The King’s Concubine: A Novel of Alice Perrers (30 page)

“Where’s the King? It is imperative that I see him.”

“The King is in his private chamber. He will not see you.” If I heard such conversations once in those weeks after Philippa was laid to rest, I heard them a dozen times, and the answer, delivered in the bleakest of tones by William Latimer, steward to the royal household, was always the same, whether the petitioner was noble or commoner.

“His Majesty will see no one.”

A light had been extinguished in Edward’s heart. Abandoning London, he shut himself away in his rooms at Havering, where Philippa had loved to stay, letting matters of government slide. The problems in France, where the Prince was increasingly under attack and still not restored to health, might not have existed for all the interest he took. The country shivered under ice and snow as the rooms of the palace echoed in a weird desolation. The Court whispered, uncertain, in a grip of gloom. A country without its head, without its King. Without leadership.

The whispers intensified. The King was as good as dead.

Philippa’s ladies had dispersed to their families or to other noble households where their skills were in demand as confidante or companion. Not I. The pattern of my life hung on the decision of this king who shut himself away in his chamber. I had never felt so alone, not even when standing in the street, a new widow. At least Greseley came to find me then. No one saw my need at Havering.

I wrote to William de Windsor, perversely, since I had hedged on the promise to do so, informing him of the lack of policy toward Ireland and the reason for it, and perhaps to tell someone of my own insecurity.

The King gives no direction to government. I doubt he thinks of Ireland at all. You are your own man, free to administer affairs as you wish. I think you may expect no more information from me. I fear my days at Court are numbered.

And then, on a whim—perhaps an ill-considered one:

I miss your forthright conversation, Sir William. Sometimes I wish you were recalled again to London to answer for your sins. I think I might give you a hearing. At the risk of sounding weak and destroying your expressed admiration of me, I have no one to talk to here.

Such was my isolation. I sent the letter but had no knowledge of its arrival.

We were a Court in waiting for Edward to emerge from his mourning and take up his sword once more. Did not King Arthur sleep, to return to England in her hour of need? Surely Edward would do the same.

He did not.

I tried to reach him, of course, only to find a guard on his door. I was not even announced. The King did not wish to see me. I wrote to Edward, persuading Latimer to ensure my plea was delivered.

Don’t shut me out, my lord. Let me talk to you. Let me give you solace. We both suffer from the loss of your dear wife. We can mourn together.

Remember what we have been to each other.

Allow me to return to your side.

My pen hovered over the page as I considered whether to tell him of the child that grew in my belly. I did not. Latimer took the note but there was no reply.

“Did he read it?” I asked.

“I don’t think he did.” Latimer’s face was stark with furrows of concern. “It is impossible to reach him.”

Almost I admitted defeat. Short of running the guard through with his own sword and battering down the door, I could achieve nothing.

But it broke my heart to leave Edward in this trough of despondency. Who would talk to him? Who would read or play chess with him? Who would entice him out of the black pit that he had fallen into? “Get him to see me!” I ordered, even though I had no authority of my own to order anything. I almost laughed at the expression on Latimer’s face. He was unsure whether I was an abomination in the sight of God and man or a heavenly courier sent to release the King from his travails. I closed my hand on his forearm, gripping hard. “Tell the King I carry his child, if you have to. And if you can’t, get Wykeham to do it. But do whatever it takes to get me into the King’s presence!”

Latimer eyed me.

“Do it, Latimer.”

Do it! For all our sakes!

Well, my vehemence had some effect. We were walking, Wykeham and I, Braveheart pattering after us, through the antechambers into the old section of the palace that was now rarely used. At last the Chancellor had come to my room to summon me. Except that this was not the way to the royal apartments.

“Where are we going?”

He did not reply, striding so rapidly, robes billowing, that I could barely keep up. His expression was stormy, his features tight with displeasure.

“Is it Edward?” I asked. “Has he asked for me?”

“No.”

Hope died. “Then where…?”

“Just shut up and wait, woman.…”

He marched on in a surly mood, with me beside him. In truth I was intrigued. This part of the palace was empty and silent, the walls
stripped of their tapestries, the floors unswept. I noticed with interest that others had walked this way before us, and recently, their boot prints and scuff marks plain in the dust. The prints stopped at a door that Wykeham pushed open, and I was directed with a brusque nod into a chamber I did not know, my wolfhound shut out to whine and scratch in the antechamber. Much like many others, it was a small room built into the curve of a wall, bright with bars of sunshine angling through the narrow window slits. A fireplace was built into the wall, but there was no fire, and the room was as cold as an unused room could be. A standing table occupied most of the space, with stools set around it, but they were unoccupied. The men in occupation stood in a little group by one of the windows. The room seemed crowded with a heavy presence. It looked, I thought, like a war council.

I glanced across to Wykeham for an explanation, and did not get it.

“Mistress Perrers. Allow me to introduce you.”

His tone was clipped, hard with distaste—but with me or the body of men, or with the whole situation, I could not tell. Nor did I need the introductions. Had I not lived cheek by jowl with them in the various palaces since the day I had come into Philippa’s employ?

I curtsied, my mind working furiously as Wykeham made the introductions. First was William Latimer, Edward’s steward. Then John Neville, lord of Raby. A surprise: Richard Lyons—not a courtier, but a man of finance, a merchant and master of the royal mint. The others: Nicholas Carew, Richard le Scrope, Robert Thorp. All, I realized in that first greeting, united by one common factor: ambition. Their eyes were avid with it, young men who hoped to further their careers in service to the Crown. I did not know whether they were men of talent, but I thought that perhaps they were. As Wykeham closed the door behind me, I saw them more as a feral pack of wolves, ready to pounce on any opportunity to step up the ladder to high office and destroy any fool who dared to stand in their way. But how did I fit into their schemes…?

And then there was one more. A royal son, no less. John of Gaunt.

They bowed.

“Please sit,” Wykeham invited.

I did. So did the conspirators—for surely that was what they were—except for Gaunt, who stood against the wall, arms folded.

“Why am I here?” I asked. I saw no point in adopting innocence or good manners. This meeting was not for public consumption, and I doubted that most of these fine gentlemen, except for Wykeham and perhaps Latimer, would give me the time of day in normal circumstances.

They exchanged glances. Who, I wondered, would be the spokesman?

It was Latimer. “Can we trust you?”

Well, that was forthright enough. I replied in kind. “Unless you are plotting rebellion, or the King’s death, then I expect you can.” There they all sat, faces shuttered. Wary. “Perhaps you are? Is this a plot?”

“Not quite.” The twist of Latimer’s lips in acknowledgment was bleak. “The King has…” He hitched a shoulder under the rich damask bearing Edward’s heraldic device as he searched for a word. “…withdrawn.”

“Withdrawn? A milksop judgment, by God!” I responded. “He has incarcerated himself in his rooms and refuses to come out!”

Latimer cleared his throat. “We must bring him back.”

I looked ’round at the gloomy expressions. “And you cannot?”

I knew they couldn’t. I caught the eye of Gaunt, who had paid a visit to his father less than a week ago, leaving again within an hour with a furious face and spurs used viciously against his horse’s flanks. Now I thought he might reply, but the royal Prince deliberately turned his head to look out of the window, leaving it to Latimer to commit them to whatever devious policy had brought them—and me—here.

“The King sinks further into melancholy. His physicians despair,” Latimer said, and looked at Wykeham, who nodded. “We want you to speak to him.”

“He will not see me. I have tried.” They must know of my failure.

“We can arrange that you do.”

“And what do you want me to say to him?” I played the innocent, enjoying Latimer’s discomfort.

“We want you to…to give him solace…to encourage him to…”

“Say it, Latimer!” Wykeham growled.

Latimer huffed out a breath. “We want you to give him physical comfort.”

“In effect, you want me to play the whore.”

“Yes.” Suddenly Gaunt was there, stepping up to the table, dominating it. He was a vitally handsome man, with his father’s height and fine features, but none of his ease of manner, a man notorious for enjoying the value of women in his own life. He waved Latimer aside and spoke bluntly. “The King is not incapable. He still has the ability to fuck a woman and reap the pleasure of it. It might bring him back to his senses.”

I was shocked to hear the proposal stated so coarsely, and I was not inclined to be compliant when every one of them would have condemned me for daring to take that role.

“Then if that’s what’s needed, pay a palace whore,” I replied with a tight smile.

“Unsatisfactory.” Gaunt brushed the idea away like an annoying fly, with an openhanded swipe. “I hope for a more subtle solution.”

“And you think I can be subtle.”

“I think you have a whole range of talents, discretion being one of them. And you were well liked by the Queen. You could be the answer to our prayers.”

I laughed, surprising them. What a turnabout from these men who viewed me as some form of pond life, dwelling in the filth of unspeakable sin. I had taken Philippa’s place in Edward’s bed; did they now want me to play the role of the loving, maternal Philippa too?

“He needs a confidante as much as he needs a whore.” Gaunt confirmed it.

“A concubine, then.”

He bowed. “Exactly.”

“A wife but not a wife.”

“In so many words…”

“Openly acknowledged by the Court?”

“If we must.”

I looked ’round at them. Not one of them approved. Not one of them wanted this.

“Why me, my lords?” I would make them admit it. I would make them say what had been unsaid through all the years since I had lifted my shift in Edward’s bed.

“Because he has enjoyed your body often enough in the past,” Gaunt snapped.

Of course they knew. All the Court had known, even if it was not spoken of except in murmurings over wine cups or in whispers between lovers, in their efforts to protect Philippa. Even when she was the instigator of the scandal. The sheer hypocrisy of it beat against the walls that hemmed us in, stirring into rampant life my determination to be cowed by no one.

“So I return to Edward as his lover,” I remarked conversationally. “What then?”

“Make him return to government. Make him pick up the reins of authority again. We can’t continue as we are now with the King shut away and the Prince taken to his bed in Gascony.” Gaunt’s fist thumped the board.

“I don’t know that I can.” Gaunt would get no bloodless victory over me.

Wykeham sighed. “You can. You’re a clever woman, Alice.”

I tilted my head and looked at him, noting his use of my name.

“And you’re our last hope.” Latimer flushed at what he had admitted.

I stood as if I might refuse. As if I might leave. How exhilarating was power, knowing that I held them all in the palm of my hand. I took a step.…

“Needs must when the devil’s in control!” Gaunt snapped. “Enough! Here’s the truth of it, Mistress Perrers. We are in mortal danger. The days of England’s greatness appear to be draining away, and I smell rebellion in the air. We need my father at the helm. He’s not young, but he’s still capable of wearing the crown and ruling, if only we can…” He lifted his hands in near despair. “If only we can catch his interest and bring him back to life.”

We.
We were in collusion. We were a circle of plotters, taut with expectation, all driven, all concerned for the future, our own and England’s, but their repugnace for this negotiation with me smeared the air like the miasma of pestilence. A quick anger shook me, and I turned my stare on Gaunt. By God! I would make them beg.

He turned away to drive his fist into the stone lintel at the window. It was Wykeham, generous Wykeham, who spoke the words.

“Will you do it?” he asked. “Will you rescue our King?”

Again, a beat of hesitation, as I luxuriated in making these men of power and breeding wait on my decision.

Then: “Yes. I will.” And I saw the relief sweep through them, muscles relaxing, smiles appearing. The business was done—or so they thought. But it was not—not to any degree. “And what, my lords, did it take for you to trample over your damned morality and ask me, the King’s whore, for help?”

To do him justice, it was Gaunt who replied. “It will be worth the price if we can restore the King to his powers.” Walking ’round the table, he took and kissed my hand. “We are grateful.”

“How can I refuse so gracious an admission,” I murmured.

There was a concerted sigh. And in that exhalation I realized the truth of what had been done here. The power of these courtiers—excepting Gaunt—their future preferment, their wealth and place in government might rest on the King’s pleasure, but now their ambitions were dependent on me. We all had everything to lose if the King were allowed to fade into obscurity. We were indeed in collusion. But I would not let them off the hook quite yet.