ passageways.
    Hastings was sprawled with his feet upon a footstool and a fine glass goblet in his hand. His doublet and stomacher were gone, the collar of office dangled from the back of his chair, and only a gemmed cross glittered among the loosened laces of his shirt. He bestirred himself in welcome and kissed my cheek.
    ‘Here is the necklace back, my lord,’ I said, laying the golden leaves upon a little painted table.
    ‘No, keep it as your player’s fee, my dear Elizabeth. You exceeded all my expectations. Here, let me!’ He fastened it back about my throat, before he poured me wine. Feeling the necklace against my skin and the costly goblet between my fingers, my senses thrilled. Elizabeth Lambard was in Westminster Palace drinking with the King’s close friend. Except he looked haggard in the candlelight – utterly forgivable – The Siege of Troy would have leeched anyone’s vitality.
    We touched rims. ‘You did well,’ he said, raising his glass to me.
    I shook my head with genuine modesty. ‘By the skin of my teeth. The other players were very kind and Master Talwood made a wondrous guardian angel. No, it is certainly you who deserve all the praise, my lord.’ I drank to him.
    There was no return sparkle in his eyes. No hint that he desired to make love tonight. Sometimes I forgot he was so much older. Around us, the silence seemed suddenly precipitous and my delight began to ebb. I took another sip of wine.
    ‘I noticed her highness was wearing one