The King’s Concubine: A Novel of Alice Perrers (40 page)

Windsor’s brows snapped together. “Why have you changed your mind?”

“Sometimes it is necessary to work through a second party. I have decided that I will work with you.”

He made no reply while his regard was fixed on my face.

“It is also,” I suggested smoothly, “a woman’s privilege to change her mind.” I rose to my feet, considered remaining above him, then stepped down from the dais, so that we were all on equal footing. “I trust your offer is still open? If not, then Master Greseley and I will continue to purchase land in the same efficient manner that we have always done. But if you are still of a mind, Sir William…”

“I am.” Was his reply not quite as smooth as was his wont?

“What do you think, Master Greseley?”

“I see advantages, mistress,” he replied in his undemonstrative way, as if nothing could surprise him.

“So it is done,” Windsor observed.

“So it is,” I agreed.

We clasped hands, the three of us.

“Are we business associates, then, Sir William?”

“So it seems. I rarely enjoy being wrong-stepped by anyone, much less by a woman. But on this occasion…I believe it will be a lucrative venture.”

Not only did he clasp my hand but he kissed it.

* * *

My carefully staged little drama had taken him by surprise. To the advantage of both of us, of course. But my planning was nothing to what Windsor achieved next, to all but shake me out of my wits. What’s more, it took no staging on his part, merely a diabolical cunning and an outrageous confidence.

I suppose he thought I deserved it. And perhaps I did.

Meanwhile, as my new associate planned his campaign against me, we celebrated our first joint step into property with a cup of wine. It was a fine Bordeaux, to toast the acquisition of the land, rents, and services of the equally fine manor of Northbrokes in Middlesex. Greseley was lugubrious but satisfied. I was full of delight at our smooth purchase. Windsor was not. Although he worked hard to keep his frustrations smothered beneath a brittle jubilation, as we lifted our cups in mutual appreciation, his mood was somber.

“Can you not get the King to make a decision on Ireland?” he asked when Greseley had left us.

“Edward is not capable of deciding what he will eat to break his fast. You must be patient.”

“It is not in my nature.”

As I knew. I would miss him when he was gone.

I made an error. Or perhaps it was not an error, because it was an outcome I desired, but it turned out to be a dangerous choice on my part. Where had my sense of clear judgment gone? Buried under my successful enterprise with William de Windsor, I expect, thrust aside by my delight in Edward’s return to health. We were at Woodstock, where the hunting was good and Edward, rallying as he often did in new surroundings, was renewed in body and spirit. Or perhaps I was driven by my lamentable ambition to own a king’s ransom in fine jewels. Now, that I cannot deny.

Why was I incapable of seeing the consequences of my request to Edward? I had stepped carefully all my life, and yet here I leaped into a morass that would ultimately drag me down. And what was it that
caused the conflagration? Philippa’s jewels. Some inherited, some gifts, some brought with her to England all those years ago. All magnificent.

“They’re yours.” Edward placed them on the bed in the room he had had constructed with such love for Philippa, and which I now occupied. With the jewels was a letter in his own hand.

…we give and concede to our beloved Alice Perrers, late damsel of the chamber of our most dear consort Philippa, now dead, that to her heirs and executors all the jewels, goods, and chattels that the said Queen left in the hands of Euphemia, wife to Sir Walter de Hasleworth, and the said Euphemia is to deliver them to the said Alice on the receipt of this command.…

Philippa’s jewels. What woman would not want them? They took my breath as I lifted a string of rubies, a collar set with sapphires, a heavy emerald ring, and allowed them to fall back to join their glittering brethren in the metal-bound coffer. Edward had given them to me.

But on whose initiative?

On mine, for my sins. I had asked for them. Since Philippa’s death they had never seen the light of day, but languished in safekeeping with one of the senior ladies of Philippa’s household. And so I had asked for them, and Edward, in his magnificent generosity, had arranged it. Legally and officially they were now mine. And with this simple acquisition of Philippa’s jewelery, I helped to dig my own grave. Thoughtlessness on my part. Greed? I did not think so. They ought to be worn—and who better than the King’s Concubine?

I wore the sapphire collar when the court met for supper.

It was, of course, immediately recognizable, and the whispers began to circulate, between the minced meatballs in jelly and Edward’s favorite dish of salmon in rich cream sauce, damning me for my impertinence. Did I not see the eyes slide disbelievingly over the wealth that gleamed on my bosom? And the murmurs multiplied when next morning I pinned a ruby brooch to my mantle. Disgraceful avarice and greed, they said. The jewels were not mine to take. The King must be besotted or bewitched, one as bad as the other, to give his wife’s jewels to his whore. If they were to be worn, was it not more fitting for them to be seen
around the neck of Isabella or even Princess Joan? Certainly not adorning the neck of Alice Perrers. Had Edward lost his wits entirely?

I could answer my critics. Not that I ever did—why would I? Any reasoning of mine would be rejected out of hand. But of what use was it for such glorious jewels to be shut in a box in a dusty cellar in the home of Lady Euphemia? Far better for them to be worn and enjoyed. It was not as if I were wearing the royal regalia, was it? If Philippa had wished them to be worn by Isabella or Joan, she would have willed them. She did not. Did she will them to me? She did not do that either, but I did not think she would object to seeing them on my person. And I think, truth to tell, she would have seen the humor in it.

Did I have an eye to the future? Of course I did. As Edward’s life-force failed, my preparations for an uncertain future quickened. Greseley might decry gemstones against the lasting value of land, but both were of equal value to me—and what woman could resist a collar of sapphires and pearls? Besides, I could not afford to be complacent. And Edward knew it too, although we did not speak of it beyond his solemn assertion: “At least they’ll put cloth on your back, Alice, and bread in your mouth when I’m not here to provide them.”

Oh, yes. I could make every excuse, but I never did. All I knew was that Edward loved to see me wearing them, and to me that, and my own pleasure, were reasons enough to flaunt them before the censorious Court.

“They become you as well as they became Philippa.” The smile that almost refused to come to Edward’s mouth these days, so weak were his muscles, was very gentle.

“I am not Philippa, my lord.” I was equally gentle. Some days I was not sure that he could even distinguish between us. But on that day he did.

“I know that very well. You are Alice and you are my beloved.”

In response to my wearing a particularly fine emerald ring that Philippa had much loved, and a gold-linked belt set with equally fine stones, Princess Joan’s descent on Woodstock was immediate and vicious. Someone had ensured that the gossip had reached her. “They’re Philippa’s!” She launched into her invective before the door to my parlor was
closed. “By what right do you dare to even touch them, much less wear them!”

On that occasion I was wearing rubies. Well, she would notice those that adorned my hood, as large as cherrystones, wouldn’t she? They were difficult to overlook. At least we were private when Joan grabbed my wrist for her inspection. “I don’t believe it!” She twisted my arm so that the light glittered on the ring and the bloodred clasp around my wrist. “Did you steal them?”

I raised my brows. I would not answer such an accusation.

“Did you?” Joan was always obtuse. “I know you did. It’s the only way you would get your thieving hands on them! They’re the Queen’s. They’re not yours to wear.”

“Oh, I think they are.” My gaze never wavered beneath hers, and at last gave her pause.

“God’s Blood! He gave them to you!”

“Of course he did.”

“What did you have to do to get them from him? No—don’t tell me! I might vomit!”

Without doubt I should have been more circumspect in my reply. “Am I not worthy of them?” I asked, in retrospect not circumspect at all.

“By God, you are not.”

“By God, I am.”

She dropped her hold, retreating in obvious disgust, lips drawn back from her neat teeth. But I followed her. I was no minion to be put in my place. And I was weary of baseless accusations.

“If we are talking of worth and payment here, then consider this, my lady: How many nights have I sat beside the King when he is sleepless? How many nights have I talked or read to keep the nightmares at bay? How many days have I devoted to the melancholy that drags him down?” I pushed on to make her think beyond her prejudices, to make her acknowledge me and what I had achieved. “You know what it is like when a strong man suffers. He is demanding, and yet inconsolable in his weakness. It is not easy for a woman to stand buffer against the horrors that attack him. You know this from your own experience.”

For a moment I saw her hesitate. She understood what I meant. But not for long.

“The Prince is my husband! It is my right and my duty to stand with him! You have no right!”

Holy Mother! Any prudence I might have melted under Joan’s scorn. “And the King is my lover,” I rejoined. “He gave me Philippa’s jewels and I will value them. I will wear them and enjoy them.”

“You wear them like a slut—shamelessly, blatantly—a Court harlot who has demanded jewels for her body.”

But I did not think I was. These were not gifts given in a spirit of payment for services rendered; the jewels had been given out of love. Yet I was without redress. My reputation was made and I must live with it, but sometimes it was very hard to accept the consequences. Perhaps Joan’s savage attack wounded me after all. And that was why I said the unforgivable.

“I had no need to demand, my lady. The King obviously considers gold and gems suitable payment for my superior skills in the bedchamber.”

“Whore!” She stormed from the room.

Joan never forgave me, and I was to pay a high price for my heedlessness, higher than I could have dreamed possible, even though I made an attempt at conciliation, for Edward’s sake. I was not entirely heartless, you understand. Unfortunately my good intentions made matters worse.

Edward decided to visit the Prince at Kennington; I accompanied him with serious intent. Edward, I decided, deserved some peace in his household. War between his mistress and his daughter-in-law—both of us no better than two screeching, scratching cats—should be avoided. Within minutes, King and Prince were deep in discussion of the state of the present truce with France, and I, my feet on a path toward what I suspected would be a lost cause, was shown by the steward into Joan’s solar.

She sat at her embroidery, by her side on the floor her young son, turning the illuminated pages of a book. A charming boy with fair hair and round cheeks, Richard leaped to his feet and bowed with quaint grace.

I curtsied. “My lord. My lady.” I would be courteous.

Joan remained seated with disdain in her eyes. “Mistress Perrers.” Her voice was as flat as her stare.

“His Majesty has come to speak with the Prince.” I was very formal. How to broach this? Head-on as if in the tilting yard was the only way. “How is the Prince?”

I had not needed to ask. I had seen it for myself. His loss of weight was pitiful. Eyes feverish, skin gray, hair dull and lank. The basin positioned beside his daybed was ominous in itself. Joan’s features closed, tight with distress. Unable to hide her fears, she shook her head. I knew she would not lie, would not pretend. For once, her guard was down, with even the moisture of tears in her eyes. This was my one possibility, for Edward’s sake, of draining the poison from her hatred of me.

Grief strong in the set of her mouth, the hard lines deep from nose to chin in her soft flesh, Joan forgot she spoke to me. One tear rolled down her cheek. Then another. “I don’t know what to do for him!” It was a cry from the heart.

“I can help.”

“You! What can you do?” Furiously, she dashed away the tears.

I could have retreated. I would have, if I had known where this would lead, yet faced with such grief, knowing the terror of helplessness for myself when Edward looked at me as if I did not exist, I could not. In my arms I had a little coffer, a delight of sandalwood with ivory corners and metal hinges, and an intricate little lock and key. It was a costly gift in its own right, but its contents were of far greater value to the Prince. I had brought the only offering I could think of that might be acceptable. For sure the Princess would take nothing else from me. I placed it on the chest that held a tangle of her embroidery silks.

“What is that?”

“A gift.”

“I have coffers enough, and of greater value than that.” She barely looked at it, setting a number of stitches, stabbing clumsily at the panel for a purse or an altar cloth.

I thought it unlikely, given its value—for it was a gift to me from Edward—but I let it go.

“It is the contents that are valuable,” I explained gently. The nuns would have been proud of my humility. “A number of nostrums and potions. They will give the Prince ease.…”

“And do these nostrums and potions work?” She stopped stitching.

“They soothed the King in his grief after Philippa died. They helped Philippa too.”

Joan cast aside her sewing. I saw her fingers twitch over the domed
lid. Surely such a gift was impossible to resist. She lifted it to reveal the carefully folded packets of herbs, the glass vials of intense color.

“They are distilled from common plants,” I explained. “I learned the skills at the Abbey. Here are the leaves of lady’s-smock to restore a lost appetite and soothe digestion. A tincture of primrose to aid rest and a quiet mind. White willow bark when the pain is too great to bear. I have written the amounts.” I indicated the sheet of parchment tucked under the lid. “Either you or the Prince’s body servants can mix them with wine as indicated. I’m sure the Prince would enjoy the effects.”