The King’s Concubine: A Novel of Alice Perrers (29 page)

I bathed her face and lips, my mind gripped with fear.

“Read to me from my missal. The prayer to the Virgin…”

So I did, and it gave her comfort.

“Am I dying, Alice?” The assent stuck in my throat. “I see it in your face. Tell me this, if the first reply is too hard. Will it be long now?”

“No, Majesty. It will not be long.”

“Bless you. You have always been honest. Is the King still in England?”

“Yes, my lady. He is in London—at the Tower.”

“I need him.” Her breath barely stirred the air. “Send for him. Tell him…tell him not to delay.”

“I will, Your Majesty. Immediately.”

“Will Edward blame me?” she wept. “For diverting him from his duties in France?”

“No, my lady.” I wiped away the tears from her cheeks, a task that she was unable to do for herself. How could I not weep with her? “The King will never blame you. He loves you more than life. The King would never forgive you if you did not tell him how you suffered.”

I thought about Edward’s sense of duty. It was what I admired in him. When the French had marched into Ponthieu and threatened the security of Gascony itself, Edward had abandoned his policy of peaceful coexistence and begun to plan for a new war, reclaiming his relinquished title of King of France. Some might whisper that he was too old to plan such a sustained invasion—not like the old days—but what choice did a man of such pride have? The Prince, still laid low, remained
too weak to lead an army, so therefore Edward must resume the mantle of command. He was King. All that he had achieved in his lifetime must not be thrown away. So in that very month, he had sent John of Gaunt to Calais. Edward and an army would follow. Even now he was at the Tower, organizing the invasion.

But now he would not. He would come to Philippa’s side, whatever the cost. England’s power in France would weigh lightly in the balance if the Queen was in need. I prayed he would be in time. The shade of death squatted in the shadows in the corner of the room, obscene in its presence, growing stronger as the days passed.

Edward arrived by royal barge that beat its way against the tide along the Thames, and I went down to the landing stage with others of the household to greet him. Perhaps to warn him a little. I had not seen him for six weeks, and the change in him was unmistakable.

Oh, I doubt it was noticeable to a subject who simply saw the outer glory of the King of England. Still fair and upright, still handsome with regal presence, he had a smile and a word for those who had rowed him from the Tower. His tunic flattered his broad shoulders. The golden lions stitched against the red were truly resplendent, and the sun gilded his hair as the barge was maneuvered into the river landing.

But I was aware of the change from the moment he stood up from his seat at the stern. Once, he would have stood for the whole journey, dignified but approachable, the leader of his people, to see and be seen. Now he sat. Furthermore—I saw it even if no one else did—he took his page’s arm as he stepped from barge to land, not heavily but enough to give him stability. He stretched as if his limbs were stiff, and his first strides were uneven. The lines around eyes and mouth were more deeply engraved than when I had kissed him farewell. Oh, Edward! How grief and the passage of years can leave their mark. How the burden of duty can wear away the body’s resilience. My first thought was to go to him, to kiss away the sorrow that darkened his eyes, but I kept my distance. This was no time for greetings from the King’s lover. I had no place in this homecoming, and I knew nothing I could do
would assuage Edward’s suffering. For a moment I wished I had not come, but stayed at the Queen’s side, where I had an acknowledged role. And I felt a cold foreboding for the coming days.

No Queen. No place. No position. No reason for Alice Perrers to remain at Court.

I pushed away the bleak thought as fast as it assaulted me. Nothing new here, merely the imminent inevitability of it. Now, in this moment, all that mattered was Edward’s reunion with his stricken wife.

The steward bowed. I curtsied. Edward acknowledged the waiting group of courtiers. I actually took a step backward, but the King’s eyes sought me out.

“Mistress Perrers.”

“Your Majesty.”

“Speak to me of my wife.” His voice was low and harsh with unshed tears. “She is dying?”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Does she know?”

“She is aware. She regretted asking you to come.”

“I could not leave her. How could I? She is everything to me.”

“Yes, Sire.”

I swallowed hard. The heartrending affirmation could not have made my situation clearer. I stepped back again as the King turned to stride up the steps toward the castle, his vigor restored with the urgency to get to Philippa’s side before it was too late. But he halted with his foot on the bottom step and looked back.

“Come with me. She will need you.”

And although I shrank from the task, I obeyed.

So I was witness to their reunion. It hit me harder than I could have imagined, illuminating as it did the lack in my own life. The love shone between them, undiminished by death. Briefly the image of William de Windsor stole into my mind, whether I wished it or not—typical of the man himself. There was something between us, but nothing like this. I could not imagine love like this, beyond the physical, beyond the passage of time. Philippa raised her hand from the bed linen and placed it into the hand of the King, her lord and her love. Edward fell to his knees at her side.

“Dear Edward. You came.” The words were slurred but I heard the pleasure in them.

“Did you ever doubt that I would?”

“No—Alice said you would come.” She glanced momentarily to where I stood beside the door, but I had no importance for her. All her focus was on the man at her side. “What a marriage we have had. All these years.”

“I would wed you again. Tomorrow. This very minute.” Edward smoothed the thinning, matted hair back from her brow.

“And you have as much charm as ever.” The gasp might have been a laugh.

“You are all I ever wanted.”

The words struck me with such force that I stepped back against the tapestry—I could feel the stitching and the underlying stone solid against my back—to give them space.
You should not be here!
My conscience was implacable.

“When we are separated…” I heard the Queen whisper.

“No!”

“When we are separated,” she repeated, “will you grant me three requests, my dear lord?”

Edward inhaled. “Lady. Whatever you ask, it will be done.”

“Then—settle my debts. I can’t bear that they be left unpaid.”

“You always were extravagant.”

The gentleness in Edward’s reply caused my tears to overflow.

“I know. Will you do it? And then fulfill the gifts and bequests I’ve made.”

“I will.”

“And at the last—Edward, my love, will you lie beside me in Westminster Abbey when your time on earth is finished?”

“Yes. I will.”

Edward bent his brow to her hand. They remained like that, the room still about them, and I left them to their solitude, closing the door quietly. They did not notice. They did not need me.

I walked unseeing through the antechambers, making my way to climb to the deserted wall walk. My thoughts were appallingly self-absorbed, but I could not redirect them. I wept for the two I had just
left, but where would I lie when I was dead? Who would lie beside me, at his or my request? I was as alone and friendless as I had always been, except for this fast-fading woman and her broken husband. Who could I call friend in the royal household? No one. Who would even have a thought for me? William de Windsor might—but his was a self-interest as strong as mine. Wykeham would condemn me.

So I wept out of grief for Philippa and Edward and myself. And out of fear of a future I could no longer see.

Her last moments came on the fifteenth day of August, when Wykeham gave the Queen the last sacrament. We were with her, Edward and young Thomas of Woodstock, and all her damsels, who wept bitter tears, as did the household, from falconer to meanest scullion. Philippa had left her mark on the lives of everyone who served her. I prayed for her comfort and her soul, touching for the final time her foot beneath the sumptuous bedcover with its embroidered sprawl of Plantagenet lions. Near the end, she raised her hand to beckon me, and whispered, her words barely stirring the air between us.

“Promise me!” she begged.

“I promise.”

Did she know what she had asked of me? Did she understand how heavy the burden would become? I think she did not, yet I would do it. I would continue to repay the debt I owed her.

The King held the Queen’s hand as she drew her final breaths, and kissed her forehead.

“Edward. My love. What a family we made together…”

Edward bowed his head and wept unashamedly. I might own his affection, his respect, the demands of his body. Philippa owned his heart and always would, even to her grave. Edward had lost his lodestar. His rock. His clear place in the firmament.

So passed the Queen from this life. It was as if the great castle had been hollowed out, robbed of its entity. Windsor became a dark place. Edward walked the rooms and corridors like a ghost, all his vigor and Plantagenet spirit eclipsed by grief. He did what he must, what was necessary, but it was as if a husk of a man issued orders. And he did it
alone. I, his mistress, had no role in these preparations for his wife’s final resting place. His dear Philippa’s embalmed body would be transported to the Tower by royal barge along the Thames, and from there in procession through the streets before reaching Westminster, so that all might witness and mourn her passing. She would be buried in the chapel of Edward the Confessor, as she had wished, in the tomb long prepared for her, with an effigy that showed her as she was, a plain woman with an abundance of love in her heart.

In a voice devoid of emotion, Edward acknowledged all the Queen’s gifts: The Exchequer would pay me—and the other damsels—the sum of ten marks twice yearly at Easter and Michaelmas for services to the Queen. We were given a length of black cloth for mourning garments. I was not singled out in any way.

So it was finished.

What now?

You are the King’s lover. That will not change.

But Edward did not want me in his bed. He never sent for me, not once in all those endless days when I could see his suffering. My heart reached out to him, but it was as if he were shrouded in an impenetrable mist from which he was unable or unwilling to break free. He did not want me, did not need me, and so I must wait to see my fate.

The damsels had a final task to complete, and I took my place amongst them. At the King’s command, we packed away all the Queen’s possessions. The hangings and covers of her magnificent bed were cut and stitched into vestments for the clergy of York Minster in memory of that exultant day when Edward and Philippa were wed there. It kept our hands busy if not our minds, and I could not join in the mindless twitterings of the young women, who would go home to their families unless another Court position opened up for them.

And then it was Christmas, a festivity that we did not celebrate. The dancing chambers remained silent. In concern for the King, John of Gaunt returned from Calais to spend the doleful season with his father, shut away at the hunting lodge at Kings Langley, but Edward did not hunt. Chancellor Wykeham, who traveled frequently on royal business
between Windsor and Kings Langley, wore a troubled expression. I did not see Edward again until I accompanied Philippa’s embalmed body to the Tower in the first days of the New Year. When Edward stood beside Philippa’s coffin as it was placed in the tomb, there seemed to be as little life in his still, silent figure as there was in the body they finally laid to rest. His face was gray and worn, head bowed, fingers flexing convulsively on the hilt of his sword. Age had placed its hand on him with cruel precision.

As the solemn words came to an end, I watched Wykeham at the King’s side make the sign of the cross. His eyes moved slowly from Edward’s ashen face to mine, then dropped when he saw me watching him, as if it had been a mere chance meeting of our eyes.

I did not think it was.

At Edward’s orders the solemnities were to last for six days. I thought, in despair, that for Edward they would never end. He returned to the Tower and shut himself away from everyone.

What was I to Edward in these dark days? That was simple enough to describe. I was nothing. I did not exist. I saw him only once, and that a chance passing in an antechamber.

Edward walked through with Wykeham, the same easy stride, but there the similarity ended. There was no appreciation of his surroundings, no ready word for those who came within his recognition. I think he recognized no one.

I curtsied.

Without even a glance, Edward continued to stride ahead with some grim intent.

“Mistress Perrers is here, Sire,” Wykeham murmured to the King, surprising me. He actually touched the King’s arm to claim his attention.

The King stopped, bowed. “Mistress Perrers.”

His eyes slid over my face but they did not linger, did not hold my gaze. His bow had been perfunctory, such as he might make to the lowliest of his servants who performed some menial task for him.

“Sire!” I smiled, struggling to mask my concern. “I trust you are well.”

There was no answering smile. Was this the man whose ready laughter had echoed from the roof in the Great Hall at Havering? Somber black had replaced the crimson and gold of his tunic. Giving no reply, he proceeded toward the door, presenting me with a good solid view of his back. The lover who had stripped the gown from my body and wrapped me in furs was far removed from this man who passed me by without a second thought. I rose to my full height, watching him in astonishment and despair. Wykeham shrugged helplessly and followed. I was left standing alone.

It seemed that Philippa was not the only one to be interred in Edward the Confessor’s chapel. It was as if a hand had been slapped down to still the vibrating strings of a lute.