Mistress to the Crown by Isolde Martyn

Christ!’ He smote so hard upon the board that the inkpot jumped and then he grabbed the alejack and hurled it furiously at the wall. I stared open mouthed at the liquid, pale as urine, trickling down the whitewash.
    He was breathing hard, staring at me like a cornered beast. I feared he might strike me. His mouth arced into an ugly loop of pain and tight slits of skin swallowed his eyes. ‘O Jesu, Jesu, Jesu!’ He sank to his knees, cradling his ribs and began an anguished keening.
    I flung myself on my knees and drew him to me. ‘There, there!’ I soothed, stifling his howls against my bosom. I rocked him until the shudders ceased.
    ‘Ah’m so sorry, Elizabeth,’ he sobbed. ‘All these years. Ah’m so sorry.’ He tried to pull away but I held him fast.
    ‘There is more to a man than his prick, William Shore. The whole world knows that. You should not judge yourself so cruelly.’
    ‘But ah’m no true man. I am cursed by God.’
    ‘Then we both are, William.’
    Still reeling from Hastings’ betrayal, I needed a few moments to grasp the implications of Shore’s confession. He was no longer blaming me for not giving him a child. I was unsaddled at last. No more guilt to carry like a weary packhorse.
    ‘There is something I should tell you,’ I said, holding by his sleeves so he could not pull away. ‘I went with another man.’ His reaction was a fierce start to free himself but I held on. ‘So, you see, you must forgive me also. Two weeks ago for the first time. Just once. I wanted to know what it was like.’
    ‘An’ what was it like?’
    ‘It was satisfactory. There was no commitment.’
    ‘Yer tuphead,’ he snarled. ‘Dinna you make sure he was … clean?’
    My heart lurched. Whore’s pox as well as a broken heart? By Heaven, I hoped not.
    ‘Can you forgive me, William?’
    His face was as chill as a Derby winter. ‘Does it matter if ah can’t?’

VII
    ‘You ignored my messengers.’ Hastings came striding up into my solar. It was the first time he had visited upstairs. He sounded peevish, great lord peevish. Not a surprise; I had ignored three notes and two nosegays. Shore followed him in, mumbling about broadcloth.
    ‘Broadcloth, be damned!’ The Lord Chamberlain neatly slammed the door in my husband’s face. Then he opened it again. ‘Oh, Hell take it! Forgive the discourtesy, Shore. I thank you for your offer of assistance but pray don’t let me detain you. My steward will deal with the order.’ He waited until my stunned husband was downstairs before he dropped the latch. ‘ Well ?’
    ‘My lord.’ I rose from my curtsy, smoothed my skirts and looked up at him with my best businesslike face. ‘There was intervention.’
    The frost melted slightly. He folded his arms and his elegant black sleeves flashed their amber taffeta linings.
    ‘Him?’ A condescending jerk of head towards the door
    ‘No, my lord, your friend, the one who charged in on us.’
    ‘That friend! I see. My abrupt departure annoyed you!’ He tossed his hat onto the small table and surprisingly donned themanner of sackcloth and ashes. ‘Well, I cannot blame you and I do apologise, but the Breton diplomats were anxious to sign the treaty and get back to Duke Francis.’
    ‘Your pardon, I did not understand that at the time.’ I poured him out some wine in a forgiving fashion.
    He grinned sheepishly at me across the rim of our best goblet. ‘Just as well “my friend” interrupted, my luscious Elizabeth. I do not think I could have managed a fourth coupling.’ At least he had remembered the other three. ‘Anyway, I ask you to excuse my friend’s churlish manners. Sometimes he needs a boot on his arse.’
    ‘Do you bow, my lord, before you kick him?’
    My question caused a little silence. He chewed his cheeks before he answered.
    ‘Ah. Clever of you to realise.’
    ‘I didn’t, my lord. Until I had a command from you to meet me at Gerrard’s Hall. Except you did not arrive, he did.’
    Although