LITMIR.BIZ

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conscious that Jess might have Yorkist leanings and her ear to the door.

      ‘You mean marry a foreign princess?’ My mother gave a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘I don’t think so. None of Europe’s present rulers would risk giving a daughter to a king who’d won his throne by a twist of fate. They’d want to see him keep it for a few years first and Henry Tudor needs to get his dynasty started as soon as possible. I’d say he’s just waiting to be anointed with the holy chrism and then Elizabeth will be whisked to the altar!’

      My mother made a good point, although an opposing view was aired at my next port of call. Having collected the apothecary’s order, I took a roundabout route back to Coldharbour so that I could also drop in on my friend Rosie in Crown Seld, a square off the busy Cheapside market, where her mother ran a business devoted to the arcane craft of passementerie: the production of decorative trimmings in silk.

      The workshop was a riot of gossip and colour. Spools of silks in a score of hues were stacked on shelves along the walls and on the tables at which the weavers were working, cones of costly gold and silver thread were in constant use by rows of females of all ages. Young apprentices worked under the eagle eyes of older workers, whose gnarled and calloused fingers revealed their experience in fashioning the delicate braids and laces used to embellish and fasten the gowns and robes of the wealthy and noble.

      This form of employment was the exclusive domain of women, men lacking the dexterity needed to handle the delicate threads involved. The practitioners were called silkwomen and inevitably, when a group of females were gathered together employing busy fingers while their minds roamed free, there was always plenty of chatter. In days gone by, Lady Margaret had often sent me there to collect her passementerie purchases and during these errands I had discovered the stimulation of city scandal and become particularly friendly with Rosie, a bright, forthright woman a few years my senior, quick-witted, married to a mercer and a fount of information from the streets and guilds.

      Knowing that she hated stopping in mid-weave, I pulled up a spare stool beside her and, like my mother, she immediately sought inside knowledge about the new royal regime. ‘What a welcome guest you are, Joan! I hope you’re going to tell us why we’ve heard nothing more about our new king’s much-vaunted marriage to Elizabeth of York.’ Blonde and buxom in a blue kirtle and brimmed linen cap, Rosie winked at me at the same time as she expertly tied off the end of a gold lace, clearly part of a batch destined to attach sleeves to a gown or doublet belonging to some exalted personage. ‘Since her triumphant return to London she seems to have disappeared entirely. I could say much like her brothers. Where’s she hiding and why?’

      It was true that Elizabeth’s arrival in the capital five weeks before had been greeted with great joy and celebration by its citizens, who had lined the streets waving banners, throwing flowers and shouting her name as she rode past – in marked contrast to the somewhat muted reception afforded the new, self-declared king, Henry Tudor, some days earlier. However, not wishing to feed the city rumour mill, I dodged the question. ‘You’re obviously working on an order for some rich customer, Rosie,’ I remarked, fingering the lace she had just completed. ‘This looks fit for a queen.’

      My evasive reply drew a frown from my friend. ‘Well, there’s no secret about this,’ she said, taking back the lace and adding it to the pile beside her. ‘Tomorrow we’ve got to send two hundred gold cord-laces to the pointmakers, who’ll fit the aiglets, and then they’re going to George Lovekyn up in Threadneedle Street.’ Wasting no time, she hitched a fresh length of gold thread to her thumb and finger and began another line of loops, her fingers flying up and down and to and fro like shuttles, so fast that I couldn’t begin to follow the pattern they made, only witness the ever-growing length of the braided lace they produced.

      ‘Wasn’t Master Lovekyn recently appointed Royal Tailor of the Great Wardrobe?’ I asked. ‘You must have heard that news, if I have.’

      Her expression cleared. ‘Ah, so you think these laces are meant for the Lady Elizabeth? For her wedding garb perhaps?’

      ‘I’m saying no more, except that some fabulous fabrics and furs were delivered to a certain lady recently.’

      ‘Then why wouldn’t we send the laces to where the lady is staying?’

      I affected wide-eyed innocence. ‘Because I haven’t mentioned who the lady is, or where she is living.’

      Rosie cast an exasperated look at the other women working nearby, whose ears had all been tuned to our chat, and they exchanged dissatisfied shrugs. I knew that my hints would be embroidered and spread almost as fast as their fingers wove each lace but I considered that a few rumours refuting the prevailing gossip that the Lancaster–York wedding was in doubt could only be beneficial to both the ladies I served.

      Her fingers still flying, Rosie took another tack. ‘They say King Henry won’t marry King Edward’s daughter until he has proof that his sons are dead. But some of those new yeomen guards searched the Tower for days and found no sign of them.’

      ‘Well, if they were alive after Richard was crowned, don’t you think he would have shown them to the people of London? After all, parliament had declared them illegitimate so they were no threat to his reign.’

      ‘That depends if you really believe they were bastards.’ It was one of the older women who spoke, her voice sharp with sarcasm. While King Edward had been almost universally admired in London, the same was not true of his brother Richard, whose main support had been in the north of the kingdom. ‘Henry Tudor’s yeomen might have been sent to make sure the boys definitely are dead now, if they were not before.’

      ‘That’s possible,’ Rosie agreed. ‘What does their sister think, Joan?’

      ‘I have no idea,’ I replied truthfully. ‘But I’m certain she would not marry Henry Tudor if she thought he was in any way involved in her brothers’ deaths. She mourns them deeply.’

      I didn’t stay long with the silkwomen but even so dusk was beginning to fall as I made my way back down towards the river. To my alarm, as I descended Soper Street I ran into a rowdy gang of men who had apparently been quenching their thirst after a long day’s work in the Tanners’ Seld, a fetid centre of their odorous trade. My heart lurched with dread as they halted in front of me, barring my path, and I looked urgently around for help but found none.

      ‘Here’s a posh skirt out late, boys!’ gloated one, leaning into me with alarming menace. I gave an involuntary gasp at the stench of urine rising from his stained clothing and backed away, but another of the gang had circled behind me, blocking my path. ‘Are you trading, mistress?’ The first man’s laugh was harsh and ugly with lust. ‘There’s a dark alley just here and we can all take turns. This could be your lucky night. Come on, men, get her in there!’

      My limbs turned to jelly out of sheer terror. I was only too aware how easy it would be for such a threat to be fulfilled in the lawless streets of a city where rape and murder went daily unpunished. I felt hands pushing under my cloak and my mind told me to scream but when I opened my mouth no sound came out. My feet were almost pulled from under me as two of the gang began shoving me towards the alley. I tried to struggle against them but their strength and the smell of their clothing were overpowering and the sound of their crude comments and evil laughter were blood-chilling. Terrified and outnumbered, I thought my worst fears were about to be realised but still my voice failed to let me scream.

      Then rescue came from an unexpected source. Out of the very alley into which the gang were forcing me strolled, all unsuspecting, a young man in a leather apron.

      A voice from the midst of the tanners’ pack yelled, ‘There’s that little shoe-shit Seb! Come on, let’s get him!’ and all at once their attention shifted from me to him.

      The lad in the leather apron did an abrupt about-turn and disappeared back up the alley. Realising all at once that the groping hands had been withdrawn, I took my chance and made a dash for it, running as fast as I could downhill towards the river, panting with panic. Luckily even though my brain was scrambled with fear, the route to Coldharbour remained familiar and I just kept running until I saw the

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