The King’s Concubine: A Novel of Alice Perrers (38 page)

When he would come,
whether
he would come, was a matter for conjecture. It was easy enough to claim the message lost
en route
. But I thought he would obey the summons. Windsor was not a man to hide from notoriety. And so I had been watching for his arrival, unsettled by the range of emotions that was stirred up in me. Some trepidation, some anticipation, a good deal of mistrust. And more than a pinch of pleasure.

And here he was. My first impression—more than an impression, more a certainty—was that Windsor was not in a good mood. I would not have expected otherwise, given the tone of the royal demand. Crossing the threshold, he looked as if he had been thrust into the hall by a blast from a raging storm. His clothes were wet and mud-spattered; a hint of stiffness in his muscles told of long days of travel. Driven, furiously engaged with the direction of his thoughts, as if the storm had entered his brain, he marched forward. I thought he would stride straight past me. Did he even see me?

I waited until he drew level, even two steps beyond, picking apart my own wayward reaction to this man as my heart beat a little more quickly, my mind bounding ahead to the prospect of his caustic observations. Unexpectedly my lips warmed. That final kiss had been compelling.

If I did not speak now, he would be gone.…

“Sir William…”

He lurched to a halt, wheeled ’round, eyes fierce as if he expected an enemy to leap from concealment. Then he gave a sharp, impatient exhalation of breath.

“Mistress Perrers.”

He made a scratchy bow, irritable beyond words, to which I responded with an equally brief curtsy. Braveheart, older but no wiser, pushed hard against my legs to give herself courage.

“Is that all you have to say?” I asked sweetly.

His eyes narrowed. “What do you want me to say? I’m back. And not best pleased.”

An understatement, I realized, seeing his expression clearly for the first time. His face was set hard, engraved with a faint cobweb of lines by eye and mouth that were new since I had last seen him. His tight-lipped mouth and flared nostrils spoke of temper. His whole body was, in fact, an essay in contained fury, with all the allure of a shard of flint. But my heart shifted at the proximity of his lean frame and sardonic features. When he snatched his hat from his head in a gesture of furious impatience, his hair clung, sleek as moleskin from rain and sweat, against his skull. The eyes that were dark and hostile on mine as he waited for me to speak were no darker than his dangerous and volatile mood. And still I felt that uncomfortable thrill of attraction, new to me, but frighteningly appealing.

I set myself to speak of immediate affairs. Indeed there would be no point in doing otherwise, since the man was too caught up in the moment to think beyond his grievances.

“I hope you’ve come prepared to answer for your actions in Ireland, Sir William.”

“I might have hoped you’d have warned me, mistress,” he snapped back.

“And I would.” I tilted my chin a little. I did not appreciate his criticism. “It was too late. The King’s summons would have reached you before any warning of mine. Besides, would it have made any difference?”

He shifted his shoulders irritably. “So he’s angry.”

“He’s not pleased.”

“I thought the King was fading…” he growled. “I had hoped the Prince might have spoken for me.”

“The Prince is ill.”

“I had heard.…” Windsor sighed, his thoughts momentarily diverted. “And God knows I’m sorry for it. Once, we were close enough, fighting side by side, campaigning together—twenty years ago now.” His frown deepened as he stared down at his fist clenched on his ill-used cap. “We were both young and loved the soldiering life. He was the best commander I ever knew. And now…”

“Now those days are gone; the Prince is dying.”

“Is he, now? It raises a question over the succession.”

“It does. A question where more than one has an interest.”

“The child is too young…five years?”

I sighed silently. Politics and policy. Court intrigue. This was not what I wanted to talk of when my heart was beating and my blood racing: that same strange reaction to this man whose principles were questionable, whose motives were driven primarily by personal ambition, and whose actions did not bear close scrutiny. I realized that a silence had fallen between us, and that for the first time Windsor was concentrating on me.

“You look well,” he announced brusquely.

“I am.”

“I see my wolfhound fulfills her role.”

“Not to any degree.” I dug my fingers into the rough hair at Braveheart’s neck, causing her to whine in delight. “She needs my company to make her feel brave, and even then a mouse would frighten her. Your choice was not a good one, Sir William.”

“And the blade?”

“I have had no occasion to use it, unless it be to cut my meat.”

“For which it was not intended!” For the first time his eye glittered with more than ill humor. “Tell me that you keep it in your bodice.”

“I’ll tell you no such thing.”

I waited for a provocative reply, but he surprised me.

“I hear you’ve made a reputation for avarice. Your hold on power has grown apace since I saw you last. I commend you.”

It hurt a little. I did not expect that from him. “And I hear that you are much disliked by those whom you rule.” I would give as good as I got.

“I also hear that you are making a name for yourself acquiring rights over property by fraud.”

Acquiring property? He would know, of course. It was no secret—but fraud? Oh, he was in a vicious mood. I raised my chin.

“Fraud? That’s unproven! My agent, Greseley, is a man of high principle!” My response was sharp, for I would defend my business dealings until my last breath. “If you refer to the fact that I have just acquired the manor of Compton Murdak with some difficulty, then that is so. Are you so interested? Then let me tell you. I sued John
Straunge for poaching in my new rabbit warren—did you hear of that too? He was as guilty as hell and deserved the fine. His wife wore a rabbit-skin hood.” I smiled at the memory. “I sat with the judges in the case and pointed it out to them. They were not pleased at my interference, but they ruled in my favor. How could they not? If that is fraud, then I am guilty.” I grew solemn. “I hear that
you
are guilty of exploitation and bribery.”

It was like setting a match to dry timber.

“God help me! Of course I am. Which governor of Ireland has never been guilty of bribery?” His jaw visibly clenched. “When will he see me?”

His admission shocked me. “I don’t know.”

“Then I’d better find someone who does.”

“There is no one.” I had not done with him yet. “Who knows but the King himself?”

His stare became ferocious. “The longer Ireland is without a head, the sooner it will descend into revolt and bloodshed. All my work undone in the time it takes for Edward to decide that he has no one, other than me, to take on the task.”

And without another word or even a gesture of respect, he spun on his heel, damp cloak billowing and shedding pieces of twig and leaf, and marched off. I watched him go. I was sorry, despite his foul mood. I trusted him as little as I trusted Gaunt, but there was a visceral connection between us. I might have wished there were not, but so it was. I waited until he reached the staircase at the end of the Hall. I raised my voice.

“Windsor.”

He turned but did not reply. Even from a distance I could tell that his humor had not softened to any degree. There he stood in the shadow, the light from a flickering torch picking out the edge of his cloak, the glint of the metal at his side. A man of shadows, a man of unplumbed depths. It would be a brave woman who claimed to know him.

“I can find out for you,” I suggested.

“Then do so. Why stand there wasting time?”

Once, four years ago, he had marched back to finish a conversation, apologizing for his rude manner. Now he stood and waited as if I might approach him. I did not. A neat little stalemate of our joint making.

“I do not answer to your beck and call, Sir William.” My reply echoed in the vast space.

Windsor bowed low, the gesture dripping with malice. “Sweet Alice, sweeter than ever. Will you be there when Edward tears my morals to shreds and damns my actions to hell and back?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“And will you speak out for me?”

“I will not. But neither will I condemn you until I’ve heard the evidence.”

“So you are not my enemy?”

“Did I ever say I was?”

A hard crack of a laugh was his only reply. At least I had made him laugh. He ran up the stairs, every action speaking of annoyance but with perhaps a lessening of the anger. Until at the head of the stair he halted and looked down to where I still stood below.

“Were you deliberately waiting for me?”

“Certainly not!”

The bow, the flourish of his cap, suggested that he did not believe me for a moment. I watched him disappear through the archway.

What now? I was not satisfied, not content to leave matters as they were. Never had I felt this need to be close to a man of the Court. Yes—through necessity, through courting their regard, through a need to win their support in a bid to protect Edward. But this? Windsor’s friendship—his regard—would bring me no good. And yet still I wanted it.

I considered as the distant sound of his boot heels died away. I did trust him more than I trusted Gaunt. And then I pushed him aside, unable to make sense of my troubled thoughts. Time would tell. And I would be there when Edward dissected his morals and his character. And no, I would not condemn him until I had heard his excuses.

Windsor’s presence continued to nibble at my consciousness. Nibble? Snap, rather. Like a kitchen cat pouncing on a well-fed and unwary rat.

Edward ordered Windsor to present himself one hour before noon on the following day, with no prompting from me. The King was lucid, furious.
It was, I thought, very much a repetition of his interview with Lionel, without the close redeeming relationship of father to son. In the end Edward had forgiven Lionel. Here there was no softness, accusation following on accusation. Edward was angry and seethingly forthright: There was no impediment to his memory or his powers of speech that day.

Windsor proved to be equally uninhibited beneath the gloss of respect.

As I had intended, I sat beside Edward, fascinated at the play of will between the two men, impressed by Edward’s grasp of events, anxious that Windsor would not overstep the mark. Why was I anxious? Why should I care? I did not know. But I did.

Edward’s litany of crimes against his governor of Ireland rolled on and on.

“Bloody mismanagement…inglorious culpability…disgraceful self-interest…appalling fiscal double-dealing.”

Windsor withstood it all with a dour expression, feet planted, arms at his sides. I did not think his features had relaxed for one minute since his arrival the previous day.

Was he guilty? Despite his callous acceptance of my initial accusation, I had no idea. He argued his case with superb ease, not once hesitating. Yes, he had taxed heavily. Yes, he had used the law to support English power. Yes, he had empowered the Anglo-Irish at the expense of the native Irish—to do otherwise would have been political suicide. Was not the revenue needed to finance English troops to force the Irish rebels to keep their heads down? If that amounted to extortion and discreditable taxation, then he would accept it. In Ireland it was called achieving peace. And he would defy anyone to instigate peace in that godforsaken tribal, war-torn province by any other means than threats and bribery.

Edward was not impressed. “And the royal grant made for such purposes?”

“A grant I thank you for, Sire.” At least Windsor tried to be conciliatory. “But that was spent long ago. I am now on my own and have to take what measures I can.”

“I don’t like your methods, and I don’t like the rumble of dissatisfaction I hear.”

“When is there not dissatisfaction, Sire?”

“You are very voluble in defense of your innocence.”

How would he answer that? I waited, my heart thudding against my ribs.

His eyes never flinched from Edward’s face. “I would never claim innocence, Sire. A good politician can’t afford to be naive. Pragmatism is a far more valuable commodity, as you yourself will be aware. And who knows what’s happening while my back is turned?”

“They don’t want you back,” Edward accused.

Windsor shook his head, in no manner discomfited. “Of course they don’t. They want someone without experience, to mold and turn to their own will. I am not popular, but I hold to English policy as best I can with the tools I have. A weaker man would have the Irish lords singing his praises and licking the toes of his boots, all while they are sliding Irish gold into their own pockets.”

“They want me to send the young Earl of March,” Edward announced. “At least I know he’s honest.”

“I rest my case, Sire. Doubtless an able youth, but with neither experience nor years to his advantage…” Windsor left the thought hanging, his opinion clear.

“He is husband to my granddaughter!”

Edward was tiring. He might wish to champion the cause of young Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March, wed to his granddaughter Philippa, but I could see the tension beginning to build in him, wave upon wave, as weakness crept over his mind and body. It was time to end this before his inevitable humiliation, I decided. Time to end it for Windsor too. I leaned across with a hand on Edward’s sleeve.

“How old is the young Earl, my lord?” I murmured.

“I think…” A frightening vagueness clouded his eyes.

“I doubt he has more than twenty-one years under his belt.” I knew he hadn’t.

“But he is my granddaughter’s husband.…” Edward clung to the single fact of which he was certain in the terrible mist that engulfed his mind, his voice growing harsh, querulous.

“And one day he will serve you well with utmost loyalty,” I agreed. “But it is an appallingly difficult province for so young a man.”

Edward looked at me. “Do you think?”