Anne O'Brien - The King's Concubine

The King swept his arm out in a grand gesture. ‘Out! All of you!’ The dogs obediently vanished through the door in a rush of excitement. ‘Will—I’ve been looking at the site for the bath house you proposed.’ He was close enough to clip Wykeham in an affectionate manner on his shoulder. ‘Where’ve you been?’

I might as well not have been there.

‘I’ve been to St Mary’s at Barking, Sire.’ Wykeham smiled.

‘Barking? Why in God’s name?’

‘Business for the Queen, Sire. A new chantry for the two dead Princesses.’

The King nodded. ‘Yes, yes. I’d forgotten. It gives her comfort and—before God!—precious little does.’ And at last he cast a cursory eye over me. ‘WhO’s this? Someone I employ?’ Removing the beaver hat with its brooch and feather, he inclined his head with grave courtesy, even though he thought I was a serving wench. His gaze travelled over my face in a cursory manner. I made another belated curtsey. The King tilted his chin at Wykeham, having made some judgement on me. ‘St Mary’s, you said. Have you helped one of the sisters to escape, Will?’

Wykeham smiled dryly. ‘The Queen sent for her.’

Those sharp blue eyes returned. ‘One of her waifs and strays perhaps. To be rescued for her own good. What’s your name, girl?’

‘Alice, Sire.’

‘Glad to escape?’

‘Yes, Sire.’ It was heartfelt, and must have sounded it.

And Edward laughed, a sound of great joy that made me smile too. ‘So would I be. Serving God’s all very well, but not every hour of every day. Do you have talents?’ He frowned at me as if he could not imagine it. ‘Play a lute?’ I shook my head. ‘Sing? My wife likes music.’

‘No, Sire.’

‘Well, I suppose she has her reasons.’ He was already losing interest, turning away. ‘And if it makes her happy … Come here!’

I started, thinking that he meant me, but he clicked his fingers at a rangy alaunt that had slunk back into the Hall and was following some scent along the edge of a tapestry. It obeyed to fawn and rub against him as he twisted his fingers into its collar. ‘Tell Her Majesty, Will—No, on second thoughts, you come with me. You’ve completed your task for the Queen. I’ve demands on your time for my new bath house.’ He raised his voice. ‘Joscelyn! Joscelyn!’

A man approached from where he had been waiting discreetly beside the screen.

‘Yes, Sire.’

‘Take this girl to the Queen. She has sent for her. Now, Will …’ They were already knee-deep in planning. ‘I think there’s the perfect site. Let me get rid of these dogs and birds …’ Whistling softly to the raptor on his wrist, the King headed to the door. Wykeham followed. They left me without a second look. Why would they not?

Sir Joscelyn, who I was to learn was the royal steward, beckoned me to follow him but I hesitated and looked back over my shoulder. Wykeham was nodding, my last view of him gesturing with his hands as if describing the size and extent of the building he envisaged. They laughed together, the King’s strong voice overlaying Wykeham’s softer responses. And then he was gone with the King, as if my last friend on earth had deserted me. My only friend. And, of course, he wasn’t, but who else did I know here? I would not forget his brusque kindness. As for the King, I had expected a crown or at least a chain of office. Not a pack of dogs and a hawk. But there was no denying the sovereignty that sat as lightly on his shoulders as a summer mantle.

‘Come on, girl. I haven’t got all day.’

I sighed and followed the steward to discover what would become of me as one of the Queen’s habitual waifs and strays. I stuffed the rosary that I still clutched into the bosom of my overgown and followed as I had been bidden.

The Queen’s apartments were silent. Finding no one in any of the antechambers to whom he could hand me over, Sir Joscelyn rapped on a door, was bidden to enter and did so, drawing me with him. I found myself on the threshold of a large sun-filled room so full of colour and activity and soft chatter, of feminine glamour, that it filled my whole vision, more than even the grandeur of the Great Hall. Here was every hue and tint I could imagine, creating butterflies of the women who inhabited the room. Ill-mannered certainly, but I stared at so beguiling a scene. There they were, chattering as they stitched, books and games to hand for those who wished, not an enshrouding wimple or brow-hugging veil amongst them. A whole world of which I had no knowledge to enchant ear and eye. The ladies talked and laughed; someone was singing to the clear notes of a lute. There was no silence here.

I could not see the Queen in their midst. Neither, to my relief, could I see the Countess of Kent.

The steward cast an eye and discovered the face he sought.

‘My lady.’ His bow was perfection. Learning fast, I curtseyed. ‘I would speak with Her Majesty.’

Princess Isabella looked up from the lute she was playing but her fingers continued to strum idly over the strings. Now I knew the source of her beautiful fairness: she was her father’s daughter in height and colouring.

‘Her Majesty is indisposed, Joscelyn. Can it wait?’

‘I was commanded to bring this person to Her Majesty.’ He nudged me forward with haughty condescension. I curtseyed again.

‘Why?’ Her gaze remained on the lute strings. She was not the King’s daughter in kindness.

‘Wykeham brought her, my lady.’

The Princess’s eye lifted to take in my person. ‘Who are you?’

‘Alice, my lady.’ There was no welcome here. Not even a memory of who I was. ‘From St Mary’s Abbey at Barking, my lady.’

A line dug between Isabella’s brows, then smoothed. ‘I remember. The girl with the rosary—the one who worked in the kitchens or some such.’

‘Yes, my lady.’

‘Her Majesty sent for you?’ Her fingers strummed over the lute strings again and her foot tapped impatiently. ‘I suppose I must do something with you.’ The glint in her eye, I decided, was not friendly.

One of the ladies approached to put her hand on the Princess’s shoulder with the confidence of long acquaintance. ‘Play for us, Isabella. We have a new song.’

‘With pleasure. Take the girl to the kitchens, Joscelyn. Give her a bed and some food. Then put her to work. I expect that’s what Her Majesty intended.’

‘Yes, my lady.’

Isabella had already given her attention to the ladies and their new song. The steward bowed himself out, pushing me before him, the door closing on that magical scene. I had not managed to step beyond the threshold, and I was shaken by a desire to do so, to be part of the life that went on behind that closed door.

Sir Joscelyn strode off without a word, expecting me to follow, as I did. I should be grateful that I was being given food and a place to sleep. Would life as a kitchen wench at Havering-atte-Bower be better or worse than as a conversa in the Abbey at Barking? Would it be better than life as a drudge in the Perrers household?’ I was about to find out, thanks to the effortless malice of Princess Isabella, for I knew, beyond doubt, that the Queen had not brought me all the way from Barking to pluck chickens in her kitchens. It was all Isabella’s fault. I knew an enemy when I saw one.

‘This girl, Master Humphrey …’ The steward’s expression spoke his contempt. ‘Another of Her Majesty’s gutter sweepings to live off our charity.’

A grunt was all the reply he got. Master Humphrey was wielding a cleaver on the carcass of a pig, splitting it down the backbone with much-practised skill.

‘The Lady said to bring her to you.’

The cook stopped, in mid-chop, and looked up under grizzled brows. ‘And what, may I ask, do I do with her?’