The King’s Concubine: A Novel of Alice Perrers (52 page)

There were twelve youths, the new generation of England’s rulers, royal blood flowing through an impressive number of veins. I recognized them all. Edward’s two grandsons were the first to kneel and feel the kiss of the sword on one shoulder, then the other: Richard of Bordeaux, slight and fair at ten years, and Edward’s heir; Henry Bolingbroke, Gaunt’s son of similar age; followed by Thomas of Woodstock.
Then the young men: Oxford, Salisbury, and Stafford. Mowbray, Beaumont, and Percy. All the great names of the kingdom receiving Edward’s final gift of a knighthood. I had been right. So weak was his arm that the great sword of state quivered, but his will was as strong as ever. I knew he would see it out to the bitter end.

They knelt to receive the honor of knighthood, stood, stepped back. There was only one face I looked for, only one who made my heart bound. And there he was at last. The final youth to kneel before his King—and his father.

John. Our son.
My
son!

Pale, with nerves chasing across his features, John sank to one knee, his hair bright in the light through the high windows. At thirteen years, he still had the uncoordinated limbs of youth, but he had been well schooled for this day. I held my breath as Edward raised the great sword for the final time, and our son lifted his head to receive the accolade. Pride warmed my blood. Such public recognition of what had been vilified—my place in Edward’s life. I slipped out. I had seen all I needed to see. My son, a Knight of the Garter. Emotion choked me.

“Take me to Sheen,” Edward ordered when the young men, released from their ordeal, had toasted themselves with relieved laughter. “I’ll die there.”

I was afraid that he would.

“What is it?” I asked, seeing the shadow of grief on his face as we began the journey.

He shook his head.

“I shall nag at you until you tell me!”

“There’s one regret I have.…”

“Then it can be remedied.”

“No. It cannot. I allowed matters of state to step in front of friendship. It was a grave misjudgment, and I don’t think it can be forgiven.”

He closed his eyes and would say no more. And however much I worried about it, I could not think what it was that disturbed his rest. And if I could not decipher it, how could I put it right?

And then in the night it came to me. I knew what I must do. And quickly.

* * *

Edward lay on his bed, his chest barely moving, his skin so thin and pale as to be almost translucent, like a pearl from the Thames oyster beds. Occasionally his breath fluttered between his lips, but that was the only sign of the life that remained to him. The day had come. That long, courageous life, lived to the full for the glory of England, was drawing quietly to its close.

The last time I had kept vigil beside the dying had been with Philippa. I smiled a little at the memory of her amazing duplicity born out of compassion. Then my smile faded, for who could have believed it possible that Edward’s loss of his most dear wife should place his feet firmly on the path to deterioration. Every day for the past eight years he had missed her keenly, until his mind could bear it no more. I was second-best. So I had always been. I had known it and accepted it. Today Edward would lay the burden aside.

And so would I.

At the foot of the bed knelt Edward’s confessor, Father Godfrey de Mordon, a man of erudition and superior oratory, of morals as narrow as his unfortunate ferretlike features. I disliked him as much as he disliked me, but I let him pray. I did not pray, but simply sat and watched as Edward’s life ebbed, until the priest’s voice broke into my thoughts.

“His Majesty needs to repent.”

“Later.”

A pause.

“It would be better if you were not here.”

I turned my gaze on him, noting the deliberate absence of respect in his address. “Yet I will stay.”

“You have no place in this final confession of the King’s sins.” The priest’s scowl informed me that I was the source of the most virulent of them.

As he made the sign of the cross and launched into yet another
Ave
, I reflected how Father Godfrey had revered Philippa as a saint, while he regarded me as the worst of Eve’s daughters. I folded my hands, one over the other in my lap. What would this priest say if I announced that I
was
innocent once? Who did he think had arranged that the King of
England should take a girl with no background, no beauty, and no breeding as his mistress?

Edward sighed, his hand clutching convulsively against the bedcover. That was all in the past. This priest would not want to hear my justifications. Here we were at the end of that supremely difficult road. It was in my heart to pray that Edward might keep hold of the thread that bound him to me, but I could not. He wanted to let go. He had had enough of weakness and forgetfulness, of lack of dignity. So I prayed that death would be quick now, and painless, that he would slip away into soft oblivion.

And when it was over?

I would go to William de Windsor, of course, but with the King’s death, the wolves might be howling at my door again, and Gaunt might not consider it politic to hold them at bay. The thought of Windsor settled me. He would strengthen me. He would hold me in his arms and keep the nightmares away by the force and heat of his body against mine.

In the shadows beyond the bed, John Beverley tidied and arranged with his usual quiet competence, having done all he could to make the King comfortable.

“Go now,” I murmured. “You can do no more.”

We were alone, the priest and I, and Edward was sleeping, the precursor of death. I closed my eyes, suddenly very weary.

The priest’s voice scraped along my nerves as he stood. “Mistress Perrers! His Majesty must confess before God.…”

“Of course.” It would be necessary, but my eyes gleamed. It was in my mind to reduce this pompous cleric who despised the ground I trod on. “Now that you’ve got up off your knees, make yourself useful and light more candles. It’s too dark in here.”

The palace might be silent, but Edward would die with light and power surrounding him.

“It’s not fitting.…”

“Do it. Why should he not die in the light? He lived his whole life in it.”

Reluctant to the last, Father Godfrey obeyed, until the chamber
shone as if for a royal feast. I touched Edward’s hand, unsure even now that he would wake, but his lids lifted slowly. He turned his head toward me. “I’m thirsty.”

His voice was labored and low, his breathing heavy. I poured a cup of wine and held it to his lips so that he could sip, then banked the pillows behind him, lifting him so that he might be aware of his surroundings. And his eye fell on the crown that rested, by my orders, within his vision on the bed beside him. “Thank you.” Stretching out his hand, he touched the jeweled gold.

The priest stepped up to the bed. “There are more important things for you to face now, Sire.” He held up the crucifix around his neck. “Your immortal soul…”

“Not yet. My soul can wait.”

“Sire—I urge you to make your last confession.”

“I said not yet. Talk to me, Alice.”

So I would. Without sentiment or pity. We would pretend that there was all the time in the world, and I would entertain the King as I had always done. Edward would die as he wished. I sat on the edge of the bed, turning my back on the priest. It was as if we were alone, as in the days of our past together.

“What do we talk about?” I asked.

“The glory days. When I was the mightiest King in Europe.”

“How can I? I didn’t know you when you were the champion of Crécy.”

“Ah…! I forgot. You were a child.…”

“Not even born.”

“No…It was Philippa who was with me then.”

“So she was. And loved you for every moment of your marriage.”

“Sire…!” The priest hovered at my side.

“Let him be…!” I snapped.

“Talk to me about the last day we hunted the deer at Eltham,” Edward said.

“Your hounds brought down a tined buck. You had a good horse and rode as well as any man.” It had been one of his better days. My throat clenched hard.

“I did, didn’t I? Despite the years…”

“No one could match you.”

“It was a good day.” Edward closed his eyes as if he could see imprinted there the memory of his greatness.

“It is sacrilege that you speak to him of hunting,” Father Godfrey hissed at me. “That you encourage him.” He turned to Edward. “Sire…!”

The tired eyes opened. “I’m not dead yet, Godfrey.”

“You must make your peace with God!”

“For what?” Suddenly those eyes were unnervingly keen. “For all the dead on the battlefields of France? Will He forgive me for those I sent to their deaths, do you think?”

“He will if you repent.” The priest held his crucifix higher.

“How can he repent of the deeds that made him the great King he is?” I challenged the priest.

“Leave it, Alice!” As ever, Edward was more tolerant than I. “Do you remember the day we flew the falcons from the battlements at Windsor? Now, there was a sight.…” Edward breathed laboriously through a long silence. And then: “Alice?”

“I’m still here.”

“I’m…sorry it’s ended.”

Father Godfrey swooped in like some form of venomous insect. “He’s slipping away. Get him to repent. He mustn’t die unshriven.”

“He’ll do as he wishes.” I stroked Edward’s hand, careful of the fragility of his skin. “He always has. He has enough favor notched up with the Almighty to get him into heaven whether he dies unshriven or not.”

“Blessed Virgin! Get him to make confession!”

It was too much. I stood, making the priest step back. “Get out!”

Father Godfrey held his ground, but his eyes slithered away from mine. “I will not.”

I strode to the door and opened it. “Bring Wykeham as soon as he arrives,” I ordered the nameless squire outside, and saw Edward’s face light with joy. Edward’s one regret, his alienation from Wykeham. I had been right to send for him. If anyone was to shrive Edward, it would be Wykeham.

Father Godfrey stalked out. “When the King is dead, who will save you then, Mistress?” he snarled.

Which unfortunately echoed my own thoughts.

Wykeham arrived and Edward rallied, with ill grace and a delicious levity that completely failed to rile the imperturbable Wykeham.

“Wykeham? Is that you? You were almost too late! Let’s get it over with.…I ask your pardon for a dismissal you did not deserve. And I repent of all my sins. Will that do?”

“For myself, I’m deeply grateful.” There was the shine of unshed tears in Wykeham’s eyes. “As for the Almighty, I think He might need rather more than that, Sire.”

“Intercede for me, damn it.” A spark of the old fire. Edward’s lips attempted a smile. I stood, silent, content with the much-desired reconciliation. “Why did I make you bishop if you won’t speak for me at the feet of God?” Bold words, but his voice was failing.

“I doubt God will accept intercession by a third party for fornication.” Wykeham’s harshness surprised me, but then, he was a priest, after all. “And adultery,” he added. “You must confess your sin if you hope for forgiveness.”

“Then I’m condemned to the fires of hell. I’ll not betray Alice in repentance. Nor will we argue witchcraft. I was not bewitched. The decisions and actions were all mine, and I’ll answer for them.” Edward’s hand closed around mine as his breath caught. “Sooner rather than later. I can see death waiting beside the door.” Edward looked up at me, but his sight was blurred now. “Do you suppose Philippa will be waiting for me?”

“I expect she will.”

“Yes…It will be good to see her.…” It hurt me, a blow delivered without intent, but one I should have expected. But still it hurt. “Hold me, Alice.”

I knelt on the bed and stretched to put my arms around him, horrified at how thin and insubstantial he had become.

“You never were a witch, were you?”

“No. I never was. You knew what you wanted without my intervention.”

“So I did.” He drew in a breath. “Take them.…” A ghost of a laugh shivered under my palms. “Take them, as I said you must. I can’t do it…but you can. They’re yours…your final insurance against dreaded penury.…”

“I will.”

“You were the light of my final years. The joy of my old age.” His breath caught again on a harsh intake. “Do you ever have any regrets, Alice? For what we did?”

“No. I regret nothing.”

“Nor I. I love you.…” His voice died away. Until the final whisper: “Jesu, have pity.”

Then his breath was gone.

So England’s great King died in my arms, his head on my breast, light blazing around him as if he were already in heaven. And I had perjured my soul, denying any regrets.

“God have mercy.” Wykeham, still on his knees, made the sign of the cross.

“Farewell, Edward. Philippa will stand beside you when you approach God’s throne.”

I stood to perform my final tasks for him, removing the pillows so that he could lie flat. I combed my fingers through his hair, arranged his linen so that it fell gracefully against his neck before placing his hands palms-down at his sides.

And then…because he had remembered…I began to take the rings from his fingers. A cabochon ruby. A sapphire flanked with diamonds, heavyset with pearls. A trio of beryls. A magnificent amethyst, set alone. I took them all.

With a sharp oath of distress Wykeham sprang to his feet. “In God’s name! What are you doing?”

And I turned to look at him. The bright light illuminated the expression on his face, every deeply marked line making it clear exactly what he thought of my actions, and over all a contempt of me so deep as to coat me from head to foot. For a moment it shocked me into immobility. Did Wykeham, the best man of God I knew, truly believe me capable of robbing the dead? Of stripping Edward’s corpse of everything of value out of pure avarice? Would Wykeham of all men consider
me guilty of such a final infamy?
Do you have any regrets?
Edward had asked, and I had denied it. But sometimes the reputation I had achieved was a heavy burden. Why should I alone be the one to deserve the world’s scorn?

Emotion raced across my skin to match Wykeham’s, and far more deadly. Combined with my anguish, bright anger melded to create a vicious brew. So Wykeham believed the worst of me, did he? He would damn me just as readily as Father Godfrey for my sins. Then let him. In my torment, a desire to hurt and to be hurt was born within me, a vehemence that would not be restrained. Fury was there, but also self-loathing. And an urge to destroy.