The King’s Concubine: A Novel of Alice Perrers (10 page)

“I have, Your Majesty. It is the time for sowing crops to feed us through next winter.”

“I suppose it is. Do you like that work too?”

I shook my head.

“Nor would I.”

And I laughed at the absurdity of such an admission from the Queen of England. The sound of my own laughter momentarily shocked me. I could not recall when I had last smiled or laughed aloud. I did not think I had much to smile about.

“You have a pretty laugh. And you should smile more. It brings a lightness to your face. If you could choose your future path, Alice, what would it be?”

I replied without hesitation, thinking of Greseley, of the hopes that kept me from despair in the dark hours of the night. “I would have my own house. I would buy land and property. I would be dependent on no one.…”

“An unlikely ambition!” Isabella’s remark interrupted us, redolent of ridicule.

“But a commendable one for all that…” The Queen’s voice trembled. Isabella was instantly beside her. “Yes. I will rest now. Today is not a good day.” She allowed her daughter to help her to her feet and moved slowly toward the bedchamber. Then she stopped and, despite the discomfort, looked back to me.

“Alice…keep the rosary. It was a gift to me from the King when I gave birth to Edward, our first son.” She must have read astonishment on my face. “It is not very valuable. He had little money to spend on fripperies in those days. I would like you to keep it as a memento of the day when you rescued the Queen from falling on her face in public.”

The rosary. I still gripped it in one hand, the gold enameled beads of the Aves clutched so tight that they left impressions in my palm. The pearls that marked the paternosters and glorias were warm and so
smooth. The Queen would give this to me? A gift from her husband? I coveted it—who would not? I wanted it for my own.

“No…” I said. I could not. I was not courteous, but I knew what would happen if I kept the gift. “We are not allowed possessions. We take a vow of poverty.” I tried to explain my refusal, knowing how crude it must seem.

“Not even a gift from a grateful Queen?”

“It would not be thought suitable.…”

“…and you would not be allowed to keep it.”

“No, Majesty.”

“No. I was thoughtless to offer it.…” The tormenting pain gripped her again and I was forgotten. “By the Virgin, I am tired beyond endurance today—take me to my bed, Isabella.”

Isabella maneuvered the Queen through the doorway into the bedchamber, and I was left alone. Before I could change my mind, I placed the rosary on the
prie-dieu
and backed out of the room until I was standing outside the door. Quietly I closed it, leaning against it. I had refused a gift from a Queen. But what would be the good in my accepting what I would not be allowed to keep? I had learned from hard experience. If I kept it, the rosary would fall into the hands of Mother Abbess. In my mind’s eye, I could see it attached to her silver-decorated girdle, as she carried Countess Joan’s Book of Hours into the church when she sang the offices. As I could imagine my mantle gracing the shoulders of Signora Damiata.

If ever I accepted anything of value in my life, I must be certain it remained mine.

Queen Philippa and her sharp-tongued daughter did not stay beyond the one night. As soon as the service of Prime was sung the next morning, they made ready to depart. The Queen was helped into her well-cushioned traveling litter by Sister Margery, who had made up a draft of tender ash leaves distilled in wine to lessen the agony of a bone-shaking journey. I knew what was in it. Had I not helped to make the infusion?

“Her Majesty suffers from dropsy,” Sister Margery had pronounced
with certainty. “I have seen it before. It is a terrible affliction. She will feel the effect of every rut and stumble.”

Sister Margery instructed Lady Isabella: Too much of the draft would cripple the digestion; too little and the pain would remain intense. And here was a little pot of mutton fat pounded with vervain root. Smoothed on the swollen flesh of hands and feet, it would bring relief. I had done the work but it was not I who held the flask and offered the little pot. It was not I who received the Queen’s thanks. I was not even there. I heard the departure from the cellar where I was engaged in counting hams and barrels of ale.

Take me with you. Let me serve you.

A silent plea that the Queen did not hear.

Why would she remember me? Because it was an occasion of moment in
my
life had no bearing on what a queen might remember. She would have forgotten about me within the quarter hour of my returning the rosary. But I did not forget Queen Philippa. She had the loving kindness in her homely face of the mother that I had never known.

I wondered what Greseley was doing. Whether I would ever see him again. Whether he was taking care of the houses in Gracechurch Street and the little manor in West Peckham. Surely he could raise enough money from them for my own needs.

I prayed even more fervently over the hams than I had over the cabbages that it would be
soon
, before my hopes died.

The early blossom on the gnarled trees in the orchard was over, setting into fruit the plums and damsons that we would preserve against the long winter months. I was engaged in collecting dead branches for firewood to heat the old bones in the infirmary, and scooping up the June drop of fruit that would attract wasps. An unpleasant task, all in all.

Sister Matilda stood at the gate beckoning me, her black sleeves flapping like the wings of the blackbirds that competed with me for the fallen fruit.

“Hurry, girl. Leave that.”

My mind scrabbled through any recent sin, of omission or commission. Even as a lay sister who was not required to observe every service,
I was still bound by the tenets of Saint Benedict. It was too early in the day to have broken many of them; my silence in the orchard was complete, since I was alone. I was conscious of my disheveled skirts where I had knelt beneath the low branches, and of the mud on my shoes. Was that it? I made a desultory attempt to beat away the soil and grass.

“No time for that…” Sister Matilda took hold of my sleeve and pulled me along.

Where? Clearly not to the Chapter House. Nor the Abbey church. Instead we turned into the roofed passage between cloister and refectory that led through to the enclosed courtyard before the Abbess’s lodgings, which was so full of people and horses there was barely room for us. Mother Abbess, heavy with satisfaction, stood on the steps out of the way of the
melee
caused by a small party of travelers: a tall, well-dressed man, perhaps a courier, judging from his riding gear of fine wool and leather; an elderly thickset groom who held the reins of a fine gelding; and a small but well-armed escort, sword and bow very evident.

As Sister Matilda and I flattened ourselves against the wall out of the way of teeth and hooves, I had the impression that a conversation between the Abbess and the courier had just come to a satisfactory end, and a small coffer was handed into Mother Sybil’s keeping. But why was I here? This was nothing to do with me. Then the courier turned a penetrating gaze toward me.

“You are Alice?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You are to go with me, mistress.” He looked me up and down and, from the narrowing of his eyes, found me wanting. “You will need a cloak.” And to the Abbess: “Provide one for her, if you please.”

I looked to Mother Sybil for instruction. She lifted a shoulder, as if denying any complicity in what had been arranged. Had my labors been bought again? Holy Virgin! Not another marriage! The man continued to address me, impervious and uninformative.

“Can you ride, mistress?”

“No, sir.”

He motioned to the groom. “She’ll ride pillion behind you, Rob. She’s no weight to speak of.”

Within minutes I was bundled into a coarsely woven cloak and hoisted onto the broad rump of the groom’s mare, as if I were the cordon of firewood I would now never collect from the orchard.

“Hold tight, mistress,” the man called Rob growled.

I clutched the sides of his leather jerkin as the animal stamped and sidled. The ground seemed far away and my balance was awry. At a signal from the man who had thus so smoothly rearranged my future, the escort fell in and we rode through the streets of the town and into the open country without a further word being said on either side.

Obviously my escort preferred the silence, and hoped it would continue. But what woman would keep a still tongue when her inquisitiveness ran rampant?

“Sir?” I addressed the back of the man who was now riding a little way ahead of me. When there was no reply, I raised my voice. “Sir? Where are we going?” One day, I vowed, I would determine the direction of my travels.

He did not turn his head. He might have addressed me as “mistress,” but it seemed I was not worthy of any further respect. “To Havering-atte-Bower.”

It meant nothing to me. “Why?”

“The Queen has sent for you.”

Which meant even less. “Is Havering-atte-Bower, then, a royal palace?”

“Yes.”

“Why? Why would the Queen summon me?”

The man slowed his horse and gestured the groom to pull alongside. On a level, he reined in his mount, allowing me to read his unspoken thoughts as clear as figures in a ledger. His mouth curved downward, as if it were all beyond his comprehension, and it took little imagination on my part to understand why. My kirtle and overgown bore the sticky remnants of the fallen fruit in St. Mary’s orchard, my hair was bound up in a length of coarse cloth, and my borrowed cloak was far beyond respectability.

He kicked his mount into a walk, and we plodded on side by side as he considered what he thought of me and what he would deign to tell me.

“Why would the Queen send for me?” I asked again. Why were men so uncommunicative?

“I have no idea. Her Majesty will doubtless tell you.”

He shortened his reins as if to push on with more speed, our conversation brought to a premature end. I wanted more.

“Who are you, sir?”

He gave no reply, through choice, I decided, rather than because he had not heard me, so I took the time to appraise him. Nothing out of the way. He was neither young nor old, with regular features, and a little austere. He was certainly used to command, but I thought he was not a soldier. Nor was he the courier I had first thought him. He had too much authority for that. His eyes were a mix of green and brown, sharp and bright, like those of a squirrel. I thought him rather pompous for a man who could not be exactly described as old. So we would ride to Havering-atte-Bower in total silence, would we? I thought not. I held tight to Rob’s tunic and leaned toward my reluctant companion.

“I have much to learn, sir,” I began. “How far to Havering-atte-Bower?”

“About two hours. Three if you don’t get a move on.”

I ignored the jibe. “Time enough, then. You could help me. You could tell me some of the things I don’t know.”

“Such as?” He addressed me as if I were the witless minion I doubtless appeared to be.

“You could tell me how to behave when I get to Havering-atte-Bower,” I suggested solemnly, at the same time widening my eyes in innocent inquiry. And I saw him waver. “And how do I address you, sir?”

“I am William de Wykeham. And you, I suspect, are no wiser.”

I smiled deliberately. Winsomely. How best to seduce information from a man than to get him to talk of what was important to him? I had learned that from both Janyn and Greseley. Talk about money and rates of interest and they would eat out of your hand. “I am no wiser yet,” I replied. “But I will be if you will be my informant. What do I call you? What do you do?”

“Wykeham will do. I serve His Majesty. And occasionally Her Majesty, Queen Philippa.” And I saw the pride in him. “I am destined for the church—and to build palaces.”

“Oh.” It seemed a laudable occupation, if not very exciting. “Have you built many?”

And that was it. The door opened wide. Wykeham proceeded for the rest of the journey to tell me of his ambitions and achievements. Turrets and arches, buttresses and pillars. Curtain walls and superior heating methods. Holy Virgin! He was as dull as a meatless meal in Lent, as incapable of luring a nun from her vows as Janyn Perrers or Greseley. Perhaps all men in essence were as dry as dust. What I wanted to hear of was the minutiae of life in a royal palace, the food, the fashions, the important personages, and all I got was a description of the new tower at Windsor. Still, I made no effort to deter him. Were all men so easy to encourage into conversation? Far easier than women, I thought. A smile, a question, an appeal to their achievements, their pride, was all it took. I learned very little about life at Havering, but much about castle building. And then, the two hours passing rapidly enough, we were approaching an impressive array of towers, half-hidden in the trees.

“Your journey is at an end, Mistress Alice. And I had forgot.…” Transferring his reins into one hand, Wykeham fished into his saddlebag. “Her Majesty sent you this. She thought you might like it—to give you God’s comfort on the journey.” He dropped the rosary into my hand. “Not that I think you need it. You can talk more than any woman I know.…”

I was instantly torn between amazement at the gift of the rosary and the unfairness of the accusation; the unfairness won.

“You’ve done more talking than I have!”

“Nonsense!”

“Stop fussing, woman!” Rob gave a rough growl. “You’re as fret as a flea on a warm dog!”

I laughed. “I ache!”

“Your arse’ll recover soon enough. My sides are stripped raw with your clutchings!”

Even Wykeham laughed. “And I expect you’re thirsty.” A flask was found in his saddlebag and he handed it over. The wine, too warm for pleasure but of a quality I had never drunk before, even better than Janyn’s, eased my suddenly dry throat. I was at the end of my journey, and what awaited me remained a mystery.

“Why would she send me something so precious?” I held the rosary up so that the sun caught the beads, turning them into a rainbow of iridescence.

My companion surveyed me, from my cloth-bound hair to my mud-smeared hem, as if it were far beyond his comprehension too. “I really have no idea.”