Anne O'Brien - The King's Concubine

‘How can knowledge be power?’

‘It can, if what you know is of importance to someone else.’

What could I learn at the Abbey? To read the order of the day. To dig roots in the garden. To make simples in the Infirmary. To polish the silver vessels in the Abbey church.

‘What would I do with such learning?’ I asked in despair. How I loathed her in that moment of self-knowledge.

‘How would I know that? But I would say this. It is important for a woman to have the duplicity to make good use of what gifts she might have, however valueless they might seem. Do you have that?’

Duplicity? Did I possess it? I had no idea. I shook my head.

‘Guile! Cunning! Scheming!’ she snapped, my ignorance an affront. ‘Do you understand?’ The Countess retraced her steps to murmur in my ear as if it were a kindness. ‘You have to have the strength to pursue your goal, without caring how many enemies you make along the road. It is not easy. I have made enemies all my life, but on the day I wed the Prince they will be as chaff before the wind. I will laugh in their faces and care not what they say of me. Would you be willing to do that? I doubt it.’ The mockery of concern came swiftly to an end. ‘Set your mind to it, girl. All you have before you is your life in this cold tomb, until the day they clothe you in your death habit and sew you into your shroud.’

‘No!’ The terrible image drove me to cry out as if I had been pricked on the arm with one of Countess Joan’s well-sharpened pens. ‘I would escape from here.’ I had never said it aloud before, never put it into words. How despairing it sounded. How hopeless, but in that moment I was overwhelmed by the enormity of all that I lacked, and all that I might become if I could only encompass it.

‘Escape? And how would you live?’ An echo of Sister Goda’s words that were like a knife against my heart. ‘Without resources you would need a husband. Unless you would be a whore. A chancy life, short and brutish. Not one I would recommend. Better to be a nun.’ Sweeping me aside, she strode from the room and out into the courtyard, where she settled herself in her litter, and as I reached to deposit the monkey on the cushions and close the curtains, my services for her complete, I heard her final condemnation. ‘You’ll never be anything of value in life. So turn your mind from it.’ Then with a glinting smile, ‘I have decided how to reward you. Take the Barbary. I suppose it will give you some distraction—I begin to find it a nuisance.’

The creature was thrust out of the litter, back into my arms.

Thus in a cloud of dust Countess Joan was gone with her dogs and hawk and all her unsettling influences. But I did not forget her. For Countess Joan had applied a flame to my imagination. When it burned so fiercely that it was almost a physical hurt, I wished with all my heart I could quench it, but the fire never left me. The venal hand of ambition had fallen on me, grasping my shoulder with lethal strength, and refused to release me.

I am worth more than this, I determined as I knelt with the sisters at Compline, young as I was. I will be of value! I will make something of my life.

And had I not done so, by one means or another? Now I smiled, even as the vile stench of tallow filled my nose and throat. Despite the Countess’s judgement of me, here I was, by some miracle, at Havering-atte-Bower. Fate had snatched me up from the Abbey. I hummed tunelessly to myself. Why should fate not see a path to get me out of this hellish pit of heat and rank odours to where I might spread my wings? Especially if I gave it a helping hand.

As I dissuaded with the side of my foot one of the kitchen kittens from clawing at my skirts, I was distracted and my humming became a sharp hiss as the tallow dripped hotly onto my hand, pulling me back into the present.

When Princess Joan returned from Aquitaine, the frivolous royal Court would circle round the vivacious new Princess rather than the fading, unprepossessing Queen. Queen Philippa’s virtues would count for nothing against the brilliance of Princess Joan. I felt sorry that the Queen would be so eclipsed by a woman who was not worthy of fastening her laces, but was that not the order of things?

‘Well,’ I announced to the kitten, which had latched its claws into my shoe, ‘virtue or ambition? Goodness or worldliness? I would enjoy being able to choose between the two.’

Scooping it up, I shut the creature outside in the scullery, ignoring its plaintive mewing, as I went to answer an enraged bellow from Master Humphrey. Virtue was a fine thing—but could be as dull as a platter of day-old bread. Now, ambition was quite another matter—as succulent as the pheasants that Master Humphrey was simmering in spiced wine for the royal table.

And what happened to the monkey? Mother Abbess ordered it to be taken to the Infirmary and locked in a cellar. I never saw it again. Considering its propensity to bite, I was not sorry. Still I smiled. If I had the monkey now, I would set it loose on Sim with much malice and enjoyment.

Then all was danger, without warning. Two weeks of the whirlwind of kitchen life at Havering had lulled me into carelessness. And on that day I had been taken up with the noxious task of scrubbing down the chopping block where the joints of meat were dismembered.

‘And when you’ve done that, fetch a basket of scallions from the storeroom—and see if you can find some sage in the garden. Can you recognise it?’ Master Humphrey, shouting after me, still leaned toward the scathing.

‘Yes, Master Humphrey.’ Any fool can recognise sage .

I wrung out the cloth, relieved to escape the heat and sickening stench of fresh blood.

‘And bring some chives while you’re at it, girl!’

I was barely out of the door when my wrist was seized in a hard grip and I was almost jolted off my feet—and into the loathsome arms of Sim.

‘Well, if it isn’t Mistress Alice with her good opinion of herself!’

I raised my hand to cuff his ear but he ducked and held on. This was just Sim trying to make trouble since I had deterred him from lifting my skirts with the point of a knife and the red punctures still stood proud on his hand.

‘Get off me, you oaf!’

Sim thrust me back against the wall and I felt the familiar routine of his knee pushing between my legs.

‘I’d have you gelded if I had my way!’ I bit his hand.

Sim was far stronger than I. He laughed and wrenched the neck of my tunic. I felt it tear, and then the shoulder of my shift, and at the same time I felt the fragile string give way. Queen Philippa’s rosary, the precious gift that I had worn around my neck out of sight, slithered under my shift to the floor. I squirmed, escaped and pounced. But not fast enough. Sim snatched it up.

‘Well, well!’ He held it up above my head.

‘Give it back!’

‘Let me fuck you and I will.’

‘Not in this lifetime.’ But my whole concentration was on my beads.

So was Sim’s. He eyed the lovely strand where it swung in the light and I saw knowledge creep into his eyes. ‘Now, this is worth a pretty penny, if I don’t mistake.’

I snatched at it but he was running, dragging me with him. At that moment, as I almost tripped and fell, I knew. He would make trouble for me.

‘What’s this?’ Master Humphrey looked up at the rumpus.

‘We’ve a thief here, Master Humphrey!’ Sim’s eyes gleamed with malice.

‘I know you are, my lad. Didn’t I see you pick up a hunk of cheese and stuff it into your big gob not an hour ago?’

‘This’s more serious than cheese, Master Humphrey.’ Sim’s grin at me was an essay in slyness.

And in an instant we were surrounded. ‘Robber! Pick-purse! Thief!’ A chorus of idle scullions and mischief-making pot boys.