The King’s Concubine: A Novel of Alice Perrers (22 page)

Philippa considered me. When she spoke her voice was as hard as the pestle with which I had ground the tender violet petals. “Go and pack your belongings. I think it’s time you left Court.”

“Yes, Majesty.”

Did she mean forever? Yet how could I blame her? How could she live with this terrible evidence of her husband’s unfaithfulness burgeoning before her eyes? I swallowed against the rock of dismay that lodged itself in my throat.

“I’ll arrange it.”

“As you wish, my lady.”

Disregarding the pain, the Queen pushed herself to her feet, her face a stone mask. “I wondered whether you might refuse to go.”

And I bowed my head. “How can I? I am your damsel, my lady, and if you dismiss me, then I must go.”

Her lips twisted. “I thought you would insist on begging Edward’s tolerance. To remain here and give birth under the shocked gaze of the whole Court. When were you going to tell me?”

“When I had to.”

“Did you think I would disapprove?”

“Yes.” It was little more than a sigh.

Suddenly she stooped to seize my hand, her nails biting deep into my flesh. “Of course I do. I hate it. I despise what you have done! Do you think I wish to see you like this, knowing what you do with my husband? Sometimes I despise you too, Alice! Holy Virgin—I wish I had never set eyes on you.…” Her bosom swelled as she took a deep breath and forced a vestige of a smile to her lips. “And I despise even more that I cannot blame you—when it was all through my instigation.” Releasing my hands, she turned her face away. “Get out. I don’t want to look at you.”

So I was dismissed from the Queen’s presence.

“Will you tell the King, my lady?” I asked.

“I will tell him everything he needs to know.”

I walked out of the Queen’s chamber, my hand throbbing where her nails had scored me deep enough to draw blood.

The next morning, as dawn touched the sky, I left Havering. There was no one in the courtyard to bid me farewell or see me settled into the litter provided for me. Thus my departure was anonymous and unrecorded, much like my arrival. But then I had had Wykeham with me. Now Wykeham was at Windsor and Edward at Eltham, neither cognizant of the Queen’s decision. The Queen would be on her knees in the chapel. There was no one. Isabella, if she had known, would have spat on my feet.

This was it. The end. Dismissed with a royal bastard child and nothing of my own other than the clothes in the saddlebags. The greater the distance I traveled, the bleaker my future became. All was so uncertain. And not least what Edward would say when he discovered my absence and the reason for it.

My thoughts drifted. Where were they taking me? Nothing had been said, and I had been too distraught at the speed and finality of it to ask. Was it to be the Abbey? The thought hit me like a pail of freezing water, drenching me from head to foot.

Not that! I won’t go. Not again!

But where would I go instead? There was no
where
.

And even though I had always accepted that my good fortune was finite, on this journey I was forced to accept the truth of it. How terrifyingly reliant I was on this Plantagenet family, with all its pride and ruthlessness and complicated plotting. With the presence of this child under my heart, I meant nothing to them other than an embarrassment to be removed. I could do nothing but allow them to decide my future.

The hours passed, a knot of fear and anger building that I should have so little control over what would become of me and this child who suddenly became very precious to me. Greseley, I thought. I must write to him at the Tabard, demand that he release some moneys from my
properties to pay for a permanent sanctuary for me. But as the second day of my journey drew to a close, the autumn sun golden, the shadows extending across the road, dappling the horses, my mind grasped what should have been obvious. I had traveled too far for my destination to be the Abbey, and when I had the wit to acknowledge the movement of the sun, I realized we were traveling west.

A shout came from my escort, and the hoofbeats of the horses slowed. Curious, I pulled back the curtains despite the evening chill, and thus caught my first glimpse of the place that was to be my home.

A manor house. A little stone-and-plaster house glowing in the final rays of the sun, the gates to the courtyard and stable block pushed back to allow my little entourage to enter. And there was my new household waiting for me on the threshold: a steward, a housekeeper, to one side two serving maids who bobbed curtsies, and emerging from the stables an ostler. That night the soft welcome of the manor of Ardington—one of Edward’s own properties, as I was to learn—closed around me like the folds of a velvet cloak.

I was not content. Despite the comforts of my rural retreat, I had no serenity, neither of body nor soul. As my belly grew, my spirits declined in counterpoint. I was provided with a home and all my needs, even coin for my purse so that I would not feel without resources, but how long would that last? What would happen to me when the child was born?

In a strange way it was like an imprisonment. Although I had my freedom, I did not feel free to use it. Nothing disturbed my calm day-to-day existence. I did not travel or visit neighbors. There were books to occupy my mind, and out of boredom I sewed—how frustrated I must have been. I played my part in the running of the household, relieved that Mistress Lacey, the briskly efficient housekeeper, was tolerant of my sudden appearances in her kitchen and dairy. The world of the royal Court seemed to be as far away from me as the fabled land of Cathay. After less than a week in this haven, I accepted that I was not made for the unchanging tranquillity of rural life.

I did write—of course. To Greseley, urgency making me curt and demanding.

Master Greseley—I have need of immediate funds. What can you send me?

Only to receive an equally stark missive in reply.

I will send you a return at Michaelmas after harvest. Do not look for a vast sum. Trade is poor and your manor not yet thriving. My advice, Mistress Perrers, is to be prudent in your demands.

How infuriatingly cautious he was! So over all hung the terrible storm cloud of what I would do when the Queen’s charity came to an end. When the King’s lust died, or was lavished on another. Perhaps my successor already trod the corridors to Edward’s arms. What value would I and my child be to him?

For in all that time, I received not one word from the King. No letter, no gift. Not even a visit from the priestly Wykeham to pray over my sinful head. Nothing. I thought I would find it hard to forgive Edward that.

I gave birth to my son with little difficulty, my young body resilient and tolerant of the pain. One moment I was sitting in the kitchen with Mistress Lacey, helping her to strip the sloes from their prickly stems for want of anything better to do, and the next my waters broke. Helped to my chamber by Mistress Lacey and visited by the local midwife, who declared me to be too much in a hurry, me and the child both, I held my child in my arms within the day.

What a stalwart child he was, with lungs like the blacksmith’s bellows until I pressed his mouth against my breast, for I nursed him myself in those early days. I watched him feed with wonder. His hair was fair but I could see no likeness of Edward. His cheeks were round like crab apples, his nose showing nothing of an eagle’s beak. Perhaps he would grow into the King’s fine features. I prayed that the child, in all his innocence, would be more comely than I.

“You will become a knight and a famous soldier,” I informed him, but he fell asleep, replete, his head heavy on my arm.

I loved him. He was mine. He was dependent on me, and I loved him.

But he was also the King’s son. I knew what I must do, whatever the outcome.

Finding a long-disused pen, I wrote a letter. My pen hovered over
the parchment. To Edward or Philippa? I would write to Philippa, one mother to another, even though it was supplicant to queen. My pen continued to hover, spiked with defiance.

Tell the King. Am I allowed to return to Court? What does the King think of his absent lover and her bastard?

None of those sentiments found their way to the parchment. I erred on the side of ridiculous brevity and discretion.

Majesty,

I am well and my child born. A son. I have called him John.

Your servant,

Alice

That was all I had to say. Then all I had to do was to sit and wait, discovering that patience was not in my nature at all. Holy Virgin, rescue me from this life of solitude and stagnation. In my blackest hours I imagined the Queen consigning my letter to the flames with a vicious pleasure. And who could blame her?

It was Edward who rescued me. And not before time. Edward was astride the familiar bay stallion beneath the arch, the sun gilding his face and bare head, and at his back was a body of gleaming horseflesh and soldiery with the flash of royal pennons and the glint of steel at hand and waist. How many months had it been since I had seen him? Six, I thought. Half a year of separation. And in that time, it seemed to my critical and not very friendly eye, he had grown older, a cobweb of fine lines etched beside mouth and eyes, a new austerity in his lean cheeks so that the eagle prow was keener.

Then he smiled when his eye lit on me where I stood in Mistress Lacey’s garden, and I decided I was mistaken. Dismounting, Edward strode forward, covering the grass, as energetic as he ever was.

I did not curtsy. I did not smile.

“Alice! My dear girl. You look…” His words died and he gave a shout of laughter, so that a startled blackbird flew up from the branches above me. Despite my standing as stiff as a pikestaff with the child in my arms, his hands were on my shoulders, his lips on my cheeks and mouth. He did not see my anger.

“How do I look?” I demanded, when his kisses stopped. I knew how I looked. I kept no state here: clad in my oldest gown, my skirts tucked up, my sleeves rolled to my elbow, even my hair uncovered.

“Disgraceful!” he replied promptly. “Like a penniless country wench.”

“I
am
a country wench.”

“And this is your son.” Releasing me, he lifted the child from my arms with remarkable aplomb.

“And yours too. I have called him John,” I said, not thawing one inch.

“A good name. I couldn’t think of better. A splendid name for so small and helpless a creature. He’s no bigger than one of my alaunts’ pups.” He held him high, so that John’s fussing became gurgles of joy. “He has the Plantagenet nose, I see.”

“I can’t see it.”

“Then you must look more closely!” Edward lowered the infant, placing him gently back in his basket at my feet. He tilted his chin. He would have been a fool not to have picked up on my mood by now. “And what’s biting you, Mistress Alice? You’re as bad tempered as a squirrel in a trap.”

“Nothing’s biting me!” I would not allow his pleasure at seeing his son to win me over.

The King looked at me, obviously considering his next move with this ill-humored shrew. He brushed a tendril of hair from my forehead and a few crumbs of earth from my sleeve. And he grinned.

“Don’t smile at me!”

“Why not?” But he became sober. “I know what burr’s got under your saddle, mistress. You thought I should have come to see you before now. And that’s the truth of it,” he added when I opened my mouth to deny such childish petulance.

So I agreed. “Yes. How many months is it, Edward?”

“Too many. But listen. Look at me.” He shook my sleeve to get my attention. “You have to accept—you are not always my first priority. I knew you were safe. I knew you were well cared for. I knew that you and your son were in health and lacked for nothing.”

Still I would not accept. “Why did you not come?”

He pulled me to a bank of grass, where we sat. “Chiefly because the King of France is dead.” Edward leaned forward, his forearms braced against his thighs, staring at the grass between his feet.

I knew something of this from my Court days: King John of France, defeated in battle and a prisoner in England until his ransom was paid by his penurious kingdom. A man of honor who waited out his days with good humor.

“He fell ill in March,” Edward explained. “A month later he was dead. I returned his body to France. His son—King Charles the Fifth now—is reluctant to keep the truce of Brétigny between us. So that means war, God help us! I’m negotiating an alliance with King Pedro of Castile—I think we’ll need him. No war yet, but the storm clouds are looming and I don’t…” His words faded. Never had I seen him so lacking in assurance. Then he turned his head and looked up at me. “I am King, Alice. I can’t put you before my duties. I must keep England safe. But I am here now, because I needed to see you and could put it off no longer.”

My cold anger melted. Here was no apology but an explanation that I could understand. An explanation from a man who was King, who did not need to explain. And yet he had. I placed my hand on his arm.

“Will you stay?” I asked.

“I cannot.”

“What is it this time?”

“What it always is. I have summoned Parliament. It is imperative that the Prince in Aquitaine receives enough finance to pursue his foreign policy. Imperative…” And I saw the line of worry dig deep again between Edward’s brows. “I went out of my way to come here!”

“And I suppose that I, being less important than England, must forgive you.”

I could feel him smile as he sat up and pressed his mouth against my hair. I had gone too far in my selfish displeasure, and I forgave him in my delight at seeing him again.

“Have you time for a cup of ale?” My question was gentle, and I touched his cheek.

“I have, and for a kiss from a woman who no longer stares at me as if I were a leper. And let me see my son again.”

Barely an hour we spent together, seated in the garden amidst the herbs and bees. Then he was mounted, the royal escort drawn up in good array, but with one matter still uncertain for me. Was it deliberate policy that he had not spoken of it? I must know.…