The King’s Concubine: A Novel of Alice Perrers (11 page)

Nor did I.

Chapter Four

H
avering-atte-Bower. I knew nothing of royal palaces in those days when I arrived in Wykeham’s dusty wake. Nor was the grandeur of the place my first priority. Every muscle in my body groaned at its ill usage. We could not come to a halt fast enough for me; all I wanted was to slide down from that lumbering creature and set my feet on solid ground. But once we were in the courtyard at Havering, I simply sat and stared.

“Are you going to dismount today, mistress?” Wykeham’s tone was lacking in compassion. “What’s wrong with you?” He was already dismounted and halfway up the steps to the huge iron-studded door.

“I’ve never seen…” He wasn’t listening, so I closed my mouth.

I have never seen anything so magnificent
.

The palace was strangely welcoming, owning a seductive charm that St. Mary’s with its gray-stone austerity lacked. It seemed vast to me, though I was to learn that for a royal palace it was small and intimate. The stonework of the building glowed in the afternoon sunshine, a haphazard arrangement of rooms and apartments, the arches of a chapel to the right, the bulk of the original Great Hall to my left, then further outbuildings, sprawling in all directions from the courtyard. Roofs and walls jutted at strange angles as the whim had taken the builders over the years. And if that were not enough, the whole palace
was hemmed about by pasture and lightly wooded stretches like a length of green velvet wrapped ’round a precious jewel.

It filled me with awe.

“It’s beautiful!”

My voice must have carried. “It’ll do, for now,” Wykeham growled. “The King’s grandfather built it—the first Edward. The Queen likes it—that’s the main thing—it’s her manor. It will be better when I’ve had my hands on it. I’ve a mind to put in new kitchens now that the King has his household here too.” He fisted his hands on his hips. “For God’s sake, woman. Get off that animal.”

I sat where I was. The ground looked far away. “I need help.”

“Then let Rob…”

I ignored the snort of amusement from the groom, who had made no attempt to aid me.

“I suppose, sir, I am too far below you to expect you to help me to dismount.” I was all demure insouciance, except for the tilt of my chin.

“Yes. You are.” But Wykeham’s mouth twitched as he stomped back to my side. “And I suspect you are a baggage! Where did you learn that, enclosed in a nunnery?”

“I have been married,” I informed him, hinting nothing of its brevity or its lack.

“Then that must account for it.”

I did not think so. I think my wit—its immediacy—had always been there, hidden away until I had the freedom to be myself. With a hand to my arm, he helped me to slide from the animal’s broad rump as adeptly as I could manage.

“Thank you, sir.” I held on tight for a moment as my muscles quivered in protest.

“I am at your disposal. Tell me when you can stand without falling over!”

I loosed my grip with a pert smile for the irony.

Wykeham led the way up the shallow flight of steps, pushing open the door and stepping into the Great Hall. It was an echoing space, tables and trestles cleared away for the day except for the solid board on the dais at the far end. Cool after the heat of the sun, it was a pleasant place to be, the rafters above my head merging into deep shadows
striped with soft bars of sunlight, like the coat of a tabby cat. Servants moved quietly, purposefully replacing the candles in the wall sconces. A burst of laughter came from behind the screens at the far end that closed off the entrance to the kitchens. The tapestries on the walls glowed with rich color, mirrored in the tiles beneath my feet. A maidservant crossed the room, busy with a tray of cups and a flagon, with a brief curtsy in Wykeham’s direction.

My eye followed her.

Was this, then, to be my destiny? To work in the kitchens of the royal palace? But why? Did the Queen not have enough servants? If she needed more, would her steward not find enough willing girls from the neighboring villages? I could not see why she would bring me all the way from the Abbey to be a serving wench. Perhaps she needed a tire-woman, one who could read and write, but, remembering Lady Marian, I could hardly claim the breeding for it. So why, in the name of the Blessed Virgin, was I here? Countess Joan had been cruelly quick to reject my offered services: The Queen would hardly stand in need of my meager talents.

“This way…” Wykeham was striding ahead. “Don’t stand daydreaming!”

Behind us in the doorway a commotion erupted, enough to make my nerves jump and skitter like rats in a trap. Both Wykeham and I, and everyone in the Hall, turned to look.

A man had entered to stand under the door arch. He was illuminated, silhouetted, by the low rays of the afternoon sun so that it was impossible to see his features, only his stature and bearing. Tall, was my first impression, with the build of a soldier, a man of action. Around his feet pushed and jostled a pack of hounds and alaunts. On his gauntleted wrist rode a hooded goshawk.

As the hawk shook its pinions, the man moved forward a step, into the power of a direct beam, so that he gleamed with a corona of light around his head and shoulders like one of the saints in the glazed windows of the Abbey. Crowned with gold. I simply stared.

Then, as he took another step, the moment passed. He was enclosed in soft shadow, an ordinary man again. And I was distracted when the hounds bounded forward, circling the Hall, sniffing at my
skirts. I had no knowledge of such boisterous animals and automatically stepped back, wary of sharp teeth and formidable bodies. Oblivious to my discomfort, Wykeham bowed whilst I was engaged in pushing aside an inquisitive alaunt.

Wykeham cleared his throat in warning.

“What is it?” I asked.

In reply he took hold of the ancient cloak that still enveloped me from chin to toe and twitched it off, letting it fall to the floor. I stiffened at this presumptuous action and took a breath to remonstrate when a voice of command, a strikingly beautiful one, cut across the width of the Hall.

“Wykeham, by God! Where’ve you been? Why are you always impossible to find, man?”

It was a clear-timbred voice, filling the space from walls to rafters. And striding toward us was the owner. The man with the raptor.

Wykeham bowed again, with what could have been construed as a scowl in my direction, so I accepted the wisdom of curtsying. The newcomer looked to me like a huntsman who had strayed into the Hall after a day’s exercise to find a cup of ale or a heel of bread. He covered the ground with long loping strides, as lithe as the hound at his side.

And then he was standing within a few feet of me.

“Sire!” Wykeham bowed once more.

The King!

I sank to the floor, holding my skirts, my flushed face hidden. How naive I was. But how was I to know? Why did he not dress like a king? Then I looked up and saw him not a score of feet distant, and knew that he did not need clothing and jewels to proclaim his superiority. What a miraculous, godlike figure he was. A man of some age and experience, but he wore the years lightly. He was handsome without doubt, with a broad brow and a fine blade of a nose complemented by luxurious flaxen hair that shone as bright as silver. Here was no dry-as-dust dullard. The King shone like a diamond amongst worthless dross.

“It’s the water supply!” the King announced.

“Yes, Sire. I have it in hand,” Wykeham replied calmly.

“The Queen needs heated water.…”

The King’s complexion might once have been fair, but his skin was
tanned and seamed from an outdoor life in sun and cold. What a remarkable face he was blessed with, with blue eyes as keen as those of the raptor on his fist, whose hood he was removing. And what a fluidity and grace there was about his movements, as he unclipped his cloak, one-handed, swung it from his shoulder, and threw it to a page who had followed him across the Hall. How had I not known that this was King Edward? At his belt was a knife in a jeweled scabbard, in his hat a ruby brooch pinning a peacock feather into jaunty place. Even without the glitter of gems, I should have known. He had a presence, the habit of command, of demanding unquestioning obedience.

So this was Queen Philippa’s magnificent husband. I was dazzled.

I stood, my heart beating fast, aware of nothing but my own unfortunate apparel, the heap of the disreputable mantle at my feet. But the King was not looking at me. Was I not more poorly clad than any of the servants I had seen in the palace? He would think—if he thought at all—that I was a beggar come to receive alms from the palace kitchens. Even the raptor eyed me as if I might be vermin worth eating.

The King swept his arm out in a grand gesture. “Out! All of you!” The dogs obediently vanished through the door in a rush of excitement. “Will—I’ve been looking at the site for the bathhouse you proposed.…” He was close enough to clip Wykeham in an affectionate manner on his shoulder. “Where’ve you been?”

I might as well not have been there. I was of less importance than the cold-blooded killer whose feathers he was smoothing with casual affection.

“I’ve been to St. Mary’s at Barking, Sire.” Wykeham smiled.

“Barking? Why in God’s name?”

“Business for the Queen, Sire. A new chantry.”

The King nodded. “Yes, yes. I’d forgotten. It gives her comfort, and—before God!—precious little does.” At last he cast a cursory eye over me. “Who’s this? Someone I employ?” Removing the beaver hat with its brooch and feather, he inclined his head in grave acknowledgment, even though he thought I was a serving wench. His gaze traveled over my face in a cursory manner. I made another belated curtsy. The King tilted his chin at Wykeham, having made some judgment on me. “St. Mary’s, you said. Have you helped one of the sisters to escape, Will?”

Wykeham smiled dryly. “The Queen sent for her.”

Those sharp blue eyes returned. “One of her waifs and strays, perhaps. To be rescued for her own good. What’s your name, girl?”

“Alice, Sire.”

“Glad to escape?”

“Yes, Sire.” It was heartfelt, and must have sounded it.

And Edward laughed, a sound of great joy that made me smile too. “So would I be. Serving God’s all very well, but not every hour of every day. Do you have talents?” He frowned at me as if he could not imagine it. “Play a lute?” I shook my head. “Sing? My wife likes music.”

“No, Sire.”

“Well, I suppose she has her reasons.” He was already losing interest, turning away. “And if it makes her happy…Come here!”

I started, thinking that he meant me, but he clicked his fingers at one of the rangy alaunts that had slunk back into the Hall and was following some scent along the edge of a tapestry. It obeyed to fawn and rub against him as he twisted his fingers into its collar. “Tell Her Majesty, Will— No, on second thought, you come with me. You’ve completed your task for the Queen. I’ve demands on your time for my new bathhouse.” He raised his voice. “Joscelyn! Joscelyn!”

A man approached from where he had been waiting discreetly beside the screen.

“Yes, Sire.”

“Take this girl to the Queen. She has sent for her. Now, Will…” They were already knee-deep in planning. “I think there’s the perfect site.…Let me get rid of these dogs and birds.…” Whistling softly to the raptor on his wrist, the King headed to the door. Wykeham followed. They left me without a second look. Both of them. Why would they not?

Sir Joscelyn, who I was to learn was the royal steward, beckoned me to follow him, but I hesitated and looked back over my shoulder. Wykeham was nodding, my last view of him gesturing with his hands as if describing the size and extent of the building he envisaged. They laughed together, the King’s strong voice overlaying Wykeham’s softer responses. And then he was gone, as if my last friend on earth had deserted me. My only friend. And of course he wasn’t, but who else did
I know here? I would not forget his brusque kindness. As for the King, I had expected a crown or at least a chain of office. Not a pack of dogs and a hawk. But there was no denying the sovereignty that sat as lightly on his shoulders as a summer mantle.

“Come on, girl. I haven’t got all day.”

I sighed and followed the steward to discover what would become of me as one of the Queen’s habitual waifs and strays. I stuffed the rosary that I still clutched into the bosom of my overgown and followed as I was bidden.

The Queen’s apartments were silent. Finding no one in any of the antechambers to whom he could hand me over, Sir Joscelyn rapped on a door, was bidden to enter, and did so, drawing me with him. I found myself on the threshold of a large sun-filled room so full of color and activity and soft chatter, of feminine glamour, that it took my breath, more than even the grandeur of the Great Hall. The sheer vibrancy of it. Here was every hue and tint I could imagine, overlapping, entirely pleasing to the eye, creating butterflies of the women who filled the room. I stared. It was ill-mannered, certainly, but I couldn’t stop from staring at so beguiling a scene. There they were, chattering like bright finches as they stitched, books and board games at hand for those who wished, not an enshrouding wimple or brow-hugging veil amongst them. Here was a whole world of which I had no knowledge, to enchant ear and eye. The ladies talked and laughed. Someone was singing to the clear notes of a lute. There was no silence here.

I could not see the Queen in their midst.

The steward cast an eye and discovered the face he sought.

“My lady.” His bow was perfection. Learning fast, I curtsied. “I would speak with Her Majesty.”

Princess Isabella looked up from the lute she was playing, but her fingers continued to strum idly over the strings. Now I knew the source of her beautiful fairness: She was her father’s daughter in height and coloring.

“Her Majesty is indisposed, Joscelyn. Can it wait?”

“I was commanded to bring this person to Her Majesty.” He nudged me forward with haughty condescension. I curtsied again.

“Why?” Her gaze remained on the lute strings. She was not the King’s daughter in kindness.

“Wykeham brought her, my lady.”