Royal Mistress by Anne Easter Smith Page B

Wat, I shall notallow my husband to take one groat off your wages. Now tell them yourself, William!”
    Rob Percy nudged Richard and grinned. “I would not want to be that woman’s husband, would you, Dickon?”
    Richard shook his head and eyed the husband and wife with amusement. He had noted the elegant gown and the way it draped on the woman’s slender form, and he at once knew how to make amends for the mercer’s loss. He knew full well it was Edward’s fault that loyal English soldiers were forced into a life of crime to feed their families. He had been proud that he had been the only one of the king’s entourage to have refused King Louis’s pension; he had wanted to fight the French, not sign some treaty that was no more than a bribe. He did not often disagree with his oldest brother, but in this—and in the lascivious manner in which Edward chose to live—he was adamantly opposed.
    “Richard of Gloucester at your service, mercer,” he said in his serious way. “I am sorry for your loss, and I regret we were unable to stop the thieves. However, I am curious if you have more of your wife’s satin to offer me. It would please my lady, the duchess, of that I am certain.”
    Richard was rewarded by openmouthed disbelief from William. The duke sensed he was also being avised by the eyes behind the veil. Jane curtseyed low when William remained mute.
    “I am afraid my husband must still be in shock, your grace, or he would have thanked you profusely. I will do so in his stead, and if you would be so kind as to send your messenger to William Shore’s shop on Coleman Street, I will personally see to it that you receive a length of silk to your liking.”
    Richard was impressed. “Am I addressing Mistress Shore?”
    Jane’s merry green eyes were just visible through the filmy fabric, and Richard could tell she was smiling.
    “Aye, my lord duke. I am honored to meet you,” she replied, “although, I wish it had been in less harrowing circumstances.”
    Was the woman being forward with him? he wondered. Nay, he must have been mistaken, although just to be certain, he chose to answer her in a more reserved tone; he should end the conversation and be on his way, he decided. He inclined his head enough to be polite and said simply, “God give you a better day, mistress.” He turned to William, who had recovered his composure and was bowing low, and told him, “I can assure you that I shall send my squire to fetch the cloth in a day or so, Master Shore. I am a man of my word.”
    “Coleman Street, your grace,” William called after the retreating duke. “William Shore of Coleman Street.”
    Richard gave a curt nod. “I heard it the first time, mercer. I am not one to forget anything I need to remember,” he remarked. “What an oddly matched couple,” he confided to Rob Percy as they swung up into the saddle and trotted off.
    Jane looked after them, nonplussed. What had she said that had so obviously offended the duke? Ah well, she thought, as I shall probably never speak to him again, I shall not worry about it.

    O n the second day of November, as Elizabeth waited at the window, the rat-tat of rain beat on the leaded glass panes, blurring the dozens of boats, shouts, barges, and ferries that plied the gray Thames below her. Not that on this particular day she could care: she was too preoccupied with the all-consuming, painful toil of labor and birthing. When Anne arrived, quickly and without fuss, four hours later, the queen looked at her fifth daughter and marveled again how each child could look so different born from the same parents. Elizabeth, Mary, and Cecily were fair-haired; poor little Margaret, may she rest in peace, was so bald it had been impossible to tell if she would have been fair like her mother, red-gold like her father, or dark like her grandfather York. But there was no mistaking these chestnut glints in the wispy tresses: they reminded Elizabeth of her brother, Anthony