Mistress to the Crown by Isolde Martyn

first told me this was an earl’s dwelling.
    ‘Do I need to go back into Basing Lane when I leave, sirrah?’ I asked as I followed the huge fellow up the spiral stairwell adjoining the hall.
    He grinned. ‘Like that, is it? There’s a postern into an alley that will take you out to Bread Street or there’s a stone staircase in the far wall that will deliver you further down Basing Lane. Yonder’s the chamber for Master Ashby. Third door along.’
    I paid him a groat and ignored the lascivious gleam in his eyes as he bowed and wished me a pleasurable stay.
    Left alone by the rail, I stood beguiled by the peace that surrounded me. Come the evening, the servants would light the four candelabra that hung around the tree and I imagined this gallery would look beautiful and mysterious with the flicker of candles dancing across the cavernous ceiling. But not for me. Not yet. And I was glad. There was something calming and reassuring about the light tumbling lazily through the grisailled glass of the high upper windows, a sleepy serenity about this place that was as false as its purpose. The murmur of men’s conversation reached me from one of the dining chambers below my feet, and through the open door of another came the sound of platters being cleared as quietly as possible.
    Beyond the thick stone walls I heard the deep bell of St Paul’s and the tinnier chime of St Mildred’s striking the hour. This very moment I had the chance to flee, but my yearning other self heldme fast like a determined sister. I walked along the gallery to the door of the bedchamber. No lover answered my knock. Biting my lip, I tried the latch and let myself into my future.
    The chamber designated for ‘Master Ashby’ was the most spacious bedroom I had ever seen. Meadowsweet rushes were freshly strewn across the floor. Upon one wall hung a stained cloth of a huntsman and his hound, the wooden ceiling was spangled with a delicate profusion of white butterflies and crimson flowers, and scented candles flickered in the two tall wooden candelabra on either side of the bed.
    Ah, the bed! The bed was vast, large enough to accommodate at least five. With a jolt, I recognised the striped satin bed hangings of lilady and primrose, and then I laughed. Oh, by the Saints, I was about to sacrifice the virtue of my entire life within inches of Ralph the Younger’s curtaining!
    ‘What is the jest?’
    I squealed in shock as Lord Hastings stepped laughing from a recess that had escaped my notice. The warmth of his smile made me feel beautiful and welcome.
    ‘It is these,’ I laughed, giving the tethered drapery a playful tug before I curtsied.
    ‘Devil take it,’ he groaned, ‘you are not going to tell me their price?’
    ‘No, but I’ll have you know the man who imports this made me a very generous offer today,’ I boasted wickedly, setting back my veil. ‘A tester and coverlet of best brocade – providing I lay with him beneath it.’
    ‘This to him.’ He raised an insulting finger. His mouth was a narrow slit of determination as he studied me, and his blue gaze was deep enough to drown in. There was restraint in the way he stood, as though he fought against invisible chains to reach out and embrace me. ‘Still certain, Elizabeth?’
    I swallowed, realising that he had already discarded his day clothes. A blue robe, loosely tied about the waist, was all that screened his naked body.
    ‘Satisfactory?’ he teased, mistaking my stare. ‘Bought from your father and stitched by the house of Claver.’
    My silkwomen’s rivals! Never mind. I let my gaze climb from his bare calves up to the gold haze of hair across his chest. ‘I was thinking of what lay beneath, my lord.’
    ‘Well, so am I.’ He was eyeing my neckline, the only patch of skin showing beneath the cords of my cloak. ‘Am I to climb the ramparts or …?’ He gestured to the curtained recess. ‘There’s a wrap behind there.’
    I imagined other women using it. ‘Ramparts,