The King’s Concubine: A Novel of Alice Perrers (13 page)

“This’s more serious than cheese, Master Humphrey.” Sim’s grin at me was an essay in slyness.

In an instant we were surrounded. “Robber! Pick-purse! Thief!” came a chorus from idle scullions and mischief-making pot boys.

“I’m no thief!” I kicked Sim on the shin. “Let go of me!”

“Bugger it, wench!” His hold tightened. “Told you she wasn’t to be trusted.” He addressed the room at large. “Too high an opinion of herself by half! She’s a thief!” And he raised one hand above his head, Philippa’s gift gripped between his filthy fingers. The rosary glittered, its value evident to all. Rage shook me. How dared he! How dared he take what was mine!

“Thief!”

“I am not!”

“Where did you get it?”

“She came from a convent.” One voice was raised on my behalf.

“I wager she owned nothing as fine as this, even in a convent.”

“Fetch Sir Joscelyn!” ordered Master Humphrey. “I’m too busy to deal with this.”

And then it all happened very quickly. Sir Joscelyn gave his judgment: “This belongs to Her Majesty.” No one questioned his decision. All eyes were turned on me, wide with disgust. “The Queen is ill, and you would steal from her!”

“She gave it to me.” I knew I was already pronounced guilty, but my instinct was to fight against the inevitable.

“You stole it!”

“I did not!”

I tried to keep my denial even, my response calm, but I was not at all calm. Fear paralyzed my mind. Much could be forgiven, but not this: For the first time I learned the depth of respect for the Queen, even in this lowly part of the palace. I looked at the faces and saw condemnation, disgust. Sim and his cohorts were enjoying every minute of it.

“Where’s the Marshal?” Sir Joscelyn demanded.

“In the chapel,” one of the scullions piped up.

With the rosary in one hand and me gripped hard in the other, Sir
Joscelyn dragged me along and into the royal chapel to the chancel, where two laborers were lifting a wood-and-metal device of cogs and wheels from a handcart. There, keeping a close eye on the operation, was Lord Herbert, the Marshal whose word was law. And beside him stood the King himself. It could not be worse. Despair was a physical pain in my chest.

“Your Majesty. Lord Herbert…”

“Not now, Sir Joscelyn.” The King and Marshal were preoccupied. All eyes were on the careful lifting of the contraption. We stood in silence as it was positioned piece by piece on the floor. “Good. Now…”

Edward turned to our importunate little group. So I was to be accused before the King himself. I shivered as the evidence was produced, examined, and the ownership confirmed. I shivered even more as I was tried, condemned, and sentenced by Lord Herbert to be shut in a cellar in the short term, all without a word from me. As for the King, he could barely snatch his damned concentration from the inanimate monstrosity spread around his feet, whilst I suffered for a crime that had never happened. I was nothing but a troublesome tick that could be squashed with a fingernail to enable him to return to his paltry toy. Within the time it took to snap his fingers, he would pass me over to the Marshal. It must not be! I would get his attention and keep it. And the flare of ambition and fiery resentment that I had felt under the lick of Countess Joan’s tongue once more flickered over my skin.

I am worth more than this. I deserve more than this.

I wanted more than the half life in the kitchens of Havering. I would
make
the King notice me.

“Sire!” I discovered in myself a bold confidence. “I am the woman the Queen sent for. And this lout, this son of Satan, who’s fit only to be booted out of this palace onto the midden, calls me a thief!”

“Does he, now!” The King’s interest was caught—but only mildly so.

I renewed my attack. “His words are as filthy as the garderobe. I appeal to you, Majesty, for justice! No one will listen to me. Is it because I am a woman? I appeal to you, Sire.”

The royal eyes widened considerably. “The King will always give justice.”

“Not in your kitchens, Sire. Justice is more like a clip ’round the ear
or a grope in a dark corner from this turd!” I had absorbed a wealth of vocabulary during my sojourn. I had his attention now, right enough.

“Then I must remedy your criticisms of my kitchens.” The sardonic reply held out little hope. “Did you steal this?”

“No!” Fear of close, dark places, of being shut in the cellar, made me undaunted. “It is rightfully come by. Wykeham knows I did not steal it. He’ll tell you.…”

Little good it did me. “He might,” the King observed. “Unfortunately he’s not here but gone to Windsor.…”

“Her Majesty knows I did not!” It was my last hope—but no hope at all.

“We’ll not trouble Her Majesty.” The King’s face was suddenly darkly contemptuous. “You’ll not disturb the Queen with this. Lord Herbert…” The dark cellar loomed.

“No!” I gasped.

“What is it that you will not trouble me with, Edward?”

And with that one question the tiniest speck of hope began to grow in me.

A gentle voice, soft on the ear. The focus in the chapel changed in the blink of an eye, and I became an instant irrelevance. Sir Joscelyn and Lord Herbert bowed. The King strode forward, so close to me that his tunic brushed against me, to take the Queen’s hand and draw her toward one of the choir stalls. His face changed, the lines of irritation with me smoothing, his lips softening. There was a caring, a tenderness, as if they were alone in an intimate room. The Queen smiled up into his face, enclosing his hand in both of her own. Simple gestures but so strong, so affectionate. There was no doubting it. Taken up as I was with my own miseries, I could still see it and marvel at it. It was as if he had kissed her in public, which the King proceeded to do, a tender kiss on her cheek.

“Philippa. My love. Are you strong enough to be here? You should be resting.”

“I have been resting for the past week. I wish to see the clock.”

“You don’t look strong.”

“Don’t fuss, Edward. I feel better.”

She did not look it; rather, she was drawn and gray.

“Sit down, my dear.” The King pushed her gently to the cushioned seat. “Does your shoulder pain you?”

“Yes. But it is not fatal.” The Queen sat up straight, cradling her left elbow in her right palm, and surveyed what I realized were the makings of a clock. “It is very fine. When will you get it working?” Then she noticed the surprising number of people in the chapel. “What’s happening here?”

The Marshal cleared his throat. “This girl, Majesty…” He glowered at me.

As the Queen looked at me, I saw the memory return, and with it recognition. Awkwardly she turned her whole body in her chair until she was facing me. “Alice?”

“Yes, Majesty.” I curtsied as best I could, since my arm was still in the grip of Lord Herbert, as if I might make a bid for freedom.

“I sent Wykeham to fetch you.” Philippa’s forehead was furrowed with the effort of recall, as if it were a long time ago. “You must have arrived when I was ill.”

“Yes, Majesty.”

“What are you doing?”

“Working in your kitchens.”

“Are you?” She appeared astonished, then gave a soft laugh. “Who sent you there?”

“The Princess Isabella.” Sir Joscelyn was quick to apportion blame elsewhere. “She thought that was your intent.”

“Did she? I doubt my daughter thought at all beyond her own desires. You should have known better, Sir Joscelyn.”

An uncomfortable silence lengthened until Lord Herbert pronounced, “The girl is a thief, Your Majesty.”

“Are you?” the Queen asked.

“No, Majesty!”

Edward held out the rosary. “I’m afraid she is. Is this yours, my love?”

“Yes. Or it was. You gave it to me.”

“I did? The girl was wearing it.”

“I expect she would. I gave it to her.”

“I told them that, my lady,” I appealed, “but they would not believe me.”

“To a kitchen maid? Why would you do that?” The King spread his hands, disbelief still rampant.

The Queen sighed. “It’s a long story. Let go of her, Lord Herbert. She’ll not run away. Come here, Alice. Let me look at you.”

I discovered that I had been holding my breath. When the Queen held out her hand, I fell to my knees before her in utter gratitude, returning her regard when her tired eyes moved slowly, speculatively, over my face, as if she were trying to anchor some deep wayward thought that was not altogether pleasing to her. Then she nodded and touched a fingertip to my cheek.

“Who would have thought so simple a thing as the gift of a rosary would cause so much trouble,” she said, her smile wry. “And why should it take the whole of the royal household to solve the matter?” Pushing herself to her feet, she drew me with her, taking everything in hand with a matriarchal authority. “Thank you, Sir Joscelyn. Lord Herbert. I know you have my interests at heart. You are very assiduous, but I will deal with this. This girl is no thief, forsooth. Give me your arm, Alice. Let me put some things right.”

I helped her from the chapel, conscious of her weight as we descended the stair, and of the King’s muttered comment that, thank God, I was no longer his concern. As we walked slowly toward the royal apartments, a warm expectancy began to dance through my blood. Maidservant? Tire-woman? I still could not imagine why she would want
me
, given the wealth of skill and talent around her, but I knew there was something in her mind, just as I sensed that from this point, my life, with its humdrum drudgery and servitude, would never be quite the same again.

My immediate destiny was an empty bedchamber, unused, I assumed from the lack of furnishings and the dust that swirled as our skirts created a little eddy of air. And in that room: a copper-bound tub, buckets of steaming water, and the ministrations of two of the maids from the buttery. I was handed over.

With hot water and enthusiasm, buttressed by a remarkable degree of speculative interest, the maids got to work on me. If I was to be turned off, at least I would be clean. I had never bathed before, totally immersed in water. I remembered Countess Joan, naked and arrogant, confident in her beauty, whereas I slid beneath the water to wallow up to my chin, like a trout in a summer pool, before my companions could actually look at me.

“Go away!” I remonstrated. “I’m perfectly capable of scrubbing my own skin until it’s red and raw!”

“Queen’s orders!” they simpered. “No one disobeys the Queen!”

With no arguing against such a declaration, I set myself to make the best of it, for the maids were audacious, and personal enough to point out my deficiencies. Too thin. No curves, small breasts, lean hips. They gave no quarter, making me horribly conscious of the faults in my unclothed body, despite my sharp observation that life in a convent was not conversant with solid flesh. Rough hands, they pointed out. Neglected hair. As for my eyebrows…The litany went on. “Fair is fashionable,” they informed me.

I sighed. “Don’t rub so hard!”

They ignored me. I was soaped and rinsed, dried with soft linen, and in the end I simply closed my eyes and allowed them the right to talk and gossip and put me in the clothes provided for me. And such garments. The sensual glide of them on my skin forced me to open my eyes. They were like nothing I had ever seen, except in the coffers of Countess Joan. An undershift of fine linen that did not catch when I moved. An overgown, close-fitting to my hips, in the blue of the Virgin’s cloak—a cotehardie, I was told, knowing no name for such fashionable niceties—with a sideless surcoat over all, was sumptuous to my eyes with gray fur bands and an enameled girdle. All made for someone else, of course, the fibers scuffed along hem and cuffs, but what did I care for that? They were a statement in feminine luxury I could never have dreamed of. And so shiny, so soft were the fabrics that slid through my fingers. Silk and damask and fine wool. For the first time in my life I was clothed in a
color
, glorious enough to assault my senses. I felt like a precious jewel polished to a glorious sparkle.

They exclaimed over my hair, of course.

“Too coarse. Too dark. Too short to braid. Too short for anything!”

“Better than when it was cropped for a novice nun!” I fired back.

They pushed it into the gilded mesh of a crispinette, covered the whole with a veil of some diaphanous material that floated quite beautifully, and added a plaited fillet to hold it firm, as if to hide all evidence of my past life. But no wimple. I vowed never to wear a wimple again.

“Put these on.…” I donned the fine stockings, the woven garters. Soft shoes were slid onto my feet.

I took stock, hardly daring to breathe in fear that the whole ensemble would fall off. The skirts were full and heavy against my legs, moving with a soft hush as I walked inexpertly across the room. The bodice was laced tight against my ribs, the neckline low across my unimpressive bosom. I did not feel like myself at all, but rather as if I were dressed for a mummer’s play I had once seen on Twelfth Night at the Abbey.

Did maidservants to the Queen really wear such splendor?

I was in the process of kicking the skirts behind me experimentally, enjoying the sensation of elegance even if I did not quite achieve it, when the door opened to admit Isabella. The two maids curtsied to the floor. I followed suit, with not a bad show of handling the damask folds, but not before I had seen her thin-lipped distaste.

She walked ’round me, taking her time. Isabella, the agent of my kitchen humiliations.

“Not bad,” she commented as I flushed. “Look for yourself.” And she handed me the tiny looking glass that had been suspended from the chatelaine at her waist.

Oh, no! Remembering my last brush with vanity, I put my hands behind my back as if I were a child caught out in wrongdoing. “No! I will not!”

Her smile was deeply sardonic. “Why not?”

“I think I’ll not like what I see,” I said, refusing to allow my gaze to fall before hers.

“Well, that’s true enough. There’s only so much that can be done. Perhaps you’re wise,” Isabella murmured, but her sympathy was tainted with scorn. Peremptorily she gestured, and so, in a silence stretched taut, I was led along the corridors to the solar, where Philippa sat with her women.