Mistress to the Crown. Isolde Martyn
I took matters – and courage – into my own hands and trounced off to Beaumont’s Inn.
‘You’ll ‘ave to wait in line,’ the porter growled at me.
Wait? There I was, anxious to give, my heart beating frantically, and ahead of me were forty people, and more arriving.
‘Be patient, dearie,’ said the woman behind me as she heard me sigh. ‘It’s always like this on petition days.’
But then I saw his lordship’s steward come out and linger as though counting us. I left the line and hastened towards him but he vanished inside and the two guards protecting the entrance to the hall slammed their halberds across my path.
‘Take your turn, mistress,’ chortled one of them, ‘unless you’d like to take your turn wi’ me.’
I bit my lip. ‘Very tempting, sirrah, but it’s not that business I had in mind. I’m a mercer come to see Master Hyrst about an order.’
‘Why was yous standing wi’ the petitioners, then?’ demanded the other guard.
‘I thought … well, no matter. A silver penny for whichever of you can take me to Master Hyrst.’
Coin and a woman’s smile are better than battering rams to open doors. Eventually a servant beckoned me through. Master Hyrst stood waiting in the passageway.
‘Good day to you, sir,’ I said with a curtsy. ‘I should like to see my lord.’
‘Oh, would you! Well, you can whistle for that, mistress.’ But then as fortune would have it, Lord Hastings himself came by. The yearning creature inside my body gave a wriggle of delight at seeing him.
‘Mistress Shore, whatever are you doing here?’ He took my hand as I made obeisance and drew me to my feet.
‘I …’ How could I state my real purpose with his steward standing there like a busybody? I had to think swiftly. ‘My gracious lord, I came to ask if you could recommend an honest lawyer. It is a very personal matter.’
Hyrst gave a whoosh of impatience.
‘Fetch the next one in!’ ordered his master and turned his attention back to me.
‘Your pardon,’ I said, looking up at Lord Hastings in utter humility. ‘I truly had no understanding how many people were …’ I half-turned to the door with a lift of hands. ‘Forgive me, I’ll leave at once.’ But his curiosity was whetted.
‘Wait,’ he called out with concern.
Perhaps this was not meant to be, I thought, judging myself such a fool to even believe that he …
‘Why should you need a lawyer, Mistress Shore?’ he asked, pursuing me.
I halted. Could hesitation be honest yet contrived?
‘It’s a very private matter. I … I’ve tried several proctors too and not one was worthy.’
He glanced towards the next petitioner being escorted in and drew a deep breath. ‘Is there an action in process against you?’
‘No, my lord, I wish to bring one against my husband.’
This was a man who could defend himself in battle. He recovered instantly. ‘Hyrst, ask Peter to write a letter of recommendation to William Catesby. If you wait here, Mistress Shore, it will be brought to you.’
‘My lord, I cannot thank you enough.’
‘What else are friends for? Good morrow to you, then.’
Friends? The doors of my life were at last letting in the frightening, sweet breath of the wild woods. The King’s Chamberlain had called me friend.
Master Catesby was my age, the son of a knight and the nephew of Sir John Catesby, who was Justice of the Court of Common Pleas. Sleek auburn hair, the hue of weasel fur, pranced about his shoulders. He was one of those men who lean back nonchalantly when they talk to you.
I had no intention of sleeping with him. Nor he with me, and how assiduous he was in explaining that his clients were dukes rather than housewives and that he dealt in demesnes and not divorce. However, he did not show me to the door before the hour bell had finished striking.
Since Lord Hastings already had an ‘interest’ (Catesby underscored that word rather prematurely), yes, he would recommend a proctor to help me, but there was no precedent for bringing a charge of impotence against a husband. It was clear he thought I had a walnut for a brain.
‘To be frank, Mistress Shore, as far as obtaining a divorce after ten years of marriage you have not got a leg to stand on, but money can open any door, even His Holiness’s in Rome. Money and powerful friends. You have beauteous legs, I’m sure. Do not stand on them, spread them!’
To be truthful, he couched that advice with more circumambulation, but that was the sum of the matter. And the initial cost?
I offered him what I could afford, but to my relief he pushed the purse back at me.
‘I do this as a favour to Lord Hastings. Which reminds me, Mistress Shore.’ He waved my lord’s letter. ‘He’s asked me to give you a message. He desires you to wait upon him tomorrow at a quarter to ten. And, be warned, there is always a price to pay.’ I presumed he meant Lord Hastings expected reimbursement of a horizontal nature, but I was wrong.
‘Divorce is an ugly process, Mistress Shore. Once you are recognised as an oath-breaker and outside the protection of your husband, your credit and reputation will be at stake.’
I rose to my feet. ‘You clearly still think me rash and headstrong, Master Catesby, but women should be free to make their own decisions. If I had a mark for every girl compelled into wedlock, I should be passing rich.’
The lawyer’s smile was as smooth as polished alabaster as he came to see me out. ‘I’ll not argue that one. But on the practical side, what else can girls of respectable family do save marry?’
‘Take up the law, perhaps, Master Catesby?’
‘Heaven forbid, Mistress Shore,’ he laughed, and unlatched the door. ‘Farewell and good fortune! I’d sin my way to matrimonial freedom if I were you.’
Can any prince or ploughman put an estimate on freedom? Freedom to walk alone or with friends? Freedom to choose with whom you share a bed? Freedom to laugh?
Freedom at last to love?
Mornings were not difficult for me to extricate myself from our house; I regularly visited my silkwomen, shopped in Cheapside or, much to Shore’s annoyance, took provisions to feed the street children in our neighbourhood
That hour, as I set foot in Beaumont’s Inn, my courage was wound tighter than a tailor’s yarn. Except … Except if Lord Hastings granted me an audience in his private chamber, could I thank him enough?
Hyrst showed me into the hall and loftily bade me wait there. I did not sit down for I wanted to keep my rose gown free of creases. I’d barbered the nap to make it look new.
Two men servants came past bearing fresh bed linen. They eyed me speculatively as they made their way to the door behind the high table. I did not like their interest. It made me feel cheap.
Hyrst returned less haughty. ‘Mistress Shore, my lord requests that you join him in the garden. This way, if you please.’
My sight of Lord Hastings could have adorned the margin of The Garden of Earthly Delights: a noble lord reading beneath a lathed arbor of vines and rosa alba, with a mazer and a flagon at his knee and a page in attendance.
‘Mistress Shore.’ He set aside his book and stood to take my hand, then bestowed me upon the nearby cushioned bench and sat down again upon his cross-legged chair, beckoning his page to pour me a beaker of perry. The welcome in his face showed I was anticipated and not a pother.
He was clothed simply.