The King's Concubine

Prologue

“Today you will be my Lady of the Sun,” King Edward says as he approaches to settle me into my chariot. “My Queen of Ceremonies.”

And not before time!

I don’t say the words, of course—I am, after all, a woman of perception—but I think them. I have waited too many years for this acclaim. Twelve years as Edward’s whore.

“Thank you, my lord,” I murmur, curtsying deeply, my smile as sweet as honey.

I sit, a cloak of shimmering gold tissue spread around me to show a lining of scarlet taffeta. My gown is red, lined with white silk and edged in ermine: Edward’s colors, royal fur fit for a queen. Over all glitters a myriad of precious stones refracting the light: rubies as red as blood, sapphires dark and mysterious, strange beryls capable of destroying the power of poison. Everyone knows that I wear Queen Philippa’s jewels.

I sit at my ease, alone in my preeminence, my hands loose in my bejeweled lap. This is my right!

I look around to see if I might catch sight of the black scowl of the Princess Joan. No sign of her, my sworn enemy. She’ll be tucked away in her chamber at Kennington, ill-wishing me. Joan the Fair. Joan the Fat! An adversary to be wary of, with the sensitivity and morals of a feral cat in heat.

My gaze slides to Edward as he mounts his stallion, and my smile softens. He is tall and strong and good to look on. What a pair we make, he and I. The years have not yet pressed too heavily on him, while I am in my prime. An ugly woman, by all accounts, but not without talent.

I am Alice. Royal Concubine. Edward’s beloved Lady of the Sun…

Ah…! I blink as a swooping pigeon smashes the scene in my mind, flinging reality back at me with cruel exactitude. Sitting in my orchard, far from Court and my King, I am forced to accept the truth. How low have I fallen. I am caged in impotent loneliness, like Edward’s long-dead lion, powerless, isolated, stripped of everything I had made for myself.

I am nothing. Alice Perrers is no more.