friends know me as Nicolaus,’ he said. ‘I would like to think you were both amongst them.’
‘Master Nicolaus,’ the two women whispered, dipping a curtsy.
Snapping his fingers towards two young men, he beckoned them over. ‘Escort Mistress Tilda round the display,’ he said. ‘She wishes to see the Queen’s robes. Tell her about them.’
Tilda went with them, happily leaving her mistress to look enquiringly at the man on whom her eyes had lighted as soon as they’d entered. He dipped his head as if to catch her thoughts. ‘That is what you had in mind I hope, mistress?’ he said.
‘If that’s what you wish to think, sir, then I have no objection.’ Her slow, heavy-lidded blink delighted him.
‘Your bonnet is wet with snow. Shall you remove it and lay it before the fire? And your cloak, too? Here, allow me to help.’ On this day, she wore a one-piece gown of expensive London russet that showed no more than the high frill of her embroidered smock at the neck and wrists, though now her hair fell loosely about her shoulders until she caught it up with her hands and threw it behind her with a grace that appeared to fascinate him. She had done it before to great effect, this time allowing it to brush over his hands before they could move away.
‘I came, Master Nicolaus, to remind myself of two or three fabrics I saw yesterday so I can order some, once I know how to call them. May I show you?’
‘Certainly, mistress. This would be for yourself, would it? One must be careful, you see, not to overstep the sumptuary laws. I imagine the new Queen will be quite firm about observing them. Baudekin, for instance, has a distinct gold thread running with the silk, and although she wears it, very few others are allowed to.’
‘I doubt if the Queen will ever see me, sir. It was not the baudekin I saw, but this one, I think. Is this what they call popinjay?’
He reached up and pulled it down from the shelf. ‘The green-blue mix? Now, that would look well with your colouring. This one is silk. Feel the quality.’
‘Will the Queen be wearing this?’ she said, letting the silk flow over her skin like warm water.
‘My understanding is that the Queen will be wearing only black and white, Mistress Raemon. She knows it becomes her, you see, and those mercers who supply the Great Wardrobe are already sourcing suitable fabrics to please her.’
‘Only black and white? No colour at all?’
‘Oh, I believe she will allow colours to creep in with the embroidery and accessories, of course. But her maids will all wear white and nothing else, it seems. It lessens our scope enormously. I hope you won’t be following her lead in that.’
‘You must have good contacts at court, sir, to have discovered so much so soon.’
‘Indeed, mistress. Mercers must keep their ears to the ground if they want to have the fashionable fabrics in store as soon as they’re needed.’ He led her down the rows of shelving, obligingly pulling out rolls and bales, some of which had covers to protect them. And while they chatted about fabrics and fashion, both of them realised that this was not the sole purpose of her visit and that what they said to each other about the texture and pattern and softness had secondary meanings to do with hair and skin, beauty and availability, desire and attraction, strength and rarity. For Etta this was a new way to conduct a flirtation, and as she watched his strong elegant hands fondle the materials, she could almost feel the effect upon herself, warm and sensuous, silky smooth.
The January light was already fading, and Etta had found what she was looking for. ‘I should return home,’ she said, lifting a handful of sheer silk to her face. She could almost taste its beauty.
He was close, perhaps too close for a new acquaintance, but in the dimness it was hard to be aware of space. Turning, she found that he, too, was holding the same silk behind her head, easing her towards his lips while swathing her in its warm luxury. ‘This is what you should wear,’ he whispered, bending his head to hers.
‘But it’s transparent,’ she said.
‘Yes. As I said, it’s what you should wear. But only for me.’
It was dangerous talk and she knew she ought not to allow it, for she had intended their meeting only to be an exercise in having her own way, making her own choice of friends. It would have been so easy to allow a kiss, but their friendship could never go as far as that. He was, after all, only a mercer. Unsteadily, she drew away, pushing at his chest to evade the firm bulk of his body. ‘No, sir. This must not continue,’ she said.
‘I must see you again, Mistress Raemon,’ he said.
‘Well, perhaps you will, one day. Who knows? But now we must part. Thank you for showing me round. I hope you find a good wife who will be a help to you in your trade. I must return to my parents.’
‘If that is what you wish, mistress.’
‘It is, sir. There can be no future in our friendship. My father is determined to find me a husband very soon, you see.’
‘And you are saying that he won’t be looking for one amongst the mercers? There are some very eminent gentlemen amongst that company, you know. You must have seen some at the banquet last week?’
‘Yes, I did, sir, but I think my father will be aiming rather higher than that. Thank you again, Master Nicolaus, and farewell.’
‘The pleasure was mine, mistress. Will you allow me to give you a token, to remind you of our pleasant interlude? Here...a peacock feather. Will you take it?’
‘Thank you, sir. I’ll give it to my father for his hat.’
‘Excellent.’
As it happened, Mistress Tilda was not so very eager to be found, and having been attended by two lusty young men for an hour, she did not notice her mistress’s unusual silence on the way home, her own chatter sufficing for them both. Neither her brothers nor Uncle George and his son had been at the Royal Wardrobe during her visit, so the talk at supper skipped lightly over Etta’s meeting as if she had been shown the fabrics by one of Sir George’s assistants. She had no intention of mentioning Master Nicolaus or alerting her parents to yet another admirer of whom they would be sure to disapprove. A mercer, they would say. Respectable, but not quite what we’re looking for, Etta. Which only went to show how wrong they could be, for he was by far the most interesting and exciting man she had ever spoken to.
Beginning its life as a spring on the slopes of Highgate, the River Tyburn rattled gently down to the northern banks of the Thames near Westminster, where it was straddled by the gatehouse of the large residence called after it by Lord Jon Raemon of Risinglea. Tyburn House was an imposing mansion of decorative timberwork above stone foundations and surrounded by extensive gardens that sloped down to a jetty where wherries came to release their passengers. In the warm and welcoming hall where preparations were being made for supper, Etta presented her father with a snow-flecked peacock feather. ‘For your hat,’ she said, ‘from the Royal Wardrobe.’
Lord Jon received the gift with a smile, turning it this way and that before handing it back to Etta. ‘You shall stitch it on for me,’ he said. ‘It’s a beauty. Tell me about your visit
