The King's Concubine

Chapter Four

Havering-atte-Bower. I knew nothing of royal palaces in those days when I arrived in Wykeham’s dusty wake. Nor was the grandeur of the place my first priority. Every muscle in my body groaned at its ill usage. We could not come to a halt fast enough for me; all I wanted was to slide down from that lumbering creature and set my feet on solid ground. But once we were in the courtyard at Havering, I simply sat and stared.

“Are you going to dismount today, mistress?” Wykeham’s tone was lacking in compassion. “What’s wrong with you?” He was already dismounted and halfway up the steps to the huge iron-studded door.

“I’ve never seen…” He wasn’t listening, so I closed my mouth.

I have never seen anything so magnificent.

The palace was strangely welcoming, owning a seductive charm that St. Mary’s with its gray-stone austerity lacked. It seemed vast to me, though I was to learn that for a royal palace it was small and intimate. The stonework of the building glowed in the afternoon sunshine, a haphazard arrangement of rooms and apartments, the arches of a chapel to the right, the bulk of the original Great Hall to my left, then further outbuildings, sprawling in all directions from the courtyard. Roofs and walls jutted at strange angles as the whim had taken the builders over the years. And if that were not enough, the whole palace was hemmed about by pasture and lightly wooded stretches like a length of green velvet wrapped ’round a precious jewel.

It filled me with awe.

“It’s beautiful!”

My voice must have carried. “It’ll do, for now,” Wykeham growled. “The King’s grandfather built it—the first Edward. The Queen likes it—that’s the main thing—it’s her manor. It will be better when I’ve had my hands on it. I’ve a mind to put in new kitchens now that the King has his household here too.” He fisted his hands on his hips. “For God’s sake, woman. Get off that animal.”

I sat where I was. The ground looked far away. “I need help.”

“Then let Rob…”

I ignored the snort of amusement from the groom, who had made no attempt to aid me.

“I suppose, sir, I am too far below you to expect you to help me to dismount.” I was all demure insouciance, except for the tilt of my chin.

“Yes. You are.” But Wykeham’s mouth twitched as he stomped back to my side. “And I suspect you are a baggage! Where did you learn that, enclosed in a nunnery?”

“I have been married,” I informed him, hinting nothing of its brevity or its lack.

“Then that must account for it.”

I did not think so. I think my wit—its immediacy—had always been there, hidden away until I had the freedom to be myself. With a hand to my arm, he helped me to slide from the animal’s broad rump as adeptly as I could manage.

“Thank you, sir.” I held on tight for a moment as my muscles quivered in protest.

“I am at your disposal. Tell me when you can stand without falling over!”

I loosed my grip with a pert smile for the irony.

Wykeham led the way up the shallow flight of steps, pushing open the door and stepping into the Great Hall. It was an echoing space, tables and trestles cleared away for the day except for the solid board on the dais at the far end. Cool after the heat of the sun, it was a pleasant place to be, the rafters above my head merging into deep shadows striped with soft bars of sunlight, like the coat of a tabby cat. Servants moved quietly, purposefully replacing the candles in the wall sconces. A burst of laughter came from behind the screens at the far end that closed off the entrance to the kitchens. The tapestries on the walls glowed with rich color, mirrored in the tiles beneath my feet. A maidservant crossed the room, busy with a tray of cups and a flagon, with a brief curtsy in Wykeham’s direction.

My eye followed her.

Was this, then, to be my destiny? To work in the kitchens of the royal palace? But why? Did the Queen not have enough servants? If she needed more, would her steward not find enough willing girls from the neighboring villages? I could not see why she would bring me all the way from the Abbey to be a serving wench. Perhaps she needed a tire-woman, one who could read and write, but, remembering Lady Marian, I could hardly claim the breeding for it. So why, in the name of the Blessed Virgin, was I here? Countess Joan had been cruelly quick to reject my offered services: The Queen would hardly stand in need of my meager talents.

“This way…” Wykeham was striding ahead. “Don’t stand daydreaming!”

Behind us in the doorway a commotion erupted, enough to make my nerves jump and skitter like rats in a trap. Both Wykeham and I, and everyone in the Hall, turned to look.

A man had entered to stand under the door arch. He was illuminated, silhouetted, by the low rays of the afternoon sun so that it was impossible to see his features, only his stature and bearing. Tall, was my first impression, with the build of a soldier, a man of action. Around his feet pushed and jostled a pack of hounds and alaunts. On his gauntleted wrist rode a hooded goshawk.

As the hawk shook its pinions, the man moved forward a step, into the power of a direct beam, so that he gleamed with a corona of light around his head and shoulders like one of the saints in the glazed windows of the Abbey. Crowned with gold. I simply stared.

Then, as he took another step, the moment passed. He was enclosed in soft shadow, an ordinary man again. And I was distracted when the hounds bounded forward, circling the Hall, sniffing at my skirts. I had no knowledge of such boisterous animals and automatically stepped back, wary of sharp teeth and formidable bodies. Oblivious to my discomfort, Wykeham bowed whilst I was engaged in pushing aside an inquisitive alaunt.

Wykeham cleared his throat in warning.

“What is it?” I asked.

In reply he took hold of the ancient cloak that still enveloped me from chin to toe and twitched it off, letting it fall to the floor. I stiffened at this presumptuous action and took a breath to remonstrate when a voice of command, a strikingly beautiful one, cut across the width of the Hall.

“Wykeham, by God! Where’ve you been? Why are you always impossible to find, man?”

It was a clear-timbred voice, filling the space from walls to rafters. And striding toward us was the owner. The man with the raptor.

Wykeham bowed again, with what could have been construed as a scowl in my direction, so I accepted the wisdom of curtsying. The newcomer looked to me like a huntsman who had strayed into the Hall after a day’s exercise to find a cup of ale or a heel of bread. He covered the ground with long loping strides, as lithe as the hound at his side.

And then he was standing within a few feet of me.

“Sire!” Wykeham bowed once more.

The King!

I sank to the floor, holding my skirts, my flushed face hidden. How naive I was. But how was I to know? Why did he not dress like a king? Then I looked up and saw him not a score of feet distant, and knew that he did not need clothing and jewels to proclaim his superiority. What a miraculous, godlike figure he was. A man of some age and experience, but he wore the years lightly. He was handsome without doubt, with a broad brow and a fine blade of a nose complemented by luxurious flaxen hair that shone as bright as silver. Here was no dry-as-dust dullard. The King shone like a diamond amongst worthless dross.

“It’s the water supply!” the King announced.

“Yes, Sire. I have it in hand,” Wykeham replied calmly.

“The Queen needs heated water.…”

The King’s complexion might once have been fair, but his skin was tanned and seamed from an outdoor life in sun and cold. What a remarkable face he was blessed with, with blue eyes as keen as those of the raptor on his fist, whose hood he was removing. And what a fluidity and grace there was about his movements, as he unclipped his cloak, one-handed, swung it from his shoulder, and threw it to a page who had followed him across the Hall. How had I not known that this was King Edward? At his belt was a knife in a jeweled scabbard, in his hat a ruby brooch pinning a peacock feather into jaunty place. Even without the glitter of gems, I should have known. He had a presence, the habit of command, of demanding unquestioning obedience.

So this was Queen Philippa’s magnificent husband. I was dazzled.

I stood, my heart beating fast, aware of nothing but my own unfortunate apparel, the heap of the disreputable mantle at my feet. But the King was not looking at me. Was I not more poorly clad than any of the servants I had seen in the palace? He would think—if he thought at all—that I was a beggar come to receive alms from the palace kitchens. Even the raptor eyed me as if I might be vermin worth eating.

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 bathhouse 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 was of less importance than the cold-blooded killer whose feathers he was smoothing with casual affection.

“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.”

The King nodded. “Yes, yes. I’d forgotten. It gives her comfort, and—before God!—precious little does.” 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 in grave acknowledgment, even though he thought I was a serving wench. His gaze traveled over my face in a cursory manner. I made another belated curtsy. The King tilted his chin at Wykeham, having made some judgment 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 one of the rangy alaunts 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 thought, you come with me. You’ve completed your task for the Queen. I’ve demands on your time for my new bathhouse.” 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. Both of them. 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, 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 was 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 color and activity and soft chatter, of feminine glamour, that it took my breath, more than even the grandeur of the Great Hall. The sheer vibrancy of it. Here was every hue and tint I could imagine, overlapping, entirely pleasing to the eye, creating butterflies of the women who filled the room. I stared. It was ill-mannered, certainly, but I couldn’t stop from staring at so beguiling a scene. There they were, chattering like bright finches as they stitched, books and board games at hand for those who wished, not an enshrouding wimple or brow-hugging veil amongst them. Here was 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.

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

“My lady.” His bow was perfection. Learning fast, I curtsied. “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 coloring.

“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 curtsied 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 eyes 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 and took me with him, the door closing on that magical scene in the solar. I had not managed to step beyond the threshold, and I was shaken by a sudden desire to do so, to be part of the life that went on behind that closed door. I would like that colorful and intimate world for myself.

Sir Joscelyn strode off without a word, expecting me to follow, and I did. I should be grateful that I was being given food and a place to sleep. I would be grateful. 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 kitchen. It was all Isabella’s fault. I knew an enemy when I saw one.

“This girl, Master Humphrey…” The steward’s expression away from the solar spoke his contempt for such as I. “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 practiced skill.

“The Lady said to bring her to you.”

The cook stopped, midchop, and looked up under grizzled brows. “And what, may I ask, do I do with her?”

“Feed her. Give her a bed. Clothe her and put her to work.”

“Ha! Look around you, Jos! What do you see?”

I looked, although the instruction was not for me. The kitchen was awash with activity: On all sides scullions, spit boys, pot boys, bottle washers applied themselves with a racket as if all hell had broken loose. The heat was overpowering from the ovens and open fires. I could already feel sweat beginning to trickle down my spine and dampen my hair beneath my hood.

“What?” Sir Joscelyn growled. I thought he did not approve of the liberty taken with his name.

“I don’t employ girls, Jos! See? They’re not strong enough. Good enough for the dairy and serving the dishes. But. Not. Here.” The cook emphasized each word with a down sweep of his ax.

“Well, you do now. Princess Isabella’s orders. Kitchens, she said!”

Another grunt. “And what the Lady wants…!”

“Exactly!”

Sir Joscelyn duly abandoned me in the middle of the teeming life of Havering’s kitchens. I recognized the activities—the cleaning, the scouring, the chopping and stirring—but my experience was a pale shadow to this. The noise was ear-shattering. Exhilarating. Shouts and laughter, hoots of ridicule, bellowed orders, followed inevitably by oaths and complaints. There seemed to be little respect from the kitchen lads, but the cook’s orders were carried out with a promptness that suggested a heavy hand if they transgressed his line of what was acceptable. And the food. So much of it…My belly rumbled at the sight. As for the scents of roasting meat, of succulent joints…

“Don’t stand there like a bolt of cloth.”

The cook, throwing down his ax with a clatter, gave me no more than a passing look, but the scullions did, with insolent grins and crude gestures. I might not have much experience of such signs with tongues and fingers—except occasionally in the market between a whore and a dissatisfied customer—but it did not take much imagination. They made my cheeks glow with a heat that was not from the fire.

“Sit there.” Master Humphrey pressed down on my shoulder with a giant hand, and so I sat at the center board, sharing it with the pig. A bowl of thick stew was dumped unceremoniously in front of me, a spoon pushed into my hand, and a piece of stale wastel bread thrown down on the table within reach.

“Eat, then—and fast. There’s work to be done.”

I ate, without stopping. The sin of gluttony was swept aside. I drank a cup of ale handed to me. I had not realized how hungry I was.

“Put this on.”

As he carried a tray of round loaves to thrust into one of the two ovens, Master Humphrey held out a large apron of stained linen. It was intended for someone much larger than I. I hitched it ’round my waist, or I would have tripped on it, and was knotting the strings when the cook returned.

“Now! Let me look at you!” I stood before him. “What did you say your name was?”

“Alice.”

“Alice! Well, then, Alice, no need to keep your eyes on your feet here or you’ll fall on your arse.” His expression was jaundiced. “You’re not very big.”

“She’s big enough. For what I’ve in mind!” said one of the scullions, a large lad with tow hair. A guffaw of crude laughter followed.

“Shut it, Sim. And keep your hands to yourself or…” Master Humphrey seized and wielded his meat cleaver with quick chopping movements. “Pay them no heed, girl.” He took my hands in his, turned them over. “Hmm. What can you do?”

I did not think it mattered what I said, given the continuing obscenities from the two lads struggling to manhandle a side of venison onto a spit. I had already been judged. I would be given the lowliest of tasks. I would be a butt of jokes and innuendo.

“Come on, girl! I’ve never yet met a woman with nothing to say for herself.”

So I would. I would state my case. I would not hide. So far, I had been moved about like the bolt of cloth he had called me, but if this was to be my future, I would not sink into invisibility. With Signora Damiata I had controlled my manner, because to do otherwise would have called down retribution. Here I knew instinctively that I must stand up for myself as I had never done before.

“I can do that, Master Humphrey. And that.” I pointed at the washing and scouring going on in a tub of water. “I can do that.” A small lad was piling logs on the fire.

“So could an imbecile.” The cook aimed a kick at the lad at the fire, who grinned back. “No skills, then.”

“I can make bread. I can kill those.” Chickens clucked unsuspectingly in an osier basket by the hearth. “I can do that.” I pointed to an older man who was gutting a fish, scooping the innards into a basin with the flat of his hand. “I can make a tincture to cure a cough. And I can make a…”

“My, my. What an addition to my kitchen.” Master Humphrey gripped his belt and made a mocking little bow. He did not believe half of what I said.

“I can keep an inventory of your foodstuffs.” I was not going to shut up unless he ordered me to. “I can tally your books and accounts.”

“A miracle, by the Holy Virgin.” The mockery went up by a notch. “What is such a gifted mistress of all crafts doing in my kitchen?” The laughter at my expense expanded too. “Let’s start with this for now.”

I was put to work raking the hot ashes from the ovens and scouring the fat-encrusted baking trays. No different from the Abbey or the Perrers household at all.

But it was different, and I relished it. Here was life at its coarsest and most vivid, not a mean existence ruled by silence and obedience with every breath I took. This was no living death. Not that I enjoyed the work—it was hard and relentless and punishing under the eyes of Master Humphrey and Sir Joscelyn—but here was no dour disapproval or use of a switch if I sullied Saint Benedict rule, or caught Damiata’s caustic eye. Everyone had something to say about every event or rumor that touched on Master Humphrey’s kitchen. I swear he could discuss the state of the realm as well as any great lord, while slitting the gizzard of a peacock. It was a different world. I was now the owner of a straw pallet in a cramped attic room with two of the maids who strained the milk and made the huge rounds of cheese in the dairy. I was given a blanket, a new shift and kirtle—new to me, at any event—a length of cloth to wrap ’round my hair, and a pair of rough shoes.

Better than a lay sister at St. Mary’s? By the Virgin it was!

I listened as I toiled. The scullions gossiped from morn till night, covering the whole range of the royal family, and I lapped it up. Countess Joan, who had married her prince, was little better than a whore. The Queen was ill, the King protective. The King was well past the days of his much-lauded victory on the battlefield of Crécy against the bloody French, but still he was a man to be admired. Whilst Isabella! A madam, refusing every sensible marriage put to her! The King should have taken a whip to her sides! Gascony and Aquitaine, our possessions across the channel, were in revolt. Ireland was simmering like a pot of soup. Now, the buildings of the man Wykeham. At Westminster, water directed to the kitchens ran direct from a spigot into a bowl! May it come to Havering soon, pray God.

Meanwhile I was sent to haul water from the well twenty times a day. Master Humphrey had no need for me to read or tally. I swept and scoured and chopped, burned my hands, singed my hair, and emptied chamber pots. I lifted and carried and swept up. And I worked even harder to keep the lascivious scullions and pot boys at a distance. I learned fast. By God, I did!

Sim was the biggest lout of them all, with his fair hair and leering smile.

I did not need any warning. I had seen Sim’s version of romantic seduction when he trapped one of the serving wenches against the door of the wood store. It had not been enjoyment on her face as he had grunted and labored, his hose around his ankles. I did not want his greasy hands, or any other part of his body, on me. The stamp of a foot on an unprotected instep, a sharp elbow to a gut kept the human vermin at bay for the most part. Unfortunately it was easy for Sim and his slimy crowd to stalk me in the pantry or the cellar. His arm clipped my waist once, and did so a dozen times within the first week.

“How about a kiss, Alice?” he wheedled, his foul breath hot against my neck.

I punched his chest with my fist, and not lightly. “You’ll get no kiss from me!”

“Who else will kiss you?” he demanded, followed by the usual chorus of appreciation from the crude, grinning mouths.

“Not you!”

“You’re an ugly bitch, but you’re better than a beef carcass.”

“You’re not, slimy Sim. I’d sooner kiss a carp from the pond. Now, back off—and take your gargoyles with you.” I had discovered a talent for wordplay and a sharp tongue, and used them indiscriminately, along with my elbows. Self-preservation was a wonderful spur.

“You’ll not get better than me.” He ground his groin, fierce with arousal, against my hip.

I gave up on the banter. My knee slamming against his privates loosened his hold well enough. “Keep your hands to yourself! Or I’ll take Master Humphrey’s boning knife to your balls! We’ll roast them for supper with garlic and rosemary!”

I was not unhappy. But I was sorry not to be pretty. And my talents were not used. How much skill did it take to empty the chamber pots onto the midden?

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 recognize it?” Master Humphrey shouted after me, still leaning toward the scathing.

“Yes, Master Humphrey.” Any fool can recognize sage. I wrung out the cloth, relieved to escape the heat and the 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.

“What…?”

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 the shoulder of my shift tear, and then Queen Philippa’s rosary, the precious gift that I had worn out of sight around my neck, 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…” 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.…”

He would keep it for himself. But perhaps the value was too great even for Sim to risk.…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. Here was danger.

“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.

In an instant we were surrounded. “Robber! Pick-purse! Thief!” came a chorus from idle scullions and mischief-making pot boys.

“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! 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 Joscelyn!” ordered Master Humphrey. “I’m too busy to deal with this.”

And then it all happened very quickly. Sir Joscelyn gave his judgment: “This belongs to Her Majesty.” No one questioned his decision. All eyes were turned on me, wide with disgust. “The Queen is ill, and you would steal from her!”

“She gave it to me.” I knew I was already pronounced guilty, but my instinct was to fight against the inevitable.

“You stole it!”

“I did not!”

I tried to keep my denial even, my response calm, but I was not at all calm. Fear paralyzed my mind. Much could be forgiven, but not this: For the first time I learned the depth of respect for the Queen, even in this lowly part of the palace. I looked at the faces and saw condemnation, disgust. Sim and his cohorts were enjoying every minute of it.

“Where’s the Marshal?” Sir Joscelyn demanded.

“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 laborers were lifting a wood-and-metal device of cogs and wheels from a handcart. There, keeping a close eye on the operation, was Lord Herbert, the Marshal whose word was law. And beside him stood the King himself. It could not be worse. Despair was a physical pain in my chest.

“Your Majesty. Lord Herbert…”

“Not now, Sir Joscelyn.” The King and Marshal 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. I shivered as the evidence was produced, examined, and the ownership confirmed. I shivered even more as I was tried, condemned, and sentenced by Lord Herbert to be shut in a cellar in the short term, all without a word from me. As for the King, he could barely snatch his damned concentration from the inanimate monstrosity spread around his feet, whilst I suffered for a crime that had never happened. I was nothing but a troublesome tick that could be squashed with a fingernail to enable him to return to his paltry toy. Within the time it took to snap his fingers, he would pass me over to the Marshal. 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 lick of Countess Joan’s tongue 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 in myself a bold confidence. “I am the woman the Queen sent for. And this lout, this son of Satan, 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 was caught—but only mildly so.

I renewed my attack. “His words are as filthy as the garderobe. I appeal to you, 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 sojourn. I had his 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 darkly 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. The focus in the chapel changed in the blink of an eye, and I became an instant irrelevance. 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 toward one of the choir stalls. His face changed, the lines of irritation with me smoothing, his lips softening. There was a caring, a tenderness, as if they were alone in an intimate room. 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. It was as if he had kissed her in public, which the King proceeded to do, 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 gray.

“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 realized were the makings of a clock. “It is very fine. When will you get it working?” Then she noticed the surprising number of people in the chapel. “What’s happening here?”

The Marshal 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 curtsied 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, disbelief still rampant.

The Queen sighed. “It’s a long story. 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 utter gratitude, returning her regard when her tired eyes moved slowly, speculatively, over my face, as if she were trying to anchor some deep wayward thought that was not altogether pleasing to her. Then she nodded and touched a fingertip to my cheek.

“Who would have thought so simple a thing as the gift of a rosary would cause so much trouble,” she said, her smile wry. “And why should it take the whole of the royal household to solve the matter?” Pushing herself to her feet, she drew me with her, taking everything in hand with a matriarchal authority. “Thank you, Sir Joscelyn. Lord Herbert. I know you have my interests at heart. You are very assiduous, but I will deal with this. This girl is no thief, forsooth. Give me your arm, Alice. Let me put some things right.”

I helped her from the chapel, conscious of her weight as we descended the stair, and of the King’s muttered comment that, thank God, I was no longer his concern. As we walked slowly toward the royal apartments, a warm expectancy began to dance through my blood. Maidservant? Tire-woman? I still could not imagine why she would want me, given the wealth of skill and talent around her, but I knew there was something in her mind, just as I sensed that from this point, my life, with its humdrum drudgery and servitude, would never be quite the same again.

My immediate destiny was an empty bedchamber, unused, I assumed from the lack of furnishings and the dust that swirled as our skirts created a little eddy of air. And in that room: a copper-bound tub, buckets of steaming water, and the ministrations of two of the maids from the buttery. I was handed over.

With hot water and enthusiasm, buttressed by a remarkable degree of speculative interest, the maids got to work on me. If I was to be turned off, at least I would be clean. I had never bathed before, totally immersed in water. I remembered Countess Joan, naked and arrogant, confident in her beauty, whereas I slid beneath the water to wallow up to my chin, like a trout in a summer pool, before my companions could actually look at me.

“Go away!” I remonstrated. “I’m perfectly capable of scrubbing my own skin until it’s red and raw!”

“Queen’s orders!” they simpered. “No one disobeys the Queen!”

With no arguing against such a declaration, I set myself to make the best of it, for the maids were audacious, and personal enough to point out my deficiencies. Too thin. No curves, small breasts, lean hips. They gave no quarter, making me horribly conscious of the faults in my unclothed body, despite my sharp observation that life in a convent was not conversant with solid flesh. Rough hands, they pointed out. Neglected hair. As for my eyebrows…The litany went on. “Fair is fashionable,” they informed me.

I sighed. “Don’t rub so hard!”

They ignored me. I was soaped and rinsed, dried with soft linen, and in the end I simply closed my eyes and allowed them the right to talk and gossip and put me in the clothes provided for me. And such garments. The sensual glide of them on my skin forced me to open my eyes. They were like nothing I had ever seen, except in the coffers of Countess Joan. An undershift of fine linen that did not catch when I moved. An overgown, close-fitting to my hips, in the blue of the Virgin’s cloak—a cotehardie, I was told, knowing no name for such fashionable niceties—with a sideless surcoat over all, was sumptuous to my eyes with gray fur bands and an enameled girdle. All made for someone else, of course, the fibers scuffed along hem and cuffs, but what did I care for that? They were a statement in feminine luxury I could never have dreamed of. And so shiny, so soft were the fabrics that slid through my fingers. Silk and damask and fine wool. For the first time in my life I was clothed in a color, glorious enough to assault my senses. I felt like a precious jewel polished to a glorious sparkle.

They exclaimed over my hair, of course.

“Too coarse. Too dark. Too short to braid. Too short for anything!”

“Better than when it was cropped for a novice nun!” I fired back.

They pushed it into the gilded mesh of a crispinette, covered the whole with a veil of some diaphanous material that floated quite beautifully, and added a plaited fillet to hold it firm, as if to hide all evidence of my past life. But no wimple. I vowed never to wear a wimple again.

“Put these on.…” I donned the fine stockings, the woven garters. Soft shoes were slid onto my feet.

I took stock, hardly daring to breathe in fear that the whole ensemble would fall off. The skirts were full and heavy against my legs, moving with a soft hush as I walked inexpertly across the room. The bodice was laced tight against my ribs, the neckline low across my unimpressive bosom. I did not feel like myself at all, but rather as if I were dressed for a mummer’s play I had once seen on Twelfth Night at the Abbey.

Did maidservants to the Queen really wear such splendor?

I was in the process of kicking the skirts behind me experimentally, enjoying the sensation of elegance even if I did not quite achieve it, when the door opened to admit Isabella. The two maids curtsied to the floor. I followed suit, with not a bad show of handling the damask folds, but not before I had seen her thin-lipped distaste.

She walked ’round me, taking her time. Isabella, the agent of my kitchen humiliations.

“Not bad,” she commented as I flushed. “Look for yourself.” And she handed me the tiny looking glass that had been suspended from the chatelaine at her waist.

Oh, no! Remembering my last brush with vanity, I put my hands behind my back as if I were a child caught out in wrongdoing. “No! I will not!”

Her smile was deeply sardonic. “Why not?”

“I think I’ll not like what I see,” I said, refusing to allow my gaze to fall before hers.

“Well, that’s true enough. There’s only so much that can be done. Perhaps you’re wise,” Isabella murmured, but her sympathy was tainted with scorn. Peremptorily she gestured, and so, in a silence stretched taut, I was led along the corridors to the solar, where Philippa sat with her women.

“Well, you’ve washed her and dressed her, Maman. For what it’s worth…”

“You are uncharitable, Isabella.” The Queen’s reply was unexpectedly sharp.

Isabella was not cowed. “What do we do with her now?”

“What I intended from the beginning, despite your meddling. She will be one of my damsels.”

Isabella’s brows climbed. I suspect mine did too. I was too shocked to consider how inappropriate my expression might be.

“You don’t need her,” Isabella cried in disbelief. “You have a dozen…”

“No?” A smile, a little sad to my mind, touched the Queen’s face. “Maybe I do need her.”

“Then choose a girl of birth. Before God, there are enough of them.…”

“I know what I need, Isabella.” The Queen waved her daughter away and handed the rosary back to me.

“My lady…”

What could I find to say? My fingers closed around the costly beads. In the length of a heartbeat, in one firm command and one gesture of dismissal of her daughter’s disapproval, the Queen had turned my life on its head.

“You’ll regret it! And don’t say I didn’t warn you.” So Isabella had the last word.

She did not care that I heard her.

Why? Why me? The one thought danced in my head when the ladies were gone about their customary affairs. A damsel—a lady-in-waiting to the Queen.

“Why me?” I asked aloud. “What have I to offer, Your Majesty?”

Philippa perused me as if searching for an answer, her features uncommonly stern.

“Your Majesty?”

“Forgive me. I was distracted.…” She closed her eyes. When she opened them there was a lingering vestige of sorrow, but her voice was kind enough. “One day I’ll tell you. But for now—let’s see what we can do with you.”

So there it was. Decided on some chance whim, with some underlying purpose that the Queen kept to herself, I became a domicella. A lady-in-waiting. Not a domina, one of the highborn, but a domicella, the youngest, least skilled, and least important of the Queen’s ladies. But I was a part of her household. I was an inhabitant of her solar.

I could not believe my good fortune. When sent on some trivial errand—I do not recall it now—through a deserted antechamber, I lifted my skirts above my ankles and danced a succession of haphazard steps to the lingering echoes of the lute from the solar. Not well, you understand, but more than I had ever achieved in my life. It astonished me what confidence a fine robe with fur edgings could bestow on a woman.

I think I smirked. What would clerk Greseley say if he could see me now? “Waste of good coin,” I suspected. What remark would Wykeham find to make, other than his ambitions to construct a royal bathhouse and garderobe? I laughed aloud. And the King? King Edward would notice me only if I had cogs and wheels that moved and slid and clicked against one another.

I tried a pirouette, awkward in the shoes that were too loose ’round the heel. One day, I vowed, I would wear shoes that were made for me and fitted perfectly.

As for what the Queen might want of me in return—well, it could not be so very serious, could it?

They tripped over their trailing skirts, the Queen’s damsels, to transform me into a lady worthy of my new position. I was a pet. A plaything. A creature to be cosseted and stroked, to relieve their boredom. It was not in my nature; nor was it a role I wished to play, but it was an exhilarating experience as they created the new Alice Perrers. And perhaps I was still very young, thrilled to be the center of their wayward attention. I was not above playing.

I absorbed it all: anointed and burnished, my hands smothered in perfumed lotions far headier than anything produced in Sister Margery’s stillroom, my too-heavy brows plucked into what might pass for elegant arches—if the observer squinted. Clothes, and even jewels, were handed over with casual kindness. A ring, a brooch to pin to my mantle, a chain of gilt and gleaming stones to loop across my breast. Nothing of great value, but enough that I might exhibit myself in public as no less worthy of respect than the ladies from high-blooded families. I spread my fingers, now smooth with pared nails, to admire the ring with its amethyst stone. It was as if I were wearing a new skin, like a snake sloughing off the old in spring. And I was woman enough to enjoy it. I wore the rosary fastened to a girdle enhanced with silver finials as fine as Mother Sybil’s.

“Better!” Isabella remarked after sour contemplation. “But I still don’t know why the Queen wanted you!”

It remained beyond my comprehension too.

The Queen’s damsels were feminine, pretty, beautiful. I was none of those. Their figures were flattered by the new fashion, with gowns close-fitting from breast to hip. The rich cloth hung on me like washing on a drying pole. They were artlessly gifted in music for the Queen’s pleasure. Any attempt to teach me to sing was abandoned after the first tuneless warble. Nor did my fingers ever master the lute strings, much less the elegant gittern. They could stitch a girdle with flowers and birds. I had no patience with it. They conversed charmingly in French, with endless gossip, with shared knowledge of people of the Court. I knew no one other than Wykeham. His fixation with building arches was the subject of laughter.

For the damsels, flirtation was an art in itself. I never learned it. I was too forthright for that, too critical of those I met. Too self-aware to pretend what I did not feel. And if that was a sin, then I was guilty. I could not pretend an interest or an affection where I had none.

Had I nothing to offer? What I had, I used to make myself useful, or noticed, or even indispensable. I had achieved a place in the Queen’s solar and I would not be cast off, as Princess Isabella cast off her old gowns. I worked hard.

I could play chess. The ordered rules of the little figures pleased me. I had no difficulty in remembering the measures of a knight against a bishop, the limitations of a queen against a castle. As for the foolish pastime of Fox and Geese, I found an unexpected fascination in maneuvering the pieces to make the geese corner the fox before that wily creature could kill the silly birds.

“I’ll not play with you, Alice Perrers!” Isabella declared, abandoning the game. “Your geese are too crafty by half.”

“Craftier than your fox, my lady.” Isabella’s fox was tightly penned into a corner by my little flock of birds. “Your fox is done for, my lady.”

“So it is!” Isabella laughed, more out of surprise than amusement, but she resisted a cutting rejoinder.

I could make silly, harmless love charms and potions to please the damsels, gleaned from my memory of Sister Margery’s manuscripts. A pinch of catnip, a handful of yarrow, a stem of vervain, all wrapped in a scrap of green silk and tied with a red cord. If they believed they were effective, I would not deny it, although Isabella swore I was more likely to add the deadly hemlock in any sachet I made for her. And I could read. I read to them endlessly, when they wanted to sigh over tales of courtly love between a handsome knight and the object of his desire.

Not bad. Not bad at all for a nameless girl from a convent, and an abandoned wife.

And Isabella was wrong. I would never use hemlock. I knew enough from Sister Margery’s caustic warnings to be wary of such satanic works.

But what service could I offer Queen Philippa when the whole household was centered on fulfilling her wishes even before she expressed them? That was easy enough. I made drafts of white willow bark.

“You are a blessing to me, Alice.” The pain had been intense that day, but now, propped against her pillows, the willow tincture making her drowsy, she sighed heavily with relief. “I am a burden to you.”

“It is not a burden to me to give you ease, my lady.”

I saw the lines beside her eyes begin to smooth out. She would sleep soon. The days of pain were increasing in number, and her strength to withstand them was ebbing, but tonight she would have some measure of peace.

“You are a good girl.”

“I wasn’t a good novice!” I responded smartly.

“Sit here. Tell me about those days when you were a bad novice.” Her eyelids drooped, but she fought the strength of the drug.

So I did, because it pleased me to distract her. I told her of Mother Abbess and her penchant for red stockings. I told her of Sister Goda and her inappropriate love poetry, of the chickens that fell foul of the fox because of my carelessness and how I was punished. I did not speak of Countess Joan. I knew enough by now not to speak that name. Joan, the duplicitous daughter-in-law, far away in Aquitaine with her husband the Prince, was not a subject to give the Queen a restful night.

“It was good that I found you,” she murmured.

“Yes, my lady.” I smoothed a piercingly sweet unguent into the tight skin of her wrist and hand. “You have changed my life.”

A little silence fell, but the Queen was not asleep. She was contemplating something beyond my sight that did not seem entirely to please her, gouging a deep path between her brows. Then she blinked and fixed me with an uncomfortable gaze. “Yes. I am sure it was good that you fell into my path.”

I was certain it was not merely to smear her suffering flesh with ointments. A shiver of awareness assailed me in the overheated room, for her declamation suggested some deep uncertainty. Had I done something to lose her regard so soon? I forced my mind to rove over what I might have said or done to cast her into doubt. Nothing came to mind. So I asked.

“Why did you choose me, Majesty? Why did you send for me?”

When the Queen looked at me, her eyes were hooded. She closed her hand tightly around the jeweled cross on her breast, and her reply held none of her essential compassion. Indeed, her tone was curt and bleak, and she drew her hand from my ministrations as if she could not bear that I touch her.

“I chose you because I have a role for you, Alice. A difficult one, perhaps. And not too far distant…but not yet. Not quite yet…” She closed her eyes at last, as if she would shut me from her sight. “I’m weary now. Send for my priest, if you will. I’ll pray with him before I sleep.”

I left her, more perplexed than ever. Her words resurfaced as I lit my own candle and took myself to bed in the room I shared with two of the damsels. Sleep would not come.

I have a role for you to play. A difficult one, perhaps. And not too far distant…