Anne O'Brien - The King's Concubine

‘I’m no thief!’ I kicked Sim on the shin. ‘Let go of me!’

‘Bugger it, wench!’ His hold tightened. ‘Told you she wasn’t to be trusted.’ He addressed the room at large. ‘Too high an opinion of herself by half! She’s a thief!’ And he raised one hand above his head, Philippa’s gift gripped between his filthy fingers. The rosary glittered, its value evident to all. Rage shook me. How dared he take what was mine?

‘Thief!’

‘I am not!’

‘Where did you get it?’

‘She came from a convent.’ One voice was raised on my behalf.

‘I wager she owned nothing as fine as this, even in a convent.’

‘Fetch Sir Jocelyn!’ ordered Master Humphrey. ‘I’m too busy to deal with this.’

And then it all happened very quickly. ‘This belongs to Her Majesty.’ Sir Joscelyn gave his judgement. All eyes were turned on me, wide with disgust. ‘The Queen ill, and you would steal from her!’

‘She gave it to me!’ I was already pronounced guilty but my instinct was to fight.

‘You stole it!’

‘I did not.’

I tried to keep my denial even, my response calm, but I was not calm at all. Fear paralysed my mind. Much could be forgiven but not this. For the first time I learned the depth of respect for the Queen, even in the lowly kitchens and sculleries. I looked around the faces, full of condemnation and disgust. Sim and his cohort enjoying every minute of it.

‘Where’s the Marshall?’

‘In the chapel,’ one of the scullions piped up.

With the rosary in one hand and me gripped hard in the other Sir Joscelyn dragged me along and into the royal chapel, to the chancel where two labourers were lifting a wood and metal device of cogs and wheels from a handcart. There, keeping a close eye on operations, was Lord Herbert, the Marshall, whose word was law. And beside him stood the King himself. Despair was a physical pain in my chest.

‘Your Majesty. Lord Herbert.’

‘Not now, Sir Joscelyn.’ King and Marshall were preoccupied. All eyes were on the careful lifting of the contraption. We stood in silence as it was positioned piece by piece on the floor. ‘Good. Now …’

Edward turned to our importunate little group. So I was to be accused before the King himself, judged by those piercing eyes. I shivered as the evidence was produced, examined, the ownership confirmed, and I shivered even more as I was tried, condemned and sentenced by Lord Herbert to be shut in a cellar, all without listening to a word I said. And the King? He could barely snatch his concentration from the contraption at his feet, whilst I suffered for a crime I had not committed. Within the time it took to snap his fingers he would pass me over to the Marshall. It must not be! I would get his attention and keep it. And the flare of ambition and fiery resentment that I had felt under the tyranny of Countess Joan once more flickered over my skin.

I am worth more than this. I deserve more than this .

I wanted more than the half-life in the kitchens of Havering. I would make the King notice me.

‘Sire!’ I discovered a bold confidence. ‘I am the woman the Queen sent for. And this lout …’ I pointed a finger at Sim ‘… whO’s fit only to be booted out of this palace onto the midden, calls me a thief!’

‘Does he now!’ The King’s interest caught—but only mildly so.

I renewed my attack. ‘I appeal to you, Your Majesty, for justice. No one will listen to me. Is it because I am a woman? I appeal to you, Sire.’

The royal eyes widened considerably. ‘The King will always give justice.’

‘Not in your kitchens, Sire. Justice is more like a clip round the ear or a grope in a dark corner from this turd!’ I had absorbed a wealth of vocabulary during my time in the kitchens. I had the King’s attention now right enough.

‘Then I must remedy your criticisms of my kitchens.’ The sardonic reply held out little hope. ‘Did you steal this?’

‘No!’ Fear of close dark places, of being shut in the cellar, made me undaunted. ‘It is rightfully come by. Wykeham knows I did not steal it. He’ll tell you.’

Little good it did me. ‘He might,’ the King observed. ‘Unfortunately he’s not here but gone to Windsor.’

‘Her Majesty knows I did not.’ It was my last hope—but no hope at all.

‘We’ll not trouble Her Majesty.’ The King’s face was suddenly dark, contemptuous. ‘You’ll not disturb the Queen with this. Lord Herbert.’ The dark cellar loomed.

‘No!’ I gasped.

‘What is it that you will not trouble me with, Edward?’

And with that one question, the tiniest speck of hope began to grow in me.

A gentle voice, soft on the ear. Sir Joscelyn and Lord Herbert bowed. The King strode forward, so close to me that his tunic brushed against me, to take the Queen’s hand and draw her towards one of the choir stalls. His face changed, the lines of irritation smoothing, his lips softening. There was a tenderness, as if they were alone together. The Queen smiled up into his face, enclosing his hand in both of her own. Simple gestures but so strong, so affectionate. There was no doubting it. Taken up as I was with my own miseries, I could still see it and marvel at it. The King gave her a tender kiss on her cheek.

‘Philippa, my love. Are you strong enough to be here? You should be resting.’

‘I have been resting for the past week. I wish to see the clock.’

‘You don’t look strong.’

‘Don’t fuss, Edward. I feel better.’

She did not look it. Rather she was drawn and grey.

‘Sit down, my dear.’ The King pushed her gently to the cushioned seat. ‘Does your shoulder pain you?’

‘Yes. But it is not fatal.’ The Queen sat up straight, cradling her left elbow in her right palm, and surveyed what I realised was the makings of a clock. ‘It is very fine. When will you get it working?’ Then she noticed the number of people in the chapel. ‘What’s happening here?’

The Marshall cleared his throat. ‘This girl, Majesty.’ He glowered at me.

As the Queen looked at me, I saw the memory return, and with it recognition. Awkwardly she turned her whole body in her chair until she was facing me. ‘Alice?’

‘Yes, Majesty.’ I curtseyed as best I could since my arm was still in the grip of Lord Herbert, as if I might make a bid for freedom.

‘I sent Wykeham to fetch you.’ Philippa’s forehead was furrowed with the effort of recall, as if it were a long time ago. ‘You must have arrived when I was ill.’

‘Yes, Majesty.’

‘What are you doing?’

‘Working in your kitchens.’

‘Are you?’ She appeared astonished. Then gave a soft laugh. ‘Who sent you there?’

‘The Princess Isabella.’ Sir Joscelyn was quick to apportion blame elsewhere. ‘She thought that was your intent.’

‘Did she? I doubt my daughter thought at all beyond her own desires. You should have known better, Sir Joscelyn.’

An uncomfortable silence lengthened until Lord Herbert pronounced, ‘The girl is a thief, Your Majesty.’

‘Are you?’ the Queen asked.

‘No, Majesty.’

Edward held out the rosary. ‘I’m afraid she is. Is this yours, my love?’

‘Yes. Or it was. You gave it to me.’

‘I did? The girl was wearing it.’

‘I expect she would. I gave it to her.’

‘I told them that, my lady,’ I appealed, ‘but they would not believe me.’

‘To a kitchen maid? Why would you do that?’ The King spread his hands in disbelief.

The Queen sighed. ‘Let go of her, Lord Herbert. She’ll not run away. Come here, Alice. Let me look at you.’

I discovered that I had been holding my breath. When the Queen held out her hand I fell to my knees before her in gratitude, returning her regard when her tired eyes moved slowly, speculatively, over my face. As if she was trying to anchor some deep wayward thought that was not altogether pleasing to her. Then she nodded and touched my cheek.